“I should very much wish it to be read.” Francis had his voice back under control. “I want to read it.”
“Ash, may I have your permission?” Richard asked gently. Ash nodded, staring at the floor. Richard held out his hand for the letter once more. “I will not throw it in the fire or tear it up, if that is what you fear, Lord Maltravers. You have my word. But I must know if what you say is true.”
Lord Maltravers glanced around. “Every man here has heard you say that. Very well.” He handed over the letter.
Richard broke the seal, unfolded the sheets, and scanned them. He took his time, reading the letter carefully, turning the closely written pages, letting nothing show on his face. The silence built. He came to the end, shuffled the pages together, and turned the sheaf face up.
“Well?” Francis demanded. “What the devil is this?”
“I think I must withdraw my claim that Lord Maltravers is a liar.” Richard could hear himself with odd clarity, sounding deep and grave in the silent room. “It is quite evident that he is insane.”
“What!” Maltravers shouted over the babble that erupted. “You just read—”
“I did read it.” Richard had a very loud voice when he chose, and he made it loud now. “I have read four pages of chatter and gossip in Ash’s inimitably bad handwriting and saw not one single word that any man could interpret as criminal. What is wrong with you?”
“It is four pages of perversion!” Maltravers shouted, eyes bulging. “What the— Someone else read it!”
“An excellent idea.” Richard passed the letter to Alvanley. “With your permission, Ash, of course.”
“I suppose you must,” Ash said. “It’s only fair on Webster. I am awfully sorry about this.”
“What the devil was in that letter?” demanded Francis.
“Nothing at all. It was addressed to you and dated from Christmas,” Richard said. “The man is quite mad.”
“That is one explanation,” Alvanley said, as Richard went to ring the bell and murmured an order to a wooden-looking footman. “There is nothing blameworthy in this letter except, as Lord Richard observes, the penmanship. Lord Maltravers, what on earth are you about?”
“Give that to me!” Maltravers snatched the letter from Lord Alvanley’s hand, ignoring the peer’s offended look. Maltravers’s eyes bulged as he scanned the pages. “But this is not the right letter. This is the wrong one. It is nothing but a foolish mistake. I shall send for the correct one—”
“I spoke to Lord Maltravers this morning about another matter,” Richard said. “He mentioned this supposed letter then but was unable to produce it, for unexplained reasons. He has had the afternoon to retrieve it and brings the ‘wrong one.’ I dare say that if he goes to find it again we will hear another excuse.”
“It was in my man’s keeping,” Maltravers said. “He must have given me the wrong one, that’s all. There has been a mistake.”
“I beg your pardon?” Richard gave Maltravers an incredulous look. “You say you had a letter written by your brother, containing an admission of a capital crime, and you handed it to a servant?”
“For this confusion to arise, the servant must have at least two of Lord Gabriel’s letters in his possession,” Philip said. One consequence of his illiteracy was that he listened to detail very carefully indeed. “How is it that you have so many of your brother’s private communications, my lord?”
“He stole three at Christmas,” Ash said, a picture of reluctant admission, as Maltravers groped for an answer. “Or, at least, I put out several to post at Warminster Hall, and only one ever arrived. This has been coming for a while, I’m afraid. It happened to our Great-Aunt Lucinda too. You couldn’t trust her with the spoons.”
“You damned little bastard!” Maltravers bellowed. “You lying swine!”
“I hardly think that is an accusation you can make, my lord.” Venom dripped from Francis’s words. “And you owe me an apology.”
“He does, but I claim precedence.” Richard glanced at the open door of the room. “Lord Maltravers has an apology to make to me first. Ah, Cyprian. Please come in.”
There was a soft cough, and David stepped around Lord Maltravers, giving him a markedly wide berth.
“I beg your pardon, gentlemen, Cirencester, Alvanley,” Richard said. “This is Cyprian, formerly my valet. I sent for him just now for reasons which I trust will become clear.”
David stood in the middle of the room, under dozens of eyes, face blank. The ugly bruise was a spectacular shade of dark purple now, its swelling marring the line of his cheek. Otherwise, he was soberly clad, expressionless, a picture of the perfect servant except for his vibrant hair. Richard rubbed his fingertips together at the memory of how that hair felt.