It was on the early side, not quite noon. He had decided to pay his mother this unannounced visit in the hope of surprising her. Not in a good way. Their encounters were never friendly, though he was always cordial to her. She was the one who tensed and bristled, and then attacked. She wanted nothing to do with him. Had she known of his arrival, she would have slipped out the back way.
The meeting was necessary. He needed answers about that November attack. He also needed to rein in his mother. He was used to her venomous words and no longer cared about the insults hurled at him. But he wouldn’t allow her to insult Felicity. Truly, this was a new low even for his mother, stooping to destroy a defenseless infant.
Hence the reason for his visit. The cold, proud Duchess Celestia was never that brave when forced to speak to him in private.
He decided to discuss the November attack first, for it was uppermost on his mind. He didn’t think his mother had come up with the scheme, but she must have approved of it. His cousins would not have paid those wharf rats to come after him without consulting her first.
Why attempt to kill him? There was nothing to be gained. Neither Simon nor Edmund cared to work, and they ought to have been satisfied with the allowance he gave to each. Had he not been generous enough with them? He set aside the thought as the door opened and a butler stepped forward.
Ian usually gave only passing notice to servants, but this man caught his attention. He wasn’t sure why. Perhaps it was the shape of his eyes or their unusual color, brown with flecks of amber. The man appeared to be about fifty years old. He had a trim build, graying hair, and an unmistakable air of refinement.
“Your Grace,” he said with a respectful bow, obviously recognizing him though he hadn’t presented his card. Perhaps he’d noted the Markham family emblem engraved on his carriage door.
When he introduced himself as Badger, Ian wanted to ask the man whether they’d ever met before but dismissed the notion. Why should he care? “Let’s spare the polite conversation, shall we?” he said instead. “No, the dowager duchess is not expecting me. No, I will not leave until I see her. I don’t care if my cousins join us or not. They’re free to slink off and hide out at their club if they so choose. I’ll hunt them down when I wish to see them.”
Badger merely nodded and led Ian into the parlor to wait. “I’ll have refreshments sent at once, Your Grace.”
“No need, Badger.” He liked that name. Liked the cut of the man as well. No doubt he came with the townhouse, for neither his mother nor his cousins would ever have engaged his services. He didn’t appear to be a toady. “I won’t be staying long.”
“Very good, Your Grace.”
“And Badger, let my mother know that if she’s not down here in ten minutes, I’ll come up there and drag her downstairs.”
The man didn’t blink, didn’t change the stony expression on his face. “Very good, Your Grace,” he repeated, but Ian noted the subtle glint of amusement in his eyes.
Upon closer inspection, the parlor furniture wasn’t quite as elegant as it had first appeared. Though well made, it had a patina of faded gentility that must have rankled his mother. She was used to the finest of everything, and although he never stinted on her maintenance, it never seemed to be enough for her.
Nothing was ever good enough for Duchess Celestia. She hadn’t been satisfied with her husband. Certainly had never been satisfied with her sons, until the death of his brother. Then James had become the golden child, the one upon whom she proceeded to bestow her love, posthumously of course.
In truth, Ian had been too young at the time of his brother’s death to understand about maternal love or the lack of it. Perhaps she had loved James as deeply as she proclaimed, but he doubted it. She wasn’t the sentimental sort. If she bemoaned his death, it was because she thrived on the attention of others. She wasn’t selective about who offered her sympathy. Anyone would do. A friend. One of her lovers. Even the household servants. It was attention she craved.
He might have believed her sincere had she been less theatrical about her torment. She never considered that anyone else might have mourned James. No one else mattered to her, or had ever mattered to her.
To Ian’s surprise, he didn’t have long to wait before his mother made her appearance. She glided in, dressed in a gown of yellow satin, her blonde hair perfectly done up in the latest style. The three fat curls dangling by the side of her ear looked awkward, but the style of her hair didn’t matter. Nor did the pronounced downturn of her mouth bother him. He was used to her sour expression, the tight purse of her lips, as though she’d eaten something unpleasant. Or seen something unpleasant. Namely, him.