Chapter 17

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

J ulian paced the length of his study, burning firelight casting flickering shadows against the velvet-draped walls. Ester was securely locked away in a secluded wing of the castle, one long forgotten to time. He had entrusted her the master key which unlocked every door in the house. Crammond and Mrs. Grypes had their own copies of it. His instructions to her had been unwavering: under no circumstances was she to open the door for anyone but him.

Reaching his escritoire, Julian yanked the bellpull with ferocity, unable to dislodge the brewing anger inside. Anger at the way Ester had been treated. Anger at how he had been treated. Kingsley had been laughing up his sleeve at Julian, played him for a fool—if even a fraction of Julian's suspicions were confirmed. Laughing even as he destroyed lives with the efficiency of a bouncing cannonball. How many more would fall victim to that blackguard's insatiable greed?

A knock at the door snapped Julian from his thoughts.

"Come in, Crammond!" Julian barked before the third knock.

Crammond entered the room. His gaze flickered from his master to the hearth, before settling on Julian's hands, which rested bare on his knees, devoid of the ever-present gloves. He hesitated for the briefest moment, before shifting his focus just beyond Julian's shoulder. Looking at him without looking at him.

"I see the question in your eyes," Julian murmured. "Out with it."

Crammond cleared his throat. "It is only that… Your Grace, you have always insisted—never without the gloves."

Julian's lips curled into a humorless smile. "Hmm. I only now realize I never asked. Did you ever believe in the curse, Crammond?"

"Not for a second," Crammond replied immediately, his voice steady. "But Your Grace did. And that was enough for me."

Julian let out a bitter laugh. "Ester does not believe it. And she seems hale and hearty despite being a victim. Proof enough that the curse is nothing more than a myth conjured up by my father's whimsical imaginings."

"I should say so. Common sense, I'd say," Crammond stated plainly.

"We shall see," Julian muttered, his tone growing darker. "Has His Lordship Viscount Kingsley returned to Theydon Mount?"

"He has not, Your Grace. But I have been keeping a close eye."

Good old Crammond. He had not yet been made aware of the full extent of Julian's suspicions but could deduce that something was afoot and acted accordingly.

"If it pleases, Your Grace, I must prepare to receive His Lordship's presence shortly."

"Of course," Julian assured. "Ah, I called for you to ask if you might kindly request that Molly bring me another decanter of port, my last two are empty."

"Of course, Your Grace," the butler bowed, before exiting the study.

Not typically one for strong drink—especially not in the daylight hours—Julian felt the undeniable need for its artificial fortitude. Something to steel him for the confrontation to come.

A few minutes later, Molly appeared with a decanter of rich, dark port and a crystal tumbler, setting both on a small side table before quietly retreating. Julian poured himself a generous measure, downing it in a single, burning swallow. The heat did little to calm his turbulent thoughts.

He leaned back, contemplating the conversation to come with Kingsley. How he would restrain himself from physical violence. The alcohol, in hindsight, may not have been the wisest choice.

His gaze was drawn to the flickering flames of the hearth. It made him think of his father. Windermere Castle had been a cold, dark house. His father's pathological fear of light made it so. Despite that, many of his esoteric rituals involved flame. Julian could not see an open fire without remembering the bizarre occult ceremonies with which his father attempted to conjure demons or commune with the dead. Harold Barrington had been an eccentric, to say the least. An outcast who was spoken of in fearful whispers by those who lived in the villages around Windermere Castle. Now, that mantle had passed down to Julian by the simple fact of his self-imposed isolation. A role he had accepted as no more than his lot in life.

That acceptance had once been Julian's only source of strength. Where hope is absent, fear cannot follow. He existed in his isolated castle, rejected by his father and rejecting the land of his birth. Rejecting his birthright.

But Ester had shattered that illusion, as swiftly as a lightning bolt splits the sky. She had brought something dangerous into his life—hope. And with hope, came fear. For with hope came the possibility of loss. There had been nothing that Julian believed he could lose. Nothing that had not been taken from him. But now, the stakes had shifted.

