The Wicked Ways of a Duke(5)

When he entered the drawing room, she was sitting in one of the chairs closest to the fire, and as she rose and turned to face him, he was startled by how much the years had aged her. As far back as he could remember, Letitia had been a stunning woman, a dazzling ice-blond beauty who, when he was a small boy, reminded him of the magical and remote Snow Queen. Now, only the vestiges of her beauty remained. Her papery skin had a sallow hue, and her cheeks were sunken beneath those high, perfect cheekbones. She was rail thin and haggard, making her seem far older than her fifty-six years. But her eyes, the same gray-green color as his, had not changed. They studied him with all the warmth of an arctic glacier as he crossed the room and paused before her. She gave him no smile of greeting.

“St. Cyres,” she said with the barest of curtsies.

He didn’t even bother to offer an answering bow. “Mother. How delightful to see you.”

His voice dripped mockery, but Letitia was far too callous to be bothered by it. They stood silent, studying each other a bit like duelists en garde, and he noticed that she had not yet taken off her cape and hat. Her umbrella was in her gloved hand. It was almost as if she had come merely to pay a call.

Too late, he realized the truth. “You have no intention at all of moving in, do you?”

She didn’t even hesitate before replying. “Live with you? God, no.”

He made a wry face at the distaste in her voice. “As always, your maternal affection warms my heart.”

She sank back down in the chair, and it did not escape his notice that she leaned heavily on her umbrella as she did so. “You have ignored my letters. I have called upon you three times since you arrived in town, and each time, you have refused to receive me. Threatening to move in with you was the only way I could think of to garner your attention.”

“Trunks in the foyer is carrying things a bit far, don’t you think? Besides, you have never seemed particularly eager for my attention. Why, I think we’ve spoken less than a dozen times in my entire life. Why the sudden pressing need for my company?”

“I’m here to make you aware of the family situation.”

Rhys did not reply. Instead, he rested his forearms on the top of the wing-back chair opposite hers and studied her resolute expression as he weighed the two alternatives open to him. He could toss her out on her ear right now, or he could endure the unpleasant, but inevitable, discussion of their financial status and have it over and done. He decided on the latter route. Though not as satisfying, it would prove less aggravating in the long run. Circling to the front of the chair, he sat down.

“The family has a situation?” he asked in a murmur as he leaned back. Elbows on the arms of his chair, he steepled his fingers together, his head tilted to one side, his pose deceptively relaxed. “How ominous that sounds.”

“Let’s not waste time beating about the bush. I know you’ve already been to see Mr. Hodges and that he made you aware of where things stand.”

“Astonishing how you ferret things out, Mama. Since you already know I’ve seen the family solicitor and you’re aware of what he told me, your purpose in coming here was obviously not to apprise me of the family situation.” He gave her his most provoking smile. “Come for a touch, have you?”

“Must you be vulgar?”

“Your efforts are in vain,” he was delighted to inform her. “You carted all those trunks over here to no purpose. My dear, I haven’t a bean.”

She made a sound of contempt. “You are such a liar.”

“Yes, so you’ve told me before.” Rhys pressed his fingers tighter together, so tight his hands began to ache. His smile, however, did not falter. “But in this case, I’m not making any attempt to deceive you. I’m absolutely flat.”

She gave him a hard stare, as if to determine the verity of that statement. “The money from your father is gone, then? You’ve squandered it all?”

“Every shilling,” he confessed with cheer. “Had jolly good fun doing it, too, shameless libertine that I am.”

She paled, seeming to grow older right before his eyes. “The debts incurred by the estates are enormous, and our credit is already extended as far as it can be. You have to do something.”

“What would you suggest? I thought about earning a living, but I decided I simply couldn’t subject you to that. It would shame you beyond belief if I took on a profession. Besides, I should have to work.” He shuddered. “A very bad habit. I try never to engage in it.”

“Don’t be absurd!” she snapped. “You’re the Duke of St. Cyres. Of course a profession is out of the question.”

