Chapter 19

To Anthony's relief, the end of the Hindborough hunting party concluded without further incident. The first guests took their leave the following morning, forcing Warren and Eliana to oversee the departures and stay out of Anthony's hair. There were, of course, a few dismal glances from Eliana over dinner that evening, but the two of them kept their distances—just like Anthony kept his distance from Marianne.

After their discussion in her room, Anthony had thought it wisest not to add fuel to the fire of Eliana's anger by being seen with her in public. He had said his piece, had said more, he hoped, by slipping the sketch of Marianne under her door.

Dreams of her had plagued the night—kisses brought to fruition, trips to her bedroom that had not merely ended in the hatching of battle plans. But he did not see Marianne again in earnest until the hour of their departure from Hagram Park.

Anthony stood in the courtyard, overseeing the footmen as they loaded their combined luggage into the Westden carriage. The miserable sky cast a gray light on the proceedings. Autumntime was just around the corner, and with it came a welcome reprieve from summer socializing. If Anthony did not see the Webbs again for some time, no one would suspect something had gone awry between their two families.

But he was not naive enough to think he could avoid them forever. One way or another, something had to be done about Eliana and her threats, hanging over him and Marianne like the Sword of Damocles, ready to drop at a moment's notice.

A hand clapped on his shoulder, tearing him from his thoughts. He straightened as Warren sidled up beside him. The marquess nodded towards the carriage.

"You have been a most gracious guest, Anthony. So accommodating, like your father. I had hoped we would spend longer together, but the hosting duties kept us apart more than I had anticipated." He smiled, and Anthony forced a pleasant expression of his own. "Well, there will be plenty more time for just you and I before winter. And I do hope you will not make a stranger of yourself to Hagram Park. My home is yours."

Anthony was not about to reciprocate the offer. The Velasquez painting was still heavy on his mind. He examined Warren's stance, wondering whether he could see the deception in his face. Nothing about the marquess betrayed his lie. But Anthony knew what he had seen in the gallery.

"I shall return to Hagram Park before long, make no mistake," Anthony replied.

"Good. I'm glad to hear it. You will have to excuse Eliana this morning," Warren said, releasing Anthony and turning towards the upper story of the manor.

"She came down with a migraine, and I sent her upstairs again. She sends both you and Lady Marianne her warmest regards. And, erm ..." Warren tilted his head, dropping his voice. "Have a think about what we discussed in the woods. I think things will be much clearer by the next time we meet."

"Oh, I have no doubt they will be." Anthony smiled—genuinely this time. "Take care until next we meet, Warren."

And enjoy your peace while it lasts.

*

A heavy assault of rain covered the Norfolk countryside by the time the carriage pulled up Moorhaven Manor gates. Having asked to be parked as close to the house as possible, Anthony swept off his jacket and held it over his head as the carriage door swung open.

Calling Marianne to his side, he guided her into the house under the cover of his coat. He felt like a schoolboy standing next to her, grinning at every smile she gave him, despite what had happened between them. Patrick followed suit, running indoors and slipping to a stop in the entrance hall.

"It's so good to be home," Marianne said through a laugh, separating from Anthony and leaving him grief-stricken. She wiped the rain from her brow with her sleeve, looking around. "I hadn't realized until we approached the house how much I had missed being here."

"Far from the tyranny of the Webbs, that's for certain," Patrick got in, shaking his hair like a dog coming in from a walk. "I shall count my blessings if I am never forced into their company again."

"What did the marquess do to you to make you despise him so much?" Marianne asked, side-eyeing Anthony.

"Nothing much," Patrick said, shrugging. "But the two of you seem to have developed a sudden distaste for the man, given your sour expressions upon our leaving, and I do so hate to be left out. Why have a folie à deux when one can enjoy folie à trois?"

Anthony tutted, passing his soaked jacket to a passing footman. "Your pronunciation needs some work," he teased, wanting to deflect from the topic of the Webbs. He looked at Marianne, relieved to see her smiling. "But I agree. There is no place quite like home."

Patrick nodded. He pointed to the open doors. "I, erm, shall help Miss Barclay with Lady Marianne's things, if you don't mind," he said, leaving before either of them could protest.

Shrugging, Anthony fiddled with the cuffs of his sleeves, waiting for the footmen to return with the housekeeper.

