The Duchess War (The Brothers Sinister) Page 27

  He paused and looked her in the eyes. “This no longer just involves me.”

  She looked up at him. When had she begun to trust him? Why had he let her?

  “Who else does it involve?” she asked.

  “My mother, for one.” He shut his eyes, not able to look at her as he told the first lie. “If I explain everything, I must publicly disclose my relation to Oliver. The truth would embarrass my mother—he was conceived scarcely a few months after her marriage—and it would humiliate Oliver’s parents. Oliver himself…well, it wouldn’t hurt him to be known as a duke’s son.”

  “I see,” she said slowly.

  “It’s worse than you think. You see, it’s no longer about the trial itself, but the public account of it. If I just asserted that he was my brother, some people would always believe that I said it just to save him from the conviction for the sake of friendship. He’d not be exonerated. But…imagine that, for the sake of verisimilitude, I was to announce the truth of his parentage with my mother in the room. How do you suppose she might react?”

  “I… Well. The duchess—dowager duchess, I mean—she’s strong as flint. But just as brittle.”

  “She would probably turn white. She might stand up and leave. And that reaction, more than anything, would give the assertion the stamp of veracity. I could drive her into reacting.” He looked over at her. “It would humiliate her, but it might save my brother.”

  “Perhaps, if she knows it’s coming—”

  “When she knows what is coming, she can steel herself not to react. If she knew it was coming, likely she wouldn’t even attend.” He looked at her. “I am sure that I can convincingly make the case for Oliver’s innocence. But to do it, I might have to sacrifice—forever—any peace I might make with my mother. Tell me, Minnie. Is it worth it?”

  She was silent for a long time, looking in his eyes. He buried the truth deep, deep, so that she would not hear what he had not said.

  “And you’d do that?” she finally asked. “Lose all hope of your mother, for your brother’s sake?”

  “My father—” The words came out hoarsely. He shut his eyes. It was his only chance to explain it to her, even if she did not yet know what she was hearing.

  “No,” she said. “You don’t have to answer. On the scale of things, we are weighing your mother’s humiliation against your brother’s future. Your brother must come first.”

  She put her arms around him. Her touch burned. He didn’t deserve it. He didn’t deserve her. He shrugged her off, stood, and went to stand a few paces away.

  “It’s more than that,” he said softly. “It isn’t just the fact that my father forced himself on his mother. It isn’t that he tried to have her sent off, that he refused to acknowledge the child, that he failed to provide anything except the barest modicum of support. It isn’t just that my actions put him in a stinking cell tonight.” He clenched his fists. “I’ve tried to choose everything my father was not. And so I can’t. I can’t leave my brother alone in this. I can’t risk his conviction, and I won’t stand by while I have breath to save him.”

  “No, Robert,” she said. “Of course you won’t.” She ran her hand along his cheek. “You have too much to do to waste your energy on regrets now. Do what you must.”

  There was no way to escape his regrets, looking down at her. It didn’t make it any better, that he’d received her tacit approval. In some ways, it made that knotting in his gut feel worse.

  She smiled up at him. “Now, what can I do to help?”

  His heart almost broke as he looked down at her.

  “You can make sure my mother is in the courtroom on the day of the trial,” he said slowly. “Sit with her, and make sure she is there when I speak.”

  Because if Minnie brought the duchess…she would be there herself.

  No time for regrets now.

  Still, he felt them piercing his skin like silent splinters as she smiled at him. “You can trust me,” she promised.

  And he’d done it. He’d fooled his wife.

  ROBERT RETURNED TO HIS BROTHER’S CELL at ten the next morning. The money that he’d handed the gaoler the night before had already made a difference. The top half of the cell door had been opened, showing heavy iron bars behind. The cell itself had been scrubbed out, and Oliver had been given water to wash with.

  There was still an unmistakable stench to the holding room, but at least now it was only toe-curling and not enough to actually trigger gagging.

  “I had a good talk with the lawyers this morning,” Oliver said cheerfully. “My parents are out having breakfast, but they’ll be back soon.”

