Page 54 of The Lady Plays with Fire

“Aye,” he agreed. “I think you do. Leastways, no other woman has ever fussed over whether the smile I had for her was genuine.”

Their interest in his mouth had been far less innocent.

Her only response was a slight pursing of her lips.

“Iain was the eldest, the heir, and very like our father he was, too, though I had no notion how much at the time. Father was an old man when he married, older still when I was born, and it wasn’t until many years later that I had cause to discover what a rogue he’d been in his younger days, late to wed because he’d been reluctant to settle down.

“But old as he was, he fathered six children, the last of whom took my mother to the grave with her. She’d lost two wee girls already, sisters I cannot even remember. And though my father never seemed to miss them, so long as he had sons and to spare, the sorrow of it had left her weak.

“For a year, it was the four of us: my father; Iain; my younger brother, Rory; and me. Father hadn’t a prayer of keeping three boys in check, though, truth be told, he rarely tried. I was nine when he died of a heart complaint. Rory was a lad of five. And Iain was all of eighteen when he became the new earl.”

She blinked, twice. He went on. “Another year saw Iain off to—well, Oxford, he told his guardians and trustees, though it was London where he spent all his time. And I was sent to Harrow—to face the unending torment of my peers.”

“Why?”

Her quiet question—the first she’d asked in some time—was nearly lost beneath the sound of her movement as she rose and went to the window overlooking the drive.

“Why Harrow? Because my father had insisted upon it. Or do you mean to ask why they tormented me? Well, then, you may take your choice. Because I was a lanky, awkward lad, never one for a game or gossip.” He shrugged. “Or, more often, because I have red hair, a brogue when I’m not careful, a quick tongue, and an even quicker temper. I rose to the flimsiest bait, much to their delight. I fought—and nearly got myself expelled. Then one day, Iain took me with him to Drury Lane to see a play—Molière, it was—and I came to understand that words could do far more damage than fists. After that, instead of fighting, I wrote in secret. Fine speeches, bawdy poems—anything to make fools of the boys who had tried to make a fool of me.”

Her shoulders rose and fell on what he presumed to be a silent, wry laugh. “Ah. So that’s how Ransom Blackadder got his start.”

“Not exactly. That is when I first began to sharpen my wit. But Blackadder himself came along later. When I was one and twenty and Iain the age I am now, he was killed in a duel.” He paused to pour a second cup of tea and sipped from it more slowly, though it was now almost cold. “From my perspective as a younger brother, he’d always seemed a grand fellow. But from the perspective of a young man who now had the responsibilities of an earldom unexpectedly thrust upon his shoulders, Iain’s raking and whoring and drinking and gambling took on a decidedly different cast.

“After many years away from Dunstane, I returned to discover it in shambles. Iain had inherited an estate on the edge of ruin and had gleefully given it a shove. The title had been besmirched, the property mortgaged to the hilt. Thanks to feckless guardians, he’d squandered Rory’s tuition and allowance and left our little brother to fend for himself. The castle my ancestors had defended from invaders was crumbling away. In a moment of utter despair, searching for anything that might save us, I was rummaging through old papers and found those schoolboy scribbles. I remembered the power I’d felt when I’d held the pen, how writing had honed my anger like a blade. And, oh, I was angry. Angrier than I’d ever been in my life. So I wrote, intending to make men—myself included—see themselves for the knaves and fools they are. I invented Ransom Blackadder.”

Julia stood, staring outward, shoulders hunched inward and hands gripping her upper arms as if cold. He returned his cup to the table, heaved himself from the chair, and knelt to light a fire.

“I hadn’t any notion at first of making any money by playwriting,” he went on after a few moments, watching the flames devour the kindling and lick along the wood. “Certainly not sufficient funds to dig us out of the hole Iain had left. But it seems I’d underestimated English theatergoers’ eagerness to be mocked.” Getting to his feet, he returned to his chair. Julia turned at last and held out her hands to the hearth, though she was surely too far away to feel its warmth. “The first play’s profits were enough to shore up Castle Dunstane. The second and third paid down the worst of Iain’s debts. A few careful investments in other productions brought in still more. And the receipts from Vice Is Its Own Reward were to have brought Rory home.”

Having no prospects, Rory had joined the army and gone off to fight. Without the means even to buy his brother an officer’s commission, Graham hadn’t been able to stop him.

“I saw that play,” Julia said. “People came in droves.” Her reassurance—if indeed it was intended as such—was conveyed with a heavy dose of skepticism at the audience’s taste.

“Yes, it did well enough—it made Ransom Blackadder a wealthy man. But the earnings check arrived too late: a week after the letter from Rory’s commanding officer, telling me he’d lost his life in some pointless skirmish in this endless war. An honorable death for king and country, the officer had the nerve to write.”

Whose king? Graham had shouted, the words bouncing from the cold stone walls surrounding him. Whose country?

Words were powerful—he’d proven as much, time and time again.

But they hadn’t the power to bring his brother back.

Graham had been left utterly alone, with not even a picture to remember his brother by, Rory having been born after the only family portrait had been painted.

A cool hand caressed his cheek. He glanced upward. When had Julia crossed the room and come to stand before him?

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “So very sorry.”

The pad of her thumb brushed along his cheekbone, the gesture of one wiping away a tear, though he knew he hadn’t shed any. He’d been dry-eyed since the arrival of that letter, the day the last remaining bit of softness in him had turned to stone.

“Nay, lass.” He cupped her hand in his, turning hers slightly to press a kiss into her palm. “No Scotsman wants aught to do with pity. I only sought to help you understand how things came to be as they are.”

She gazed down at him, the slightest furrow between her dark brows. “Is that when you began writing The Poison Pen?”

“Aye—with poison flowing through my veins.” He gave her fingers a squeeze, still clinging to her as her hand slid from his face. “That’s why it’s no’ very good.”

“And this place?” she asked, glancing around.

“About a week ago, in a fit of frustration—”