"You were quiet in the carriage," Marianne said, removing her rain-dappled coat. "I expected things to be a little awkward between us. But your silence was more unbearable than I anticipated. You know how much I love talking, especially with you."

"No, I ..." Her comment was like a shot through the heart, and Anthony immediately stepped towards her. He checked himself, glancing over his shoulder at the outside rain. "I was not quiet because of what happened ... at the party. I was simply contemplating what on earth should be done next. Warren's parting words had me thinking."

"And have you come up with a plan?" Marianne asked, sounding relieved.

"I have but the seedling of a plan," he admitted. He clicked his tongue against his palate, wishing he could present her with something better. "I need to confirm some thoughts with my mother first, provided I can tear her from her adulation of you long enough. She will be beside herself with joy for your return."

"But not for yours?" Marianne rolled her eyes, shaking her head softly. Her gentle expression made him weak at the knees, and he stepped away before he did something else that would ruin her. "I think you are too harsh on yourself in all aspects. That moment in the gallery ... I do not want it to change how you behave with me. You've apologized, and I accepted the apology.

But you are the same way about everything, so I should not be surprised. You have a penchant for self-flagellation. Lucky for you, I find it endearing."

The concept that Marianne found anything about him endearing brought a smile to Anthony's face. He supposed he should not be surprised. She had all but admitted to reciprocating his feelings for her in her bedchamber, making their otherwise insufferable situation ... well, sufferable.

"Like your art, for instance," she continued, raising a brow. "The sketch was ... I am surely biased, but it was the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. You have such a talent, Anthony. When this ... When all this is over," she dropped her gaze to the floor, "I would so love for you to sketch me again."

Anthony fought a smile. "You would let me?"

"Of course. Why should that surprise you?"

He hesitated a moment. "Because I worried you would find something you did not like in that sketch."

"No." She smiled pointedly. "I liked everything about it."

The sound of hurried footsteps tore Anthony away from her. He cleared his throat as the housekeeper appeared with a batch of fresh servants. Patrick chose that moment to re-enter, suspiciously bereft of Miss Barclay's company and any travelling trunks.

He clapped his hands together. "Now, then. Are we getting this show on the road?"

Anthony ignored his suddenly improved mood, turning instead to the housekeeper. "I take it Mother is in her solar? Good. We will greet her before changing."

The air in the solar was warm and inviting, the smell of tea and lilies in the air. A weight lifted from Anthony's shoulders as his mother turned in her seat, alerted by the sound of their approach. She looked none the worse for wear, still sporting the black mourning clothes she had worn since Anthony's return. His own dour wardrobe awaited him upstairs, and he sighed at the thought.

Catherine cried with joy as the three of them appeared at the doors, jumping out of her chair and throwing the book she had been reading into the lap of the nearby maid.

"Oh, how wonderful it is to see you all again! Every one of my darlings returned to me with all their limbs intact," she exclaimed, stopping a few paces from them with her hands clamped beneath her chin. "I would embrace you all if not for those wet clothes ..."

Anthony entered first, kissing his mother on the cheek. "You complain about the clothes, but you would have complained more if we had gone upstairs immediately."

"Why, of course. It's a mother's right to complain. What else am I supposed to occupy myself with except the business of misery?" She laughed, eyes widening in delight as Marianne approached. She seized her hand, forcing Anthony to look away. "We will all have tea in here, and you can warm up by the fire. Of course, I will want to know about the party. Oh, but ..." She glanced into the hall behind them. "Where is our Frida?"

"She insisted on unpacking my things as soon as possible," Marianne replied, releasing her. "I told her not to, but she would not take no for an answer. I imagine she's gone upstairs ahead of us."

"I see the Hagram party did not help to unwind her. Though none of you look particularly replenished." His mother waved the matter away, grinning at Marianne. As he had expected, Catherine looked more pleased to see her than Anthony. "It is you I most want to hear from—no offence, gentlemen—unless you are too tired."

Marianne looked down at her dress specked with rain. "The carriage ride was not tremendously taxing. As for the party ..." Her gaze drifted to Anthony, and something shifted within. "Perhaps a rest and change of clothes wouldn't hurt after all. Mr Bowers? Would you escort me upstairs?"

