Chapter Four

"He has not come," Annabelle's mother said, directing her words at Annabelle as though she was personally responsible for the Marquess of Sunderland not calling. It was now three days after the ball, and though she had received other calls from other gentlemen she had done her best to repress, there was no marquess. Despite his promise.

Annabelle wasn't sure if she was relieved or disappointed.

Relieved because she had never wanted to marry, and one conversation had not changed that, even if he did like reading and books and, presumably, libraries. Disappointed because he had promised to bring her a book and she was keen to see what it was.

And, of course, it would be nice to have someone to discuss her love of books with, seeing as the rest of her family didn't quite understand.

Then again, after finishing Fanny Hill, Annabelle was not entirely sure she could count herself as a proponent of literature any more. Certainly, the book had been . . . illuminating. In several areas. Some she thought were distinctly more realistic than others, although she would certainly not be running to Theo for clarification. That would just have to be one of those never-ending questions that existed within her.

But it was not, categorically not, literature. It was a gaudy pretence, flimsy once one stepped behind the bindings and looked at the words and content. Not literature. No.

But enlightening, in its own way.

She controlled her blush. The book was stored under her bed until such a time as she could return it and never speak about it again to any member of her family.

She would, certainly, never think about the way a certain dark-eyed man had briefly made her feel a little like Fanny was described as feeling in the book. On fire.

Briefly. As in, before she was reminded that he was a stranger and she wasn't supposed to be kissing and definitely was not meant to be kissing him.

"He has not even sent flowers," her mother said, and Annabelle recalled with a guilty jump that they were talking about her stranger's brother. His brother. A distinctly more gentlemanlike, polite, eligible man.

Who had not, notably, come to visit her. Or sent her flowers.

She did her level best not to prick herself with her needle as she applied herself to her embroidery again. "He has not," she said calmly.

"But he seemed so very determined to court you," her mother said sadly.

"He danced with me once, Mama." Annabelle was in a losing fight with her needle. "And you have at no point asked me if I wished for him to court me. Or anyone, for that matter."

"Of course you do, dear. He's very eligible."

Annabelle ground her teeth together and, battle lost, jabbed herself in the fleshy part of her thumb. She would have preferred to read, but her mother insisted that spending all day with her nose in her book was detrimental to a lady's health.

Sometimes, spending time with her mother was almost enough to make her consider a husband.

Almost.

"I don't want to be married," she said.

Her mother sniffed. "Nonsense. All ladies wish to be married."

"Not me."

"That is only because you have given no gentleman the chance to get to know you." There was a distinct note of impatience in her mother's voice. "If you did, you would understand the appeal. And the Marquess is very charming, I've heard."

His charm, no doubt, was his fortune and title. Both of which, in her mother's eyes, made up for any other deficiencies.

"I would rather be useful, Mama," Annabelle said, "than married."

"You would be useful as a wife."

Annabelle glanced pleadingly at Theo, who was chewing her lip over a letter in the corner. "Do you think you are useful?" she asked Theo.

"Not at all," Theo said brightly. "I leave all matters of managing a household to my housekeeper, and the only thing I ever do is plan parties and social events. But I'm happy, and I think that counts for something."

"There you go," her mother said. Annabelle cast Theo a dirty look, and Theo shrugged as though to say it's the truth. "You would be happy if you were married."

"That's not the lesson at all!" Annabelle said in exasperation. "Theo is happy because she has a man she loves."

"Who is also a duke," her mother said. "And a marquess is only one step down from a duke." She frowned at her embroidery, and Annabelle stuck her thumb in her mouth, sucking away the blood.

"Sorry," Theo mouthed across the room.

"I hate you," Annabelle mouthed back, and Theo grinned.

The constable that Rogers, Jacob's valet, showed into the breakfast room was a man verging on middle age, with a shiny bald head and an officiously sympathetic expression. Jacob disliked him instantly.

His head ached. It was noon, but after his brother had left yesterday, he'd continued drinking until the early morning, at which point he'd passed out in the vicinity of his bedroom, and had crawled to bed at some later time. Now, he was barely functioning.

"I'm sorry to disturb you, sir," the constable said.

Jacob winced and waved him to a chair. "No need to talk so loud."

He frowned. "No, sir."

Jacob surveyed the breakfast table and eventually selected a slice of dry toast. "Well?" he asked caustically. "What has compelled you to come and disturb me?"

"It's about your brother."

"Cecil sent you, did he?" He held out his wrists in mock surrender. "Throw me in gaol if you wish, but I assure you I was here all last night."

The constable took a breath. "It's not that, sir. I regret to inform you that . . . your brother is dead, sir."

Jacob stopped what he was doing and looked at the man. The light seemed to dim and he blinked several times. This was impossible. As impossible as the world being flat—scientifically absurd.

"What do you mean he's dead?" he demanded.

The constable shifted uncomfortably at Jacob's glower. "I mean to say he's dead, sir."

"But he can't be. I saw him yesterday." Jacob scowled. "And I assure you he was quite alive then."

"I regret to inform you he has perished in the time since."

Jacob blinked. Drew in a breath. Blinked again. "Impossible," he said, more to himself than anyone else. "How?"

"The physician said he had a weak heart," the constable said, wiping his forehead with a spotted handkerchief. "I understand it's not usual for a heart to give out so young, but this is not the first time he has suffered."