“You and I in agreement about something? The warm climes of Italy have made me far too easygoing and amenable, I see. But to return to the matter at hand, we have very few options. I could appeal to the Salvation Army to come to our aid, I suppose, though I doubt they’d help a family of bankrupt aristocrats. Awfully uncharitable of a charity to be so stingy, but—”

“Everything is mortgaged to the hilt,” his mother interrupted, reiterating the material point as if he were too dim-witted to appreciate its significance. “Interest payments take what little income we have from the land rents, and the creditors have been circling like vultures for several years. They’ll be hovering over you as well before the week is out.”

He didn’t tell her they already were.

“Unless you act, and quickly, they will call our loans and take what little we have left. We will be destitute.”

Rhys did not respond. Perhaps it was his innate laziness, but he’d never seen the point of beating dead horses.

In the wake of his silence, his mother stirred with impatience. “Well?” she prompted. “What are you going to do?”

“What I always do when faced with a crisis,” he answered, then rose to his feet and walked to the liquor cabinet. “I’m going to have a drink.”

“A drink?” she repeated with contempt. “You think a drink is an appropriate response to our difficulties?”

“No,” he answered as he poured himself a stiff measure of whiskey. “It’s an appropriate response to my difficulties.” Turning, he met her gaze and smiled. “About your difficulties, dear Mama, I couldn’t care shit.”

They stared at each other for a long time. He kept his stance relaxed. His mouth kept smiling. Letitia was the one who looked away. “Rhys, your uncle hasn’t paid my jointure for four years.”

He flicked a glance over her, noting her luxurious fur-trimmed cape and the jeweled pin that held it closed at her collar. “Yes, you appear awfully down-at-heel.”

She looked at him again, and when she saw the direction of his gaze, she lifted her hand to her throat. “It’s paste. All my jewels are paste. I’ve been selling the real ones, one by one. Now, there are none left to sell. I haven’t enough money to last the spring.”

Hodges hadn’t told him that. Rhys set his jaw and lifted his gaze to her face. “Once again you are assuming I give a damn.”

She stiffened in her chair, and her momentary attempt to play on his sympathy went to the wall. “Still thinking only of yourself, I see,” she said with the disdain he knew so well. “You were always selfish, even as a boy.”

Her voice was as sharp and cutting as a razor, but Rhys had developed his thick skin years ago. “Terribly selfish,” he agreed, and raised his glass. “And a liar. Let’s not forget that.”

One elegant blond brow lifted, a sure sign that she was about to fire off the heavy guns. “If Thomas were still alive, he would never have allowed this to happen to me,” she said. “Thomas was a good boy, always. Unlike you, he respected his mother. He would not have abandoned me and run away to Italy.”

The reference to his younger brother shattered Rhys’s carefully cultivated nonchalance in an instant. His smile vanished. He slammed down the glass, straightened away from the liquor cabinet, and took an involuntary step toward her. Satisfaction curved the corners of her lips, and he stopped. Some things never change, he thought, as angry with himself as he was with her. No one, no one, could flick him on the raw like Letitia.

He pasted his smile back on. “Ah, but Thomas did run away, didn’t he, Mama?” he countered softly, watching her satisfaction fade. “He ran as far as he could go. Heaven’s a pretty fair distance north of here, I’d say.”

She didn’t answer. Rhys leaned back, flattening his palms on the polished marble top of the cabinet, striving to regain an easy, relaxed demeanor. “I just love these family reunion  s,” he drawled. “So heartwarming. Since you are in a mood to reminisce, shall we talk about the day Thomas hanged himself?”

She flushed a dull, deep red.

“Shall I tell you how he looked when I found him?” As he spoke, he worked to keep just the right note of careless indifference in his voice. “I can describe the scene for you, if you like. His body was hanging over the stairwell—neck broken, of course. Really, he looked like a marionette on a string, and his skin was the oddest shade of blue—”

“Stop it.”

“Don’t want the physical description? Then perhaps we should talk about the reason why he did it. Do you ever wonder about that, Mama?”