Andrew Lord of Despair(109)

“You make me out to be some kind of bloody knight in shining armor,” he whispered, his lips seeking hers for a quick kiss.

“You hopeless man,” she said, kissing him back, “you are some kind of bloody knight in shining armor. You were prepared to let Henry m-murder you today, and I thought I would die right there with you if he did.”

He enfolded her against his body, letting her cry out all the fear and upset and loneliness and sorrow that was in her. She cried for him, and for Douglas, and even some for Henry, miserable, murderous, and mad though he’d been. She cried for Felicity and Gareth, who had come through such a frightening situation. She cried for the children who would have lost their mother, as Astrid had lost hers, and thus lost a part of their father…

And she cried for herself, finally. For her miserable excuse of a first marriage, for Herbert, so misguided and manipulated. For the child she might yet not safely bear. In the end, Astrid cried herself to sleep, her husband’s arms around her, his lips murmuring comfort against her hair.

Nonetheless, despite the revelations of the previous evening, despite Andrew’s presence beside her as she’d drifted off to sleep, when she rose the next morning, Astrid found she had, again, slept alone.

***

Douglas was escorted to the library the next morning by Fairly, who’d forced hot tea and buttered toast on him, then valeted him into proper morning attire. Greymoor and Heathgate were waiting for them, and to Douglas’s surprise, Astrid was also present, sitting beside her husband on the hearth.

Immediately beside him.

Douglas bowed to each, greeting them in turn. Fairly took up a post by the French doors, his back half-turned to the room, a clear reminder to Douglas he had no ally among the assemblage. Not now.

Heathgate perched on his desk, a particularly undignified choice for the marquess, but no more informal than Greymoor, hunkered beside his wife on the stones of the raised hearth.

Greymoor stood and gestured to the sofa.

“Have a seat, Douglas,” he said, the use of Douglas’s Christian name apparently deliberate. There were two explanations, of course, the first being that Greymoor intended humiliation by assuming an ungranted familiarity; the second, possible in theory, was that this was a family gathering, where one needn’t stand on ceremony.

Douglas took his assigned seat and waited, deciding silence was to his advantage. Though it ought to be beyond him, he could yet feel humiliation, whether Greymoor intended it or not.

“We have matters to resolve in this room,” Greymoor said, “and they are best resolved by consensus, but my wife has also requested an opportunity to put some questions to you, Douglas. I believe you owe her that.”

“Of course.” Douglas likely owed the woman his life. He’d not begrudge her a few painful answers.

“Did you know Henry killed your father?”

Astrid’s soft words landed with the force of a blow. Across the room, Fairly had turned, resting his shoulders against the doors likely the better to view the proceedings. Douglas’s gaze swept the room, and on each face he saw more patience than curiosity.

That puzzled him on the level still capable of thought after Astrid’s terrible revelation, but he marshaled his resources to address the question.

“No,” Douglas said. “I never even suspected, not before yesterday, for which I must bear the blame. Henry would have been an adolescent, but he was always keen for weaponry. I should have realized…”

Those words ought to be engraved on his tombstone. So much he should have realized. Douglas remained silent, the confirmation of every dark thought about his family he’d ever attempted to deny battering at him. Greymoor—a man whom Douglas would never understand—chose that moment to sit beside Douglas on the sofa.

Greymoor glanced at his wife before he spoke. “Did you know the missing funds were loans Herbert made to Henry? We think Herbert might have suspected Henry’s patricidal tendencies, and yet feared Henry could engineer things such that blame might fall on Herbert as the one in line for the title.”

Worse and worse. “I did not know anything regarding Astrid’s funds until Herbert’s death. I can understand, though, why you would make the mistake of misreading Henry. To my everlasting sorrow, I read him no more accurately.”

Everlasting being the operative word, for how was a man to transcend scandal and heartache of this magnitude?

Greymoor’s expression became terrifyingly compassionate. “Henry told Astrid he had killed both your father and your brother.”

Douglas had to stand, had to move, had to do something to avoid the truth of Greymoor’s words.