Jacob's head shot up sharply. "What do you mean?"

"The physician mentioned he had tended to your brother in the past, my lord."

Tended to Cecil in the past? For a moment, Jacob didn't move. Cecil had been suffering from a weak heart? Of course, that was hardly something he would confide to him about, but it put a selection of things into perspective. Cecil's paleness, the way he had never been particularly good at the physical activity Jacob excelled in.

He had been pale last night. When they'd argued, he'd looked almost sickly, and Jacob had assumed—of course he had assumed—that it was out of guilt. Regret. Perhaps even fear, because everyone knew Jacob was volatile, and hell, everyone knew Jacob and Cecil hated each other.

Although at their last meeting, Cecil had sounded as though he wanted to make amends.

"When?" he forced out, his voice hoarse. "Precisely when?"

"It's not entirely certain, sir," the constable began. "It's believed he passed shortly after reaching home last night, according to his butler. The physician thought it was a shock that strained his heart. Bad news, perhaps." The constable squinted. "Or a confrontation."

The words came from very far away. There had certainly been a confrontation, and about a subject they had never discussed before: Madeline. Jacob had said he would never forgive Cecil for his cruelty.

But never was such a long time when it was fulfilled in actuality. Cecil was supposed to be a permanent fixture in his life. A person against whom he could fight with their parents gone. Exacting revenge, especially over the past five years, had been his purpose.

Now Cecil was dead. And Jacob, directly or no, had killed him.

Just as he was the reason, indirectly, Madeline had died. If he had not seduced her, she would never have found herself roaming the streets at night.

Cecil was dead.

In the garishly bright light of the room, he saw his mother's dimly lit bedchamber. She'd fallen ill and died when he was seventeen, a matter of months before his father also passed from heart failure.

"You should never have been born," she said tenderly, cupping his face. It was the most softness she had ever shown him, there in her incense-heavy room, curtains drawn, light straining through the material. The hollows in her cheeks were almost skeletal. Jacob looked down at her and tried to remember what grief felt like.

To grieve her, he should have once loved her.

"All you will know is misery," she continued, her hand falling away. "That is your curse, Jacob. Bear it well."

Now, staring at his hands and the white tablecloth, he could hear her words as though they had been spoken directly into his ear. All he would ever know was misery. And those around him would soon know nothing at all. First his mother, then his father, then Madeline. That had been love, and that had been loss. Sorrow the likes of which he had never known before or since. Would never know.

Sorrow and guilt.

And now Cecil.

"My brother is dead," Jacob said again, testing the words. They settled as cold as freshly fallen snow.

"Yes, sir."

He rang the bellpull. "Rogers," he said as soon as his valet appeared, "some brandy please. Would you like brandy, my good man?"

The constable shook his head, a crease forming between his eyes. No doubt he believed it was too early for drinking.

Well, let him cast his judgement; Jacob had withstood enough of that to be indifferent. It was past noon.

Another thought occurred to him which necessitated the gulp of brandy, when it came. "There is no other heir," he said shortly. "I am the one to inherit."

"That's a matter for your lawyer, sir, but I doubt anyone would oppose your claim to the title."

"A pity," Jacob muttered, staring into the amber liquid. He was the next Marquess of Sunderland. A peer of the realm, bound to a name he despised for the rest of his life.

This was not what he was made for—he was not cut from the cloth that made dukes and marquesses and earls, and he had never aspired to be.

His head gave a stab of pain. "Please tell me this is a prank," he said as he finished his glass. "A joke in poor taste. I will forgive its perpetrator."

The constable gave him a look of sympathy. "I'm afraid not, sir."

He poured himself another glass and tossed it back. "Well then," he said. And again: "Well then."

The constable bowed. "I'm sorry to be the bearer of such bad news, my lord."

Jacob waved a dismissive hand at him. "Rogers will see you out."

The constable nodded and turned for the door. Jacob remained where he was, his mind spinning. There was the burial to think about, and mourning.

I am to be Marquess.

Cecil is dead.

No doubt he would be expected to move into Sunderland Place. Pick up all the slack of owning an estate.

Or, now he was its head . . . he could let the whole place go to hell.

Cecil is dead.

He leant back in the chair and closed his eyes, breathing through the strangely tight sensation in his chest. It couldn't be grief—he certainly hadn't grieved when his father had died, and Cecil had been little better. Ratting him out to his father so he could collect beatings like pretty rocks, the scars on his back roping together as he grew older. Pointing out Jacob's flaws in that supercilious way of his. Always being better. Better loved, better respected, better listened to.

Being the man Madeline chose, and casting her out into the night regardless.

Jacob had hurt Cecil in every way possible after that.

But now there were no more second chances. Cecil was dead. The words might as well have been a tolling bell. That was the end of it.

"For heaven's sake, Cecil," he said, speaking into the empty air of the room. "Could you not have waited? Could you not have remained alive even just to spite me?"

The room gave no answer. The brandy was finally hitting his system, and he let the alcohol soothe the absurd disappointment that his brother was no longer here to provide a retort.

"I will not grieve you," he warned. "You gave me no reason to."

A log fell lower on the fire, sending a flurry of sparks into the air. Jacob took another drink, willing himself to believe his own words—but even to his ears they sounded like a lie.