Andrew Lord of Despair(64)

“Gentlemen,” Heathgate began, “the morning’s post has brought an interesting epistle from Douglas Allen. He proposes to call upon me as a courtesy, given that my brother has married his former sister-in-law. I know not what to make of this, but I can hardly refuse him entry.”

Fairly seemed amused, or bemused. “Douglas is a proper old thing, isn’t he? Either that, or he has ballocks the like of which I haven’t seen before.”

“He’s up to something,” Andrew said, picking up a pipe carved of ivory that his father had favored. He brought it to his nose, and still, after thirteen years, caught a hint of vanilla from the bowl. “I don’t want Douglas anywhere around Astrid, but I expect he’ll call at Enfield in due course. I am considering installing Astrid at Oak Hall instead to prevent him from seeing her.”

Also to preserve Astrid from the constant warfare between Lady Heathgate and Cousin Gwen.

Fairly shoved away from his habitual post at the French doors. “I simply do not read the man as a murderer.”

“That’s the difficulty,” Heathgate said. “It’s hard to read him as anything at all, he’s so damned cold.”

Andrew thought of Moscow in winter, and decided Douglas was colder. “You two should know some things about the Allen family. Astrid casually mentioned that the old viscount had also died in a shooting accident. His sons were on the same shoot. My vote for the member of the party with the worst aim goes to Douglas.”

Heathgate closed his eyes. “I am going to be sick.”

Fairly, whose face bore no expression whatsoever, continued to stare out at the bleak, chilly day. “Why don’t we just beat each other bloody, Heathgate? I was the one who approved of the match, as Astrid’s older brother. Simply retching into the bushes won’t answer, when Douglas is the most likely party to end up as guardian of Astrid’s child.”

As Andrew set the pipe back where he’d found it, the firelight winked off the decanters across the room, the gryphon seeming to laugh.

Heathgate shoved off the desk and took a seat in the big leather chair behind it, the result being a sense of enthronement, regardless that two stacks of his correspondence were weighted down with silver rattles.

He picked up one of the rattles and tossed it from hand to hand. “We come across more and more reasons to arrange an unfortunate accident for Douglas Allen. One can’t help but wonder if the world would not be an altogether better place for it.”

Fairly turned, so his back was to the French doors. “We have plenty of reason to avoid the man’s company, though nothing with which to convict him, or even lay charges.”

Andrew had been married one week. Already he and Astrid had fallen into a pattern of assisting each other to dress and undress. She watched him when he washed off the day’s dirt, and he watched her, too. He suspected she liked that he did, and more to the point, he liked watching her—somewhat more than he liked to breathe.

“I’ll take Astrid to the damned Continent if I have to. I know plenty of places to bring up a child comfortably enough outside of England.”

“It’s an idea,” Heathgate allowed, setting the rattle aside. “Felicity won’t like it one bit.” And anything that upset the spectacularly gravid marchioness would not find favor with her husband.

Andrew did not like it either—because Astrid would see leaving the country as cowardly, and thus rebel against the notion, and because any trip to the Continent required crossing water yet again.

And the idea of taking ship accompanied by a pregnant wife was a horror that, for Andrew, beggared description. Rather than admit that to anyone, he waited for Fairly to render an opinion.

Fairly obliged. “Even if you could convince Astrid to go, do you really think Douglas would wave you merrily on your way, the Amery heir in tow? He’d find you sooner or later.”

“Maybe that is the best option, then,” Andrew said. “Let him find me, posthaste, and we’ll settle this once and for all.”

“It may come to that,” Heathgate replied, picking up a silver letter opener and testing the edge against his thumb. “But we aren’t at that point, because Astrid might well bear a girl child. Take your wife to Enfield, and we’ll see what Douglas brings up when he calls upon me next week.”

Heathgate set aside the letter opener, swiped up both rattles, rose, and headed for the door. “If you will excuse me, gentlemen, I believe it’s time I reminded my marchioness of her duty to take a damned nap.”

Andrew regarded the closed door rather than heed the siren call of the decanters. “We still do not know if Herbert was murdered.”