"Are you afraid you'll get lost? We have not been gone that long." Patrick offered Marianne his arm. "Fine, I know when I'm not wanted. We will leave Her Grace with her son," he concluded, much less tactfully than Marianne.

The pair left the room almost as soon as they had entered it. Anthony lingered by the sofas, eyes fixed on Marianne as she departed. Now left alone, he turned to his mother and tried to smile. But one real glance at Catherine made Warren's deception flood back into his mind. He could not look at his mother and not think about his father—about what his father might have done or what had been done to him.

"I take it the hunting party was more a burden than a boon for you as well," Catherine guessed, regaining her favourite armchair. "But of the three of you, you look the most drained. What happened? Was Warren not how you expected him to be? Or was it Eliana?"

Anthony glanced sideways at the maids on standby. His mother tactfully called them away, patting the seat opposite her after Anthony closed the door behind them. Rain fell in sheets beyond the windows, drowning out most of the sound from the house, except for the fire, which crackled loudly in the hearth. Anthony sunk into his own armchair, his wet clothes and cravat clinging to his skin.

"Nothing was as I expected it," he replied vaguely. He hesitated, having rarely kept secrets from his mother. She could read him like a book. "I knew full well that I would experience some difficulty in reconnecting with father's old friends, and yet what transpired was ..." He pressed a hand over his eyes, unable to find the right word. "I will not think back on the party as a triumph. But before you worry, nor was it a disaster."

Not a disaster yet, anyway, he thought. It remains to be seen how history remembers the events of that week.

"Do you really expect me to draw a valid conclusion from that description?" His mother tilted her head to the side, smiling sadly. "Tell me precisely what happened to make you feel this way."

"You will not like it."

"And why not?"

"Because I believe I have discovered something that brings into question Father's death, which you have beseeched me to leave in the past."

Catherine's mouth opened and closed. She leaned away from him, falling against the back of her armchair with a cushiony thud. "Oh, Anthony. What could you possibly have found?"

"I did not attend the party expecting to make an enemy of him." He ignored the dismissive tone in her voice. He deserved it for aggravating her fresh grief. "But before I answer your question, I must ask one of my own. What did you make of Warren's friendship with Father?"

"A strange question ..." Catherine furrowed her brow, but she seemed willing to entertain him. "I will not pretend to have been Warren's greatest admirer. Edward had Warren for company, and I had Rosamund. But he seemed to make your father happy. That was cause enough not to question the friendship. Now, why do you ask?"

"What I discovered could mean that everything we thought we knew about them was wrong." Anthony leaned forward on his elbows, carefully measuring his words to avoid concerning his mother. "Did Father ever mention a sale between him and Warren? A painting?"

Catherine frowned and shook her head. "Not that I recall. But there were many things your father and Warren did to which I was not privy. All men have their secrets."

"Regardless, one of Father's favourite paintings found its way into Warren's possession. Yet when I asked Warren about the items missing from Father's collection, he lied to me and said he had no idea about Father selling anything." Anthony sighed, realizing he sounded like a madman. "And I have a feeling that it was not the only lie.

There was something about how he handled me at the party like I was a linchpin in some plan ... You must think I'm out of my mind."

"You're my son, Anthony," Catherine stressed. "By nature, I am blind to even your most egregious faults. I would not think you were mad if you started doing cartwheels around the coffee table. But even so, I know you would not accuse another of wrongdoing unless you had good reason.

And I am sorry you felt that Warren looked at you that way. One could assume he considers you an apt replacement for Edward. You are so similar, after all. And Warren is likely grieving as much as we are."

Anthony didn't believe that.

"No," he said. "Warren does not look at me with a mote of respect. And some of the things he suggested ..." Anthony paused, unsure he wanted to hear what his mother had to say about his marriage prospects.

"He plainly said that Father had been waiting for my return to England to broach the topic of marriage with me. Apparently, he and Warren had decided that they were going to advocate for a match between Eliana and me ... Did you know about this?"

His mother was quiet for a moment, eyes darting back and forth. Anthony hated the thought of causing her turmoil—but some questions had to be asked.

"I knew there had been talks. For decades, at that," Catherine admitted. Her eyes flamed with outrage. "But Edward never actively championed a betrothal between you. Of the two of us, I was more inclined to see you marry Eliana. Your father thought you were mismatched and always claimed as much to me." She leaned back, thinking.

