19. David

19

David

“ A re you pleased we came?” David asked Caroline, his eyes crinkling as he watched her play with the twin boys on the floor of the morning room. They had spent the last two nights at Scarlett Castle—at Lady Foxcotte’s insistence.

The room he’d been put in was as lavish as any at Castell Du'r Arddu; the large mirror had been gilded, the four-poster bed had been canopied in pale green brocade, the view of the surrounding countryside had been picturesque. But it was missing one crucial piece: the woman he loved.

Caroline had been put back into her old bedroom, she told him. Neither of them had risked trying to sneak the other into their bed. Lord and Lady Foxcotte knew David was her father-in-law, so he didn’t want to disrupt Caroline’s relationship with her family. Not when the scar was still so fresh.

“Very.” She smiled, helping William—he thought it was William, anyway—build a racetrack for his toy cars out of wood scraps.

“Can you play tiddlywinks with me?” the other boy asked him, holding out a little pot full of Bakelite winks. He was sure the one with brown hair was called Dougie. The girls were easier to tell apart, but his strategy with the boys was just avoiding saying their names aloud.

“Of course.” David got to his feet, letting the boy lead him over to a small, square felt table atop the rug. “I used to play this when I was little, but I might be a bit rusty.”

He needn’t have worried. Dougie didn’t present a particularly challenging opponent. David deliberately stayed one step behind him at every turn, grinning when the boy sent his last wink flying into the cup—before immediately requesting another round.

Lord Foxcotte arrived halfway through it, the youngest of his children riding on his shoulders. The family collie dogged his footsteps, his fluffy ears pricked up with excitement. “Vincent and I are going out with Jake, boys. Do you want to come?”

David held back a laugh as both twins immediately deserted them in favour of their father, listening to the chaos of the boys putting on their shoes at the front door—and Foxcotte helping with their laces.

Alone for the first time since they’d arrived, Caroline didn’t waste their solitude, abandoning the makeshift racetrack to sit beside him. “I missed you last night,” she breathed, letting her fingers brush his.

His eyes jumped over to the empty doorway. “Not here, Starling.”

“Why not? We must tell them eventually.” Those deep blue eyes pleaded with him. “Won’t we?”

“We will,” he promised. “But there are other hurdles to overcome first—namely me ensuring your marriage to Harry is annulled as quickly and inconspicuously as possible.” Once he was in the Foxcottes’ good graces, then they could discuss a future beyond that.

Fast approaching footsteps had him pulling back to a respectable distance—and not a moment too soon. Lady Foxcotte strode through the door with a perplexed look on her face and a letter in her hand. “Caroline, darling. Did you say you came to Scarlett Castle straight from Southampton?”

Caroline nodded. “Why?”

“Coutts have just sent me their monthly statement about the trust I settled on you. It says you withdrew the most recent dividend the day before yesterday.” A subtle flicker of confusion passed over Emmeline’s face. “In London. Except you weren’t in London—you were here.”

David helped Caroline climb to her feet, holding her hand as she stepped over the wooden racetrack. “Are you sure?”

“Quite sure.” Emmeline held the letter up for Caroline’s inspection, tracing over it with her finger. “It shows the dividend being received from the original investment and the withdrawal a couple of days later.”

Caroline’s head quirked to the side. “But I haven’t touched the trust. How strange. Maybe it’s a mistake?”

“You haven’t touched it at all ?”

“No, of course not.” Caroline nibbled on her lip, an embarrassed shrug lifting her shoulders. “If I’m completely honest, I want to pass it on to my children.”

Emmeline’s focus jumped from Caroline to David, as though she was attempting to decipher something. “But then…who has been withdrawing all the money every month?”

Tension churned in his stomach, the possibility rising to the surface. Surely he wouldn’t have. “How long have the monthly withdrawals been going on for?” David asked, touching a hand to Caroline’s shoulder.

“Since February. Since—”

“I eloped.” Caroline’s voice wobbled. “But surely Harry wouldn’t be able to withdraw anything from it?”

Emmeline’s expression didn’t provide her with much hope. “As your husband, he’d have every right to do so.”

“But…” Caroline glanced up at him, searching for answers. “He wouldn’t be able to just walk into Coutts and withdraw money from my account, right?”

