Jaw clenched, Arthur backtracked to the passageway behind the drawing room and pressed an ear to the wall. A lot was riding on his father convincing their neighbor of his son’s reformed character. It was a good sign he’d invited Farnworth, but the old fool had better not let him down.
*
Griff accepted thebrandy glass from Bertrand and took a seat in one of the upholstered chairs. Gabriel declined the offer of brandy and stated a preference to remain standing.
“What can I do for you chaps?” their host asked, more than a hint of nervousness in his voice.
“I’m here on behalf of my wife,” Gabriel began. “She plans to host a ball at Thicketford Manor and will need your help with a list of appropriate people to invite.”
Griff hid his initial surprise when he realized Gabriel’s tactic. Why come out with heavy guns blazing when you can lull your enemy into letting down his guard? He was beginning to see why the former soldier had made a success of running an earldom he’d never expected to inherit.
“Of course, dear boy,” Whiteside replied with a broad smile, clearly more at ease. “I’ll get Anthea to send over a list.”
“Much obliged,” Gabriel said. “Perhaps I’ll have that brandy now.”
Bertrand extricated himself from his deep armchair. “Coming right up.”
“Griff tells me he was turned away from your home by a rude individual. It wasn’t Arthur by any chance, was it?”
The crystal decanter in Bertrand’s hand rattled against the glass as he poured. He turned to offer the brandy to Gabriel, his face ashen. Griff knew the elderly man’s reply would be a lie.
“Arthur? This is the first I’m hearing of it. I do apologize. I wasn’t informed you’d called. No, Arthur’s still in the tropics. Although, now you mention it, his Uncle Nathan assures me the boy has turned over a new leaf. He longs to come home and right the wrong he perpetrated.”
“And how does he propose to do that?” Gabriel asked.
Bertrand slumped into his chair and took a hefty swig from his glass. “Make amends, I suppose. What would you suggest?”
Gabriel put a booted foot on the ledge of the hearth. “Let me make my position clear. Your son terrorized members of my family. You decided to allow him to escape and I don’t blame you for that. However, if Arthur ever sets foot in England, I’ll have no choice but to pursue charges against him.”
Bertrand stared into his empty glass as the silent minutes ticked by. “I understand,” he said finally. “I realize I might have lost everything if you had pursued the matter of my helping him escape, but you didn’t.”
Gabriel offered the baron his hand. “You’re a good neighbor, and I prefer we continue our friendly relations. However, I cannot allow Arthur to live so close to my family.”
“No,” Bertrand agreed. “I’ll explain things to him in a letter. I’m certain he’ll understand. From what Nathan tells me, my son likes the hot climate.”
Left with no doubt it was indeed Arthur who’d turned him away and sensing the baron was at his wits’ end, Griff stood. “We can see ourselves out.”
Their host merely nodded as Griff and Gabriel took their leave.
*
“Spineless,” Arthur hissed,his forehead pressed to the flaking plaster. “My son likes the hot climate,” he mimicked. “Your son despised the relentless heat, you old crow. Going to write me a letter, are you?”
He clenched his fists. What was he supposed to do now? Hide in Withins Hall forever?
He pressed his fingertips to throbbing temples. “Think, man. Think of a way to get rid of dear Papa.”
He had to get his hands on a copy of the will. Once Arthur was declared Baron Whiteside, Farnworth and Springer could go to hell.
Inhaling deeply, he tried to recall something interesting the earl had said. “A ball. Perfect.” A quick word in his father’s ear to plant the idea of hosting a shoot in conjunction with the ball. Unfortunate accidents often happened when there were people with loaded guns wandering all over the place.
Confident his father would remain in the drawing room drowning his pathetic sorrows, he edged out of the concealed doorway that led onto the foyer. There was nothing he could do about the mucky footprints left behind as he made his way across the tiled floor and entered the library.
He went straight to his father’s desk, but all three drawers were locked, convincing him the will likely resided in one of the compartments.
He was casting about for something to prize open the locks when the library door creaked open and in walked Springer. Arthur’s hackles rose. He’d never trusted the oily fellow who’d shown only a passing interest in Anthea—until her brother was shipped off to Jamaica.
“Looking for something?” his brother-in-law asked.