"I would say it's possible he changed his mind." She paused. "But it is not possible that he would have told Warren instead of telling me."

"Which means that Warren lied about Father's endorsement of the match." Anthony felt a fire light within him. He gritted his teeth, burning with anger on behalf of his father.

"I have a terrible feeling that Warren has used Father's death as a means to get what he wants. And why should he not want me to marry Eliana? She would become a duchess. Our families would be connected by more than just friendship—"

"Anthony, you should not be hasty," his mother warned, holding up a hand. "I understand that you are upset, but these theories of yours ..." She pressed her eyes shut, trying to process Anthony's allegations. "Edward trusted Warren with his life. You must take that into account before blindly accusing Warren of profiting from his death."

"I have taken it into account." Anthony rose from his seat, needing to move before his rage overwhelmed him. "And I know it to count for nothing because I, too, once trusted Warren like a second father. Trust obviously means nothing to him."

Anthony stopped pacing in front of the hearth, tearing off his wet cravat. He relished the warmth of the fire on the exposed skin of his neck. The flames had a calming effect on him as he waited for his mother to speak again. He did not want to go to war with Warren alone. But he would have no choice if his mother, like his father, had bought whatever fantasy Warren had sold them.

"Say that Warren did lie to you about Edward's wish to see you marry his daughter ..." Catherine said calmly. "What difference does it make? You are your own man. You need not continue this alliance just to honour your father. Let the past rest, as I have said time and time again. If Warren wishes to see you married to Eliana, you need only say no, Anthony."

Anthony swallowed hard, staring into the flames. Marianne's face appeared in the fire, and he let his head hang forward with the memory of his mistake. He could not let Catherine know what he had done to Marianne. The truth would break her heart—or worse, she would blame Marianne for Anthony's transgression and send her away. His mother might have eventually accepted a match between them, but never under the present circumstances.

This was one battle he needed to fight alone, for his father, for Marianne, for himself. He thought back to Warren's lies, searching for something in his memory—a thread that could unravel the marquess' story ...

Warren has built a castle of lies. Every truth he spewed has turned out to be one more deception. Who can say that he was not lying about not knowing Doctor de Laurier as well? The physician refused to speak to me before. Was that silence bought? Could the marquess have bribed him?

With no other leads to follow, it was worth investigating for now. Anthony unclenched his fist around the damp cravat, tearing his eyes from the fire.

"It makes a difference to me," he murmured. "I need to get to the bottom of this before any of us can move forward. And I hope that when all is said and done, you will understand."

Catherine sighed. "For you, my darling, I will try."

With a nod, Anthony looked towards the door. There was no use lingering, not when he had to start putting in motion his new plan. Now that his mother had confirmed his worst fears—that Warren was a liar, and it was not just Anthony's imagination—he would be merciless in his pursuit of the truth.

Placing a hand on his mother's shoulder, Anthony excused himself upstairs. He took the steps two-by-two until he reached the landing, not turning for his own room ...

But for Marianne's instead.

His heart raced in his chest as he knocked on her door, unsurprised to find Miss Barclay on the other side. Marianne was sitting on the bed, folding her clothes. The sight of her was an immediate relief—but likely not for long.

"A moment?" Anthony asked, gesturing Marianne into the hallway.

Marianne nodded, placing the clothes beside her and joining him at the door. Leaving it ajar, she waited for him to explain with a curious little expression.

"You promised your help to me," he whispered, glancing over his shoulder to ensure they were not heard. "And regretfully, I must ask you to make good on that offer."

"So soon?" Marianne's brow creased, but she looked up defiantly. "What exactly do you have in mind?"

"You seem hesitant." He smiled. It was impossible not to tease her, even now. "Are you planning to rescind your aid to me?"

"Your Grace, I am a woman of my word," Marianne said with a grin. "But I must know what I am getting myself into. I have read one too many serials, and I will not satisfy myself merely being the damsel in distress."

"The heroine then? Regardless, your reluctance may not be entirely underserved." He looked down at his feet, forming the plan in his mind. "The details are unclear as of now, but one thing is certain. It is time I paid my own visit to Doctor De Laurier."

Marianne scowled. "The last time he was here, he refused to speak with you."

"Precisely." Anthony winced. "Which is why he will not be speaking to me ..."