  “Then I won’t take long,” Robert said.

  A hint of confusion flashed over his brother’s face, but Robert bulled ahead and told him what he’d learned on the previous night—about the substance of Lord Green’s testimony, about the quote from a volume of chess strategy.

  Oliver leaned back against the cell wall. “Come to think of it,” he said, “that is a good point. I didn’t recognize the quote. Where did you ever hear the term discovered attack? You never played chess.”

  Robert drew a deep breath. “Do you know who Minerva Lane is? Or Maximilian Lane, I suppose.”

  Oliver gave a surprised little huff and leaned forward. “Maximilian Lane? Of course I know who he—who she is. She’s famous in the annals of chess. Or infamous, I suppose. I’ve studied her games, you know. They were recorded during…” He broke off and looked Robert in the eye. “You’re joking,” he said. “Never tell me that your Minnie is Minerva Lane.”

  “Uh.” Robert shrugged. “As it happens…yes.”

  “That’s how you knew.”

  Another nod. “Stevens knows her real name, but he hasn’t uncovered her past.”

  “I see.” Oliver took two paces to the edge of his cell and turned around. “Of course she’s hiding who she is. She’d be ruined if everyone knew.” He didn’t say anything—didn’t ask whether Robert would expose his wife’s past. He didn’t beg him to do it. Oliver would never ask for such a thing. But he took hold of the bars of his cell and squeezed until his knuckles turned white. “What a mess.”

  “Not a mess.” Robert stepped closer. “Between you and me, I got everything—the title, the fortune. I’ve made up the difference as best I can. The least I can do is make sure you have a little freedom.”

  Oliver cocked his head and looked at him. His nose wrinkled again, this time in confusion. “That’s what you think? You think that between the two of us, you got the better deal, that I was left with nothing?”

  It wasn’t an opinion. It was a fact. He’d given his brother as much as the other man would take, but Oliver was still fighting to secure his position in society.

  “Never mind,” Robert said.

  “No, I won’t brush it off with a never mind. You really think that you were born with more than I was?”

  “I know I was.”

  Oliver turned away, his shoulders stiff. “Think again, Robert. Think again. I wouldn’t trade what I have—cell, lice, and all—for all your fortune.”

  “And what is it you have that is so valuable?”

  “I have a family that loves me.”

  Those words hit Robert hard. He’d just begun to hope for the possibility of happiness, only to have it wrested from him. He couldn’t seem to draw breath. He felt as if he’d been struck in the stomach, struck hard enough to send his lungs into spasms.

  He looked up at his brother standing before him, his face in half-profile. What little light there was glinted off his glasses, illuminated his bright hair.

  It wasn’t just Oliver he saw behind those cold iron bars, but everyone who cared about him—gruff, menacing Mr. Marshall, the stately Mrs. Marshall, three sisters, an aunt, two nephews… and reflected in the light of his spectacles, a brother.

  A brother he’d found at twelve, one who had adopted him with a cheerful happiness that had shocked Robert. Oliver had taught him everything he knew about
being part of a family.

  “Yes,” Robert said, his voice a little hoarse. “Well. As it turns out, I have a family that loves me, too. And I’m not about to abandon him.”

  He put his hand up to the iron bars.

  “I have lice,” Oliver reminded him.

  “Shut up and take my hand.”

  It was an awkward handclasp they shared, an iron bar between their palms, but Robert wouldn’t have traded it for the world.

  “Let me do this for you,” he said. “Because when we met at Eton, you could have knocked me down and kicked me in the ribs, and instead you chose to be my brother.”

  “Also,” Oliver said brightly, “your latest source of contagion.”

  Robert laughed. “I have two gallons of carbon oil waiting for you already. I can spare a pint to douse my fingers, if necessary.”

  A throat cleared behind him, and Robert turned. What little humor he’d found turned to ash.

  He didn’t know how long the woman had been standing there. He’d seen her once before, more than a decade ago, but that one time had been enough. She was burned on his memory.