“If he brought in the marriage certificate,” David said softly, “then yes, he would. ”

A quiet huff slipped from her lips, low and forlorn. When she glanced up at him, her eyes were full of pain. She had arrived at the conclusion as quickly as David had. “That’s why Harry married me.”

“Caroline,” David rasped, his arms instinctively enveloping her as she stepped towards him, needing the comfort of his embrace.

She held herself upright, despite the attack on her pride. “That’s why he abandoned me the day after the wedding. All I ever was to him was a bank account.”

In his peripheral vision, he could see Lady Foxcotte watching the two of them, but Caroline needed him more than he needed propriety. “Every penny he took out of that account will be reimbursed—I’ll personally ensure it.” Whether Harry paid it or David did. “I’ve let this business with Harry go on long enough—I’ll go up to London today to drag him to my solicitor. If I leave now, we can have the petition for annulment filed by sunset. You’ll have your freedom and your money both, Starling. I swear it.”

The snowy white columns of Menai House loomed over him, still every bit as imposing as they were when he was young. The London he’d grown up with was irrevocably changed. Gone were the paved grey setts his parents had used, and even the smooth macadam roads of his own youth. Tarmacadam had replaced both, largely escaping the manure-drenched fate of its predecessors .

As a boy, David remembered Grosvenor Square on a hot summer’s day as being fraught with the stench of horse manure, but today there was little to be found on the capital’s roads. Cars had, for the most part, replaced their equine forbears. Tin Lizzies and Austin 7s were the most common, but around the streets of Mayfair more luxury brands could be found. Daimlers, Bentleys, and Sunbeams roosted here, in addition to more unique coach-built motors, allowing their owners to customise every aspect of their vehicle.

Growing up, he and his family had spent a good part of every year in London. His father couldn’t have cared less about the Season, but Mother had enjoyed it tremendously—the Temperate House at Kew Gardens had always been her favourite. A floral sanctuary bursting with the kind of vivid, tropical greenery rarely seen on the British Isles. By contrast, Father had been a betting man; Royal Ascot was his favourite, with the Grand National coming a close second.

Father would always have a flutter—unlike a young man further down the family tree, however, Father knew when to stop.

David placed his hand on the wrought-iron railings lining the white steps up to the arched front door, his mind caught between fury and worry, the former for Caroline and the latter for his son.

Harry had duped a woman into marrying him—presumably so, as her husband, he could withdraw whatever money was in her accounts. Judging by what Lady Foxcotte had said, Harry had been unable to withdraw the capital of the trust, only the monthly income released, thank Christ.

Some thirty seconds after he’d pounded on the front door with a closed fist, it was swung open by a man David knew well—Arrowsmith, the family’s London butler. The bald man’s roughly hewn features softened in surprise. “My lord. We weren’t expecting you. ”

“I know.” David dusted off his shoes on the cast iron doormat and stepped inside. The sight of Arrowsmith stirred up the nostalgia lingering in his chest, as it always did. He was the second generation of Arrowsmiths to work at Menai House, having followed his father on as butler. And looking more like him with every day that passed. “Good to see you, Arrowsmith. Is Harry in?”

“He is, my lord—with guests. I took some refreshments up to the smoking room about an hour ago.”

David nodded, his long legs making short work of the entrance hall. As he climbed to the fourth floor, travelling beside gilded paintings and portraits, he cast his eyes around for signs of abnormal wear and tear, but was pleased to see Harry hadn’t completely wrecked the place. He’d allowed Harry to live here, free of charge, on the condition that the servants remained in their posts and all items remained in place—a stipulation he was glad to have imposed, now that the business of Harry defrauding Caroline had reared its ugly head.

Because if Harry had stooped to treachery, what else was he capable of?

A guttural grunt reached David’s ears as he crested the stairs on the fourth floor, closely followed by a considerably louder one.

Not again. Arrowsmith could have mentioned that these guests were women. David would have stayed downstairs for the sake of his own sanity.

He had just turned to go back down the stairs when it came again, stopping him in his tracks. He’d shrunk away from it the first time, purely based on reflex. Hearing it again, though, raised the hairs on his neck.

A man making that noise wasn’t experiencing pleasure; he was in pain.

David rushed across the landing to the smoking room, bursting through the door in a collision of noise and panic. Eyes flew towards him, but his own shot straight to the dishevelled figure bound to a chair .