Almost an hour had passed before the door to the study crashed open again, this time, Kingsley striding in with purpose. His appearance bore the telltale signs of hard riding—mud splattered across his breeches and boots, his riding crop clenched tightly in one hand. His face was flushed, and his jaw set in rigid lines. Julian recognized the signs of ire in his friend. The bright spots of color in his cheeks. The fire mirrored in his eyes.

Kingsley stopped short before Julian, chest heaving as he struggled to collect his breath.

"Well?" Julian asked,

"Well?" Kingsley challenged back.

"You went to Theydon village," Julian said flatly.

"I did," Kingsley growled, voice tight, "and do you know what I was told?"

"Unless the clairvoyance possessed by the former Duke was passed down to his only breathing child, how could I?" Julian replied, setting his glass of port down with deliberate calm, though inside, a storm was brewing of his own.

Kingsley chuckled darkly. "There is no one living in Theydon Village by the name of Emily Granger. Not a single soul known to the magistrate or any local. What do you make of that?"

"That the missing stranger who gave me that name was not local?" Julian replied, reasonably.

"Except you specifically called her a local girl," Kingsley shot back.

Julian shrugged, pretending indifference. "A mistaken assumption, it seems. I was wrong."

"What did she look like, this local girl?" Kingsley probed, stepping closer.

Julian feigned to think for a moment. "Hmm. Dark hair, slender. Blue eyes. Perhaps approaching the middle of her second decade."

"Is that so?" Kingsley's voice dropped lower, dangerous now. "Not bright green eyes, with long, red hair? Freckles on her nose marring pale skin?"

Julian's expression shifted, and he rubbed his chin thoughtfully as if mulling over the details. "You are referring to someone specific," he noted after a pause.

Kingsley leaned forward, his hands gripping the arms of Julian's chair, his face mere inches away. "You know damn well who I'm speaking of!" he snapped. "Where is she?"

Julian remained perfectly still, his expression unreadable as he gently raised one hand, letting it hover inches from Kingsley's cheek, as though he might give it a friendly pat. Kingsley's eyes flicked to the side, widening as they caught the movement.

"I never believed in your foolish curses," Kingsley sneered.

Yet, despite his bravado, the viscount stepped back, though he did so with an air of forced nonchalance, as if attempting to disguise his retreat. Julian followed, his hand still raised. When Kingsley moved to turn away, Julian lifted his other hand, blocking his escape. Now, Kingsley stood frozen, Julian's hands hovering on either side of his face, trapping him in place. A visible swallow moved down Kingsley's throat.

"If you do not believe in the curse, then why are you so frightened?" Julian said quietly, his voice as smooth and quiet as silk. "You are sweating, though one could hardly call it warm in here."

Kingsley's eyes darted nervously, but his voice remained defiant. "I sweat because I have been riding hard back from the village. What's gotten into you, old boy?"

Julian's lips curled into a humorless smile. "I could ask the same of you, old boy ," he put scorn into the affectionate appellation. "You came in here in quite a taking. You seemed angry at me. Now I think… why might that be?"

"I do not know what you're talking about," Kingsley replied quickly. "I think we have both been hoodwinked, played for fools by a very shrewd young lady."

"I have not been hoodwinked, Simon. In fact, I owe that young lady an apology. I maligned her name by thinking she was a thief. She did not steal my mother's cameo. I found it, you see. In my bedchamber. It appears I misplaced it."

Kingsley's brow furrowed, then a slow smile curved his lips. "Well, then, all's well that ends well. She was no thief after all. But it does make one wonder… who was she?"

Julian lowered his hands and recovered his glass, pouring himself another measure. A second tumbler had been placed on the table by Molly when she delivered the port.

"Care for a drink?" Julian offered, returning to a casual tone.

"Don't mind if I do, old man," Kingsley slowly smiled. He took the tumbler and threw back the port.

Julian turned away, crossing to the bureau. Opening one of the drawers, he withdrew a sheet of paper, followed by a pen and inkpot. His hand moved quickly, scrawling words with purpose before folding the note. The red stick of sealing wax followed, held briefly over the fire before he slid the signet ring from his right hand. Letting the wax drip onto the paper, he pressed the ring into it, the seal hardening beneath his touch.