  Mrs. Marshall was far shorter than her son. Her chestnut hair had a little more white in it than when last he’d seen her, but it only made her seem all the more regal. They looked at each other across the room, like two gazelles scenting each other across a meadow—watching, watching, watching, hoping that nothing would hunt them down.

  “I’m sorry,” Robert said. “I’m going now.” He slid past her, giving her as wide a berth as he could without actually flattening himself against the wall. He went out the door into the courtyard. Plaster and timber rose two stories above him, shielding them from the late autumn sun. It was cold; he drew on gloves, pulled his hat down over his ears.

  And just as he was readying himself to go, footsteps sounded again, and Mrs. Marshall came out of the holding room. Their eyes met again across the courtyard; Robert dropped his.

  Ever so slowly, she crossed the paving stones to him.

  “Mrs. Marshall.” He could scarcely breathe. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Your Grace.” She looked at him and then immediately looked away.

  “No honorifics.” He folded himself onto a bench at the edge of the courtyard. It was wet from last night’s rain; he could feel the damp seeping through his trousers. But he didn’t want to tower over her. Bad enough that he’d encountered her at all during this time and brought to her mind those other memories. “You, of all people, shouldn’t be Your Grace-ing me.”

  She turned to him. He studied the paving stones beneath his feet.

  “After what the collective dukes of Clermont have done to you and yours,” he said quietly, “we don’t deserve the respect. All I can say is that I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry that Oliver—”

  “It’s not your fault.”

  “It most certainly is. My brother is awaiting trial for an act that I committed, for no reason except that they can’t get at me. If that isn’t my fault, I don’t know what is.” He contemplated the walls. “But I promise you, I won’t let anything happen to him. I won’t.”

  She stood before him a few moments longer. He kept his head down, aware of her every breath.

  And then, very slowly, she brushed her skirts to the side and sat gingerly on the stone bench next to him. Six inches away, but still next to him. “You’ve been a good friend to my son.”

  “I’ve been his brother.” He still didn’t look at her.

  “He talked about you all the time when he was home from school. You and Sebastian Malheur—but especially you. Needless to say, Mr. Marshall and I found it rather alarming. But he didn’t talk about a boy who seemed like a younger version of your father. You sounded thoughtful and quiet, two things that the Duke of Clermont never managed to be. I always wished I had been better prepared all those years ago. When Oliver spoke of you, you sounded so sweet that I had envisioned a completely different boy. To walk in the room and see you looking at me—with his eyes, and his nose, and his mouth—I don’t know what came over me. I didn’t even really come back to myself until I was half a mile away.”

  “There’s no need to explain. I know what my father did. If I were you, I wouldn’t be able to look at me, either.”

  “Oliver said after, he thought I’d hurt your feelings.”

  Robert shook his head. “There is no room for my feelings in this. You were wronged. It’s not your responsibility to extend the olive branch, but mine, to get out of your way. To give to you what little comfort you can find.”

  “Maybe,” she said slowly. “Maybe. But what I can’t help thinking is this.”

  The sky was blue overhead, without a single cloud in it. It seemed impossible at this time of year, and yet there it was. Robert tilted his head back and shut his eyes.

  “We told Oliver the truth about his birth when he was quite young. Or, I should say, Hugo told him. Not everything, you understand, but a child’s version. There was a bad man. He hurt me. Some people might say that other man was his father, but we loved him, and it wasn’t true. I didn’t want to say anything at all, but Hugo convinced me.” She sighed.

  Robert tried to imagine what it would be like to have parents who actually considered what to tell their children, who cared about these details. Who assured him that they loved him.

  I want to be that kind of parent. His fists clenched.

  “Hugo was very matter-of-fact about it, and so Oliver took it in stride. Until he found out about you. Then he had nightmares.”

  “About me?” Robert repeated.

  “Yes. He woke up crying one night, and wouldn’t stop. When I asked what was wrong, he said that the bad man had his brother, and we had to go get him.”

