Andrew Lord of Despair(45)

“She seems to be doing better, and for that, you have my gratitude. In Town, she just… She was not coping well. I was at a loss as to how to assist her.”

Douglas followed his words with the slightest hint of a self-conscious shrug and another bow, and withdrew into his room. Having gained the precious blessing of solitude, he opened the valise, took out a stack of letters, and prepared to bail against a tide of correspondence as endless as it was depressing.

***

Dinner passed as pleasantly as lunch had, if small talk, small portions, and a small case of queasiness qualified. Astrid had made certain to seat herself neither next to nor across from Andrew, which left her immediately across from Douglas.

While Andrew conversed, flattered, and played the part of a cheerful guest, Astrid pushed braised carrots around on her plate and thought of skipping stones. Whenever she looked up, somebody was studying her—Felicity, Gareth, Henry Allen, or Douglas.

Though not Andrew. Never Andrew.

She put a forkful of carrots in her mouth and chewed slowly, then had to pretend to sneeze into her napkin to preserve herself from swallowing food that agreed with her even less than the company who had come to call.

When Felicity rose and invited the ladies to join her in the family parlor, Astrid thought to make her escape above stairs, only to find Douglas hovering at her elbow in the corridor.

“Might I offer you a turn about the gardens, my lady?” He held out an arm and assayed what for him was probably a smile, though it looked to Astrid like an inchoate case of dyspepsia. Perhaps the condition was contagious. “The evening is cool, but there are matters I would raise with you privately.”

“I’ll get my shawl.”

Douglas was nearly as tall as Andrew, and had an elegance to his frame neither of his brothers shared. Those attributes were none of his doing, but Astrid also had to credit the man with a curiously pleasant, cedary scent.

Her condition was making her daft, or making her nose daft. She repaired to her room, gave the quilt a longing stroke, and chose a lavender shawl. Let Douglas be warned that her mourning no longer consumed her, and she would not be a slave to convention merely to appease his sensibilities.

“Shall we use the back terrace?” she suggested, not waiting for him to offer his arm again. He stayed by her side, nonetheless, as they meandered around the side of the house to the largest terrace, the one that bordered the fading flower beds. The full moon had risen, making the whole scene eerily well lit.

“So, Douglas,” she said as they strolled along, “what would you discuss with me?”

He was not like some men—like Herbert—charging ahead and leaving a diminutive lady to trot after him.

“You are my brother’s widow,” he began, as if rehearsing a sermon, “and as such, certain funds should now become available to you. We have, in fact, discussed these monies on more than one occasion.”

He’d tried to discuss them while she’d considered smashing clocks. “We have. Briefly.”

“There is no other way to say this, but your funds are sorely depleted. I do apologize to you for this mismanagement.”

An opening salvo, no doubt intended to unnerve more than it apologized. “And how were my funds mismanaged, specifically?” She kept her voice pleasant, merely curious.

“I do not want to speak ill of my late brother, but his grasp of business principles was… not sophisticated,” Douglas offered, as if this were the more difficult admission.

“Is ownership, then, a complicated business principle, Douglas? As in, the dower portion of the settlements was mine, and was not his to use. That money was the one thing I, as a wife, could expect to remain in possession of, despite becoming my husband’s chattel. Your brother’s fault lay not in his grasp of business principles, but rather, in his grasp of morals.”

They strolled along a walk of crushed white shells, which the moonlight made luminous. Perhaps the surrounding darkness enhanced her awareness of scents, for Astrid could divine the odor of rotting undergrowth beneath the fragrance of the flowers and Douglas’s cedary scent.

Douglas bent and snapped off a white chrysanthemum. “I cannot know my brother’s motivations.” A martyr prayed for his executioner’s forgiveness in the same patient, condescending tones.

“Douglas, let us be honest.” Lest she spend the rest of the night among the chilly flowers and Douglas’s chilly remorse. “Herbert was not a bad man, but he was self-indulgent and immature. He wasted money on himself, his leman, his dogs and horses and cronies. Your brother stole from funds that should have been saved for my exclusive use, and because he was head of the family, no one stopped him.”