Chapter 17

CHAPTER 17

L ionel could not help but laugh at his first sight of Hamilton Hall. He and Cecilia rode in Lionel's town coach, painted in the green and silver livery of Thornhill. The family crest was adorned on the doors of each side of the vehicle, a green hill surmounted by a spreading tree and encircled with a ring of silver thorns.

"It is childish, I know," Lionel had said to Cecilia as he ordered the huge coach brought out of the stables, "to wish to bludgeon Rupert Sinclair with evidence of my wealth. But, I feel that the bounder deserves it."

Cecilia had giggled in response, looking up at the coach which had to be pulled by no less than six horses.

"Uncle Rupert and Aunt Margaret place great store by wealth and material goods. This will ruin Rupert's day, he is inordinately proud of the coach he commissioned from a coachbuilder in London with royal patronage. Except, it is still half the size of this one."

Lionel had chuckled. "There is something disturbing about a man who feels he must prove his worth by the scale of his possessions."

"I would say that yours are in perfect proportion," Cecilia put in with a mischievous smile, looking up at the towering coach.

Lionel had spluttered, flushing crimson which had made Cecilia laugh gaily. He'd soon joined in.

Now they had come within sight of Hamilton Hall. Windsor lay to the south and it was as though the Sinclairs were conscious of the royal presence on their doorstep and were attempting to outdo the King himself. Hamilton must once have been a modest but dignified abode, Lionel thought. A simple structure of four stories in red brick with neat, white surrounds to its windows and elegant string courses in between. To that had been added renaissance-style wings of gleaming white stucco with stone garnishes in the shape of clusters of fruit or prancing animals. A classical frontage had been applied, presumably attempting to emulate the Parthenon but resulting in nothing more than an ugly hybridization of styles. It was ridiculously grandiose and clumsy. The park through which the carriage drove was an overblown attempt at Versailles. Fountains sparkled in the sun amid manicured lawns and hedges. The ground staff must have been kept working day and night to keep nature so twisted out of its natural state, Lionel thought.

"Good god in heaven," he breathed, taking it all in.

He looked at Cecilia who was also gazing out of the window.

"Thankfully I was rarely afforded the opportunity to walk in the park or in the gardens at the rear of the house," Cecilia began, "Aunt Margaret was fond of entertaining outdoors in the summer. She liked to think that her summer garden parties were the talk of the county. I was most definitely not welcome."

Lionel took her hand in both of his, squeezing gently and feeling the pain of such cruelty. It made him all the more resolved to help Cecilia regain her rightful inheritance and punish the venal and grasping Sinclairs. But she had made him promise not to set out on a quest for revenge. She could not dissuade him from his own but she had refused to allow him to take on the burden of hers.

"They sound odious," he muttered.

Cecilia shrugged. "I suppose they are the product of our modern society. So much emphasis is placed on status and rank. If you live by that creed, you will inevitably become someone who is obsessed with wealth and material possessions. The trappings of wealth. I don't blame them for their flaws. They are as our society has made them."

"Not all of us are like that though. There is a choice," Lionel said harshly, "I choose not to be like that. As do you. As did Arthur."

Cecilia leaned across to kiss him on the cheek. She allowed her lips to linger and he closed his eyes, savoring the touch. Her perfume was a subtle blend of summer flowers and fresh linen. It was clean and feminine. He reached up to stroke his fingers down her cheek. Her lips broke the contact and she turned her head so that her smooth cheek rested against Lionel's. He could have stayed in that position with her for an eternity. All too soon though, the speed of the coach was slowing and the driver calling out.

"Hamilton Hall, Your Grace!"

Cecilia gave a little regretful sigh and exchanged a rueful smile with Lionel.

"Was I a complete fool, all these weeks and months?" he asked.

"No more than most men," Cecilia replied playfully.

"I am sorry for any hurt that I caused when I tried to keep you at arm's length," he continued.

"You have said that before and it was not necessary then. I understand completely and do not blame you. I simply wish for us to now take this rocky start to our marriage and make something great and beautiful out of it. Something memorable and unforgettable," she replied. "…Even if it may not be built to last."

Lionel nodded gravely. "But before I can do that, I suppose I must dispense with the ugly business of justice."

They'd had long conversations on the subject of the mission that had occupied Lionel for the last five years. He could not call out Thorpe, challenge him to a duel without cause. That would simply make Lionel a murderer or else a dead man. Thorpe was a soldier, skilled with a blade but a crack shot with a firearm. Lionel had not served in the military and could not due to the injury that had disabled him. Even recovered as he was, the muscles of his legs were prone to weakness and pain. Lionel had not yet shared with Cecilia the brace that he wore to strengthen his legs. She had remarked on the marks it left behind but he had always brushed them aside as welts or bruises left behind from riding or some other activity. There was something of a stigma in Lionel's mind over the need for the brace. It made him feel less of a man that he needed it at all. He did not wish for Cecilia to think anything less of him.