  Robert felt a lump form in his throat. “Ah,” he managed carefully.

  “I thought it was sweet, actually, and that stage passed. But…” She turned to look at him directly. “But now, it has been almost thirty years since I saw your father. What he did to me took all of ten minutes, and I still remember it.” She paused and then reached over and tapped him on the knee.

  He looked over into her eyes. This time, she didn’t flinch from him.

  “You,” she said quietly, “you grew up with him. That must have been awful.”

  For a second, Robert saw his father looming over him, so much taller back then, so much bigger.

  What kind of a son are you? He’d thrown up his hands in aggravation. Any other boy, and things would be so much better. Even your mother doesn’t want you enough to stay.

  “Oh,” Robert said quietly. “It wasn’t so bad. Most of the time, my father didn’t even remember I was there.”

  And perhaps Mrs. Marshall heard that tiny catch in his voice, because ever so slowly, she put her arm around him.

  “You poor, poor boy,” she said.

  Robert’s duty for the afternoon did not promise to be so enlightening as his morning.

  “I have no idea what to think of you, Your Grace.”

  Robert stood in the entry to the Charingfords’ home. It seemed a comfortable enough place, papered in cream and blue, the entry itself bright and cheerful. But Mr. Charingford, who stood across from him, looked neither bright nor happy. His hair was graying and thin, and he’d folded his arms over his chest.

  “I’ve agreed to this,” the other man said, “because you showed good sense on precisely one occasion.”

  “One occasion?” Robert raised an eyebrow. “When was that?”

  “When you married Miss Pur—I suppose I cannot call her that now, can I?” Charingford tilted his head and almost smiled. “When you married your wife. I tried to convince my son to have a look at her, but he never could get past that scar. Her friendship with my daughter… We spent four months together in Cornwall on a journey, and I think I know her better than anyone in town besides her great-aunts. She was a good choice.”

  She had been. Robert ached to think of what would come tomorrow.

  “I can only hope tha
t some of her sense has begun to seep into your consciousness. I cannot know what you were thinking to write those handbills. To come here and try to convince people like me to support voting reform.” Charingford gave him a look under lowered eyebrows.

  “If you know I wrote those handbills,” Robert asked, “why did you indict Mr. Marshall?”

  Charingford’s eyes dropped. “There was enough evidence to support his involvement. And…”

  “And Stevens asked you,” Robert filled in.

  Charingford bit his lip. “You know about that?”

  “Don’t lecture me on sense,” Robert said. “I asked to see your factory, and you agreed to show me. Let’s get on with it.”

  Charingford gestured and a footman opened the front door. As he did, the dull vibration that came from the factory across the street accelerated to a roar.

  “If you will,” he said grimly. “Your Grace.”

  The clatter of the machinery was almost overwhelming as they crossed the cobblestones of the street. The factory doors had been newly painted a gleaming green, standing out against the coal-streaked brick of the walls. The noise surrounded them, a cacophony of shrieking and shaking. Mr. Charingford ushered him inside with a series of gestures and then, when they’d made their way up a small staircase to stand on a metal platform that overlooked the operation, turned to face him.

  “This is the main room,” he shouted, straining to be heard over the clatter of the machines below. “Here’s where the yarn is knitted into hose.”

  He pointed down into the factory below. A woman, her white-streaked hair tied back in a careless bun, operated a machine that wound yarn onto metal bobbins on one side of the room. A handful of men strolled from one circular frame to the next, moving pieces when necessary, replacing bobbins, handing the products off to boys who scampered with them into an adjacent room. They moved with an economy of motion that seemed to spring more from weariness than expertise.

  “Each machine can produce two pairs of stockings in nine minutes,” Charingford shouted. “And the men are needed only to take the work off the stitch hooks at the end and to reset the cylinder that guides the shape of the stocking. Look at them, Your Grace. They don’t even have to make decisions in their daily work. How could we trust them to decide the future of our country? To understand the workings of industry?”