Adrenaline lit his blood like a fuse. He was across the room in a moment, launching himself at the short, dark-haired man who stood over Harry, bloodied fist poised to strike. David’s eyes gleamed in a dark, lethal fury as he slammed the man against the wall with a skull-rattling crack .

No sooner had it sounded was David wrenched away by unseen hands. It didn’t stop him fighting; it just changed his target. A torrent of voices filled the room until it swelled, desperate bargaining and pained grunts and snarled threats. David was outnumbered two-to-one, but even the flash of a knife couldn’t quell his rage.

“Wait, Tommy, wait, wait, wait, wait,” Harry blustered, his panicked eyes locking with David’s. “This is my father. He can write a cheque here and now. If you kill him, you don’t get shit.”

Tommy, the man who had been standing over Harry when David had entered, let out a soft huff of amusement—just enough to show the blood staining his teeth. “Can you?” he asked, his voice deceptively, worryingly soft.

David’s shoulders heaved with exertion. He hadn’t felt the pain at the time, but it was already creeping in. His cheekbone. His spine. His thigh. His knuckles, most of all. Tommy, whoever he was, was of a similar build to David, but his freakishly large companion was closer to seven feet than six. “How much are you after?”

“Four thousand. Two thousand for the debt.” Tommy’s lip curled. “And two for the inconvenience.”

Freeing a strained sigh, David pulled out his chequebook and swiped a pen from the desk. His awkward, scratchy scrawl was worsened by the adrenaline pumping through his veins, but he only filled in the bare minimum. He thrust it at Tommy, resting his other hand on his son’s shoulder, itching to untie him. “I assume you can fill in your name and the date. ”

“I believe I can.” Tommy picked up a tweed cap resting on leather couch. “Lovely doing business with you, Burton.”

The two of them filed out. A pang of grim satisfaction went through him to see Tommy limping slightly, but David had more important things to concentrate on—like rifling through the desk drawer to find the silver letter opener fashioned in the shape of a sword. When he was a boy, David had had a great deal of fun wielding it as though it were one.

He never imagined he’d be using it to cut his son free.

Just as David cut through the endless layers of coarse twine cutting off circulation to Harry’s left hand, he heard the front door slam closed. “Keep going,” he murmured, pressing the letter opener into his son’s hand and racing towards the windows.

Four floors below him, he could see Tommy and his companion leisurely strolling across the road.

“They’re gone,” he confirmed, yanking on the bellpull and ignoring the pain lancing through his thigh. He knelt at Harry’s feet once more, taking over the sawing. “Are you okay? What did they do to you?”

“Ribs.” Harry sucked a breath in through his teeth as his right hand was freed from its bonds, stretching his fingers. He winced a second later, brushing a hand over his torso.

“Broken?” The loops of twine around his son’s ankles were far sparser than the ones on his wrists, allowing David to free his son entirely with a few quick swipes.

Harry shook his head. “Just bruised, I think.” He stood, taking small, tentative steps and perched on the desk behind him. “I’ll, um, I’ll pay you b—”

David didn’t bother to let Harry finish his sentence, wrapping his arms around his son’s shoulders and pulling him into a hug, exceedingly mindful of his ribs. “It doesn’t matter.” He had a million-and-one things that he wanted to discuss with Harry, but all of them could wait. The main thing—the most important thing—was that his son was safe.

A throat cleared behind them. Arrowsmith’s. “You rang, my lord.”

David turned to face him. There was no sign Arrowsmith had heard the commotion—but then the servants’ hall was six floors beneath them, in the lower basement. “Fetch a doctor, if you please.”

“David,” Harry’s voice was a fearful rasp. “You’re bleeding.”

He followed his son’s gaze down to his thigh, to the pain he’d shoved to the back of his mind. The fabric of his trousers had been torn asunder, but the true horror was beneath. Vivid red blood gushed from a six-inch long wound, revealing the pale pink meat within. David had never felt queasy at the sight of blood, but thought he may have found his limit. “So I am.”

David’s nerves screamed as he applied the unexpectedly familiar antiseptic solution to the wound. His face remained emotionless, however. “This takes me back,” he muttered wryly.