Behind him, Julian heard the creak of a chair and the telltale sign of a man settling in, glad to get the weight off his feet. It sounded as though he were making himself at home. Perhaps he reasoned that the danger had passed. He certainly knew that Julian was lying about the cameo. If either Kingsley or Harper had it on their person, Julian expected it to be planted in Ester's rooms or presented to him as being found there. Then Kingsley would spring the trap, challenge him on his lie. Why had he done it? Was he under the spell of this thief? Kingsley would use it as leverage.

But Julian intended to heed off the attack with a thrust of his own. One that would force his old friend to show his hand immediately.

Julian turned with the sealed paper in his hand and held it out to Kingsley.

"I can't say for certain how much you were after. This should suffice though," Julian declared, his voice cold and controlled as he sat down, setting his other hand neatly in his lap.

Kingsley stared at the paper without moving, not rising or taking it.

"I don't understand," he smiled nervously.

Julian's expression remained stony. "The price of your silence," he explained, his tone deceptively calm. "I don't know how much you planned to extort from Miss Ester, but this amount is such that your debts should be covered. I shall recover the funds from the liquidation of any joint assets we hold. Consider this to be my buying you out of our partnership."

Had Kingsley been a man of honor, had he been the man that Julian had always believed him to be, he would have leaped to his feet and demanded to know what aspersions on his character Julian was casting here. He would have torn up the promissory note and flung the remnants into the hearth.

But Kingsley did neither of those things.

Instead, he rose to his feet, his movements deliberate, and reached for the paper. Without a word, he slipped it into the inner pocket of his coat, not bothering to unfold it.

"I am sure it will be most generous," he replied.

Julian stared at Kingsley with a rising feeling of bitter revulsion.

"Why?" he whispered, the question escaping him almost involuntarily.

Kingsley merely shrugged. He walked casually to the decanter and poured himself another drink, as though they were discussing nothing more than a business transaction.

"One has debts that must be settled," Kingsley replied, swirling the liquid in his glass. "Debts that far exceed the value of our partnership—especially with your cautious approach to investment. I needed capital, and I needed it fast."

"You have just purchased property in Cheshire…" Julian began.

" Rented , old chap. In order to escape particularly persistent creditors in this part of England. I ran away, you see."

"Why didn't you come to me?" Julian's voice softened, a trace of genuine concern slipping through for an old friend. "No matter how much you owed, I would have made good your commitments."

Kingsley laughed again, harsher this time, before throwing back the rest of his port and hurling the glass into the fire with a sharp crack. "And be beholden to you? The Phantom ? The Ghoul of Theydon Mere ?" His voice dripped with mockery. "God, no! My peers would have laughed me out of court."

"So, instead, you throw yourself at an innocent girl, then extort and threaten to destroy her family," Julian muttered darkly, the disbelief giving way to anger as he rose from his chair.

Kingsley turned his back, but Julian pursued him, trying to catch a glimpse of his former friend's face.

"Better than losing my life. I am not speaking of evading debtor's prison, old boy. I will die if my debts are not settled."

For the first time, there was a rawness in Kingsley's voice—fear and desperation underscoring the bitterness that marinated his words. Julian reached out, his hand falling on Kingsley's shoulder to force the man to face him. But he flinched away, retreating to the door with hands raised protectively. Julian let his hands drop.

"I am sorry. I hadn't known you were so afraid of me."

Kingsley's laughter was sharp and hollow, devoid of any real humor. "I simply cannot take any chances. My luck has not been exactly favorable as of late."

"Take the money," Julian said, his voice heavy with exhaustion. "My bank will honor that note. Present it to them, and your debts will be settled. Ester is gone, along with whatever money you intended to take from her. Let her and her family be," he finished wearily.

The rage in Julian's chest was ebbing now, replaced by a deep, aching sadness. This was the end—the end of a long friendship, one that Julian had once believed would endure until death. But Kingsley had fallen, far lower than Julian had ever imagined, slipping from the pedestal on which Julian had unwittingly placed him.

Kingsley sneered as he opened the door. "You are a fool, Windermere," he spat. "To allow a woman to come between us."

"I did not, Simon. The blame is entirely yours," Julian replied quietly.

Kingsley hesitated, but only for a moment. Then slammed the door behind him with a resounding crash.