"And justice must be served?" Cecilia asked tentatively. "Even if no proof can be found after all these years? Would it not be justice to live our lives in happiness, showing our enemies that they have failed to destroy us?"

Lionel shook his head fiercely. "I could not bring myself to give up. To know that he continues to live his life with no consequences for his actions. I will have vengeance. I am sorry, Cecilia, this is the one matter you will not sway me on."

If he could not kill Thorpe and could not prove his guilt, the only avenue left was to ruin him. After years of patient work to recover his strength and the use of his legs, he had devoted himself to finding out where Thorpe made his money and how. Knowing his business affairs better than he knew them himself would help Lionel plan a scheme to bankrupt him. To see him thrown into debtors jail would be just the beginning though. Thorpe had taken a life, and Lionel wished for one in return.

Cecilia looked upset at this and he turned away, not liking the idea of causing her such pain. The coach had come to a halt and a footman was opening the door and unfolding the steps that would allow for the passenger's egress.

Lionel went first, then turned back to offer his hand to Cecilia. She placed a wide-brimmed hat upon her hair, which was tied up in fiery coils. With her hair up, he could admire the porcelain skin of her swan-like neck. She saw his eyes linger and smiled, putting her hand through the crook of his elbow.

They proceeded along a gravel drive to a set of marble steps flanked by towering columns. Lionel wore a top hat and carried a silver-headed cane which clacked against the stone with each step. He walked with head high and the dignity and pride of his rank. If the Sinclairs put great stock in such things, then let them see him every inch the Duke. At the door, he wrapped the head of his cane sharply. A servant opened it and Lionel offered a card to the man without a word. After a glance, the servant's eyes widened and he stepped aside, holding the door open and bowing as Lionel and Cecilia entered.

"Announce us, if you please, Christopher," Cecilia said kindly.

Christopher bowed again and left at a brisk walk. The entrance hall was floored in black and white marble with columns that marched the length of the room. The servant's footsteps echoed loudly as he went. Lionel looked around with distaste, liking Rupert and Margaret Sinclair less and less.

They did not have to wait long before they were being escorted to a drawing room overlooking the columns at the front of the house. The view that would originally have been provided by the drawing room's windows was now curtailed by the pillars to either side, providing a view of mildewed stone instead of the park.

Rupert and Margaret Sinclair were standing as the pair entered.

"Your Grace. It is an honor!" Rupert declared emphatically. "I had hoped that we would be graced with your society at some point. We were rather unceremoniously asked to leave your house after the wedding ceremony."

"Most unusual," Margaret chimed in primly.

"It was a most unusual ceremony. And one into which I had been forced. I was not in the mood to entertain those who had done the forcing," Lionel remarked, tempering his words with a polite smile.

Nevertheless, Rupert swallowed and Margaret's fixed smile slipped for a moment. Cecilia hung on to Lionel's arm looking from aunt to uncle for all the world as though this were a pleasant family visit by a devoted niece.

"To what do we owe the pleasure of your company today, Your Grace?" Rupert finally said. "Please sit and tell us."

He belatedly offered the use of a chaise longe which Lionel and Cecilia graciously took.

"Tea has been sent for," Margaret put in, resuming her own seat. "We would have been prepared had we known to expect you. You did not send us a card in advance, Your Grace."

There was a note of reproach in her voice that made Lionel's blood boil. These two had no right to be reproachful of him or of Cecilia. Not even to pretend at it. He knew little of them socially. They had been present on invitations to balls he had hosted at Thornhill but he had never conversed with them beyond a few perfunctory greetings.

"We did not as our visit was somewhat spontaneous," Lionel replied cryptically, "precipitated by a conversation between myself and my wife on the subject of Penrose."

The name fell into the room like a lead weight. It was greeted by silence and stillness from the Sinclairs. Finally, Margaret's eyes darted to her husband and his to hers before ingratiating smiles enveloped them both.

"Penrose?" Rupert inquired.

"Cecilia was rather under the impression that she had been left nothing by Arthur in his will. Nothing of his fortune or estates. And not Penrose," Lionel stated matter-of-factly.

"That is so," Rupert replied, "it was left to me as his father's brother—"

"Except that it was not," Lionel interjected smoothly, "I bore witness to Arthur's will and know for a fact that the house was left to Cecilia."

Another lead weight dropped with a thud into the room.

"You must be mistaken, Your Grace," Margaret laughed awkwardly.

"Indeed. The will was very clear," Rupert insisted.

"Nevertheless, it is not the will that I witnessed. At least it could not be if Cecilia was not the sole beneficiary," Lionel continued.

The companionable smile that he had been holding onto was slipping, revealing a steely gaze beneath.

"I can only speak to the contents of the will that we saw…" Rupert trailed off.

"May I see it?" Cecilia chimed in.

There was a pause.

"Alas, my child. The will is no longer in existence. There was a fire, you see, not long after your brother's tragic death. It was at Penrose, and the will along with all of his correspondence was consumed," Margaret said.

Cecilia's eyes flashed horror in that moment.