Next to a marble bust of his great-great grandmother, a dishevelled Harry sat, strain bracketing either side of his mouth. The grey light of the morning filtered in through the windows of the bedroom, bringing with it the endless sounds of London preparing for another day. Harry stubbed out his cigarette on the ashtray beside him, his swollen eye a purplish-red. “To what, exactly?”

“The war.” He clunked the bottle back on his bedside table before reapplying a fresh dressing. “I never expected to smell surgical spirit again. Our unit’s medical officer used to prescribe the bloody stuff for every ailment under the sun.”

Bullet wound? Surgical spirit. Venereal disease? Surgical spirit. Broken hearted after being cast aside for another? Surgical spirit.

“David,” Harry began, looking wearier than he ever had before. “I’m sorry for...everything. I didn’t think you’d come personally.”

On the bed, David shifted, wincing when he pulled on the stitches in his leg. All thirty-seven of the bastard things. The knife had sliced through his muscle, but only just. The doctor’s instructions had been clear. Keep the wound clean to stave off infection, and stay off his feet for the next week.

The last thing he needed was to move around and tear the laceration even farther.

“Come personally?”

Harry looked away, the muscles in his jaw clenching. A thin, partially healed red scar crept down behind his ear, a uniform path of dots on either side, revealing that he’d recently had stitches of his own removed. “After my message.”

The response caught him off guard. “What message?”

“I called Castell Du'r Arddu two days ago; your butler said he’d pass on the message.”

“I haven’t been home to receive it.” David tried to keep his voice even, but the reminder of why he’d originally come grated on his nerves. “I’ve been at Scarlett Castle—with your wife. I’m sure you remember her, young blonde woman with curly hair?”

Harry had the good sense to look discomfited. “I remember.”

“I had been rather surprised to learn that you’d been emptying out her bank account on a monthly basis,” he spat, finally losing some of his frustration like an arrow .

“It was…” Shame crept over his son’s face, but there was something deeper beneath it. A hint of trepidation, perhaps. “I only intend to borrow it. I’m going to pay it back.”

The edge of David’s laugh could have cut through steel. “And what were you borrowing her money for? Yet more gambling? You should have seen the look on her face the morning after your wedding, Harry. I’ve never seen anyone look so devastated in my life. She gave up her entire life to marry you, and you threw her away like she was nothing.”

Harry’s throat bobbed; his eyes lowered in shame. “I’ll make it up to her.”

“You’ve done anything but,” he snapped. “Discovering that you’ve ransacked her trust fund only wounded her further.” It was nothing David wanted to hear, but he had to ask. “Do you love her? Did you ever love her?”

A terse silence stretched out before Harry finally shook his head. “She was nice, and I knew she had a trust fund. I was desperate.”

David had never been so at odds with his own brain. He wanted to rage at the slight against the woman he loved. How could his son be so fucking blind? How dare he use her like that? But David’s baser instincts simmered with something resembling relief—or perhaps satisfaction.

If Harry didn’t love Caroline, the path to annulment had one less hurdle. Soon, she would be able to step out from beneath the shadow of her ill-fated marriage.

And she would be his , and his alone.

“You’re always desperate, Harry. It doesn’t give you license to drag everyone down with you.” David checked his pocket watch, grim determination setting in. “I have a bargain for you. I’ll repay every penny that you borrowed from Caroline’s trust, but I’d like two things in return.”

Quiet anticipation lifted Harry’s gaze. “Namely? ”

“My solicitor is arriving at nine this morning. He’s going to bring a nullity application along for you. You’re going to sign it.”

“A nullity application?” Harry asked blankly.

“An application to annul your marriage to Caroline on the basis of non-consummation.” Bile rose in his throat at how quickly his son nodded, how quickly he threw her away. Somehow it was even worse than him loving her; Harry truly couldn’t have cared less.

“Fine.” Harry tried and failed to suppress a yawn, holding his hand to his ribs with a pained grunt. “And the second thing?”

“Call Caroline when it’s done. Tell her it’s signed, and that she’ll be receiving an acknowledgement of service later today. The sooner she responds to that, the sooner the annulment is finalised.”

“Why do I have to call her?”

David rubbed his brow, his patience for the day already waning and the sun had barely risen. He was getting the feeling he was going to be a terrible patient. “Because the phone is on the ground floor, and there are four flights of stairs between me and it.”

Drawing his lips over to the side, Harry relented. “Fine, although I cannot promise she’ll listen to me.”