AllFreeNovel
Share Us
He threw open the carriage door, vaulting to the pavement before turning to hand Clara down. Soon they were before the grand doors.
Byerly answered their knock. His eyes widened as he bowed deeply. “Your Grace, we did not expect you.”
“Is my mother at home?” he asked as he strode into the front hall, fighting for a tone of confidence when in reality he wanted to vomit.
“No, Your Grace. She is out for the evening.”
The surge of relief he felt at that bit of news infuriated him. He should not still be so affected by her. But he would count his blessings where he could. Goodness knew there were too few of them.
“I would appreciate it if Lady Clara and myself could have access to the study,” he said.
The butler’s eyes widened. “But of course, Your Grace. It is your house, after all.”
His breath left him in a rush. Yes, it was. As he’d known from poring over the papers relating to every bit of property the Dukes of Reigate had bought and sold over the past several generations.
Yet it had not sunk in until now, standing in the front hall of this house he had grown up in. He had always seen the house as his father’s, but through a horrible quirk of fate it now belonged to him.
Clara touched him lightly on the arm. “Quincy?”
He blinked, looking down at her. Her face was drawn into tense lines, her gloved hand in a tight fist where it held the rough shawl she had borrowed from a groom close about her shoulders. “Sorry,” he muttered. With a curt nod for Byerly, he strode off in the direction of the study.
Their footsteps echoed back to them as they hurried through the house. It was only then he saw what he hadn’t during his last visit here: the house was too empty. It wasn’t the lack of people he found disconcerting, it was the lack ofthings. As if each room they passed contained great gaping voids. In one room, the thick wool rug that had graced the floor was conspicuously absent. In another, most of the heavily carved Tudor-era furniture that had held a place of pride was missing. There were pale spots on walls where landscapes had hung, empty stands where vases had been displayed.
Fury rose up, nearly choking him. Damn his brothers. Nothing had been sacred to them, it seemed. No doubt they would have sold the house from under their mother had it not been entailed.
A sudden realization hit him, making his steps falter on the bare wood floor: if all of this was gone, wasn’t it possible that his father’s heavy wooden desk, beautifully carved, a work of art, was gone, too?
He broke off at a run, his steps echoing through the hall, his pumps skidding on the floor as he reached the study door.
It was cold here, only pale moonlight reaching into the musty, unused space. Yet the great hulking desk was there, just as it had always been.
The relief in Quincy was so great he collapsed back against the wall. “Thank God,” he whispered.
Clara came hurrying up. “Quincy?” she asked breathlessly. “Are you all right?”
“Yes,” he croaked. Clearing his throat, he tried again. “Yes, I’m well. Sorry about that.”
“You have nothing to apologize for,” she said, her voice soft. “This cannot be easy.”
“No,” he agreed, looking down into her concerned eyes. Gratitude surged in him. “I’m glad you’re here.” It surprised him just how much he meant it.
A small smile lit her shadowed face. “As am I.”
Just as in the gardens when he’d made the colossal mistake of embracing her in order to protect her identity, he longed desperately to kiss her. Damnation, but she had felt like heaven. He wanted nothing more than to claim her lips again, to feel once more her surprisingly passionate response.
But now was not the time or place. Not that there would ever be a time or place for such a thing. Squaring his shoulders, he walked with purpose to the desk. Memories assailed him the closer he got, and he saw in a brilliant flash his father’s smiling face as he beckoned Quincy forward. Then he blinked and it was gone, replaced with the sad reality of this cold room devoid of all heart.
Tears burned the backs of his eyes. Rounding the desk, he quickly lit the lamp on the desk’s cluttered surface. The warm light illuminated what had only been hinted at in the shadows.
A thick coat of dust covered the once gleaming surface of the grand desk, all manner of papers strewn across its top. One glared up at him from the pile, the date scrawled across the foolscap proving it had been several years since this desk had been made use of. The globe that used to sit in the corner that Quincy and his father had pored over during many happy afternoons was gone, as were the majority of the books that had graced the shelves, ones that he and his father had made use of so frequently, they had kept them in the study for easy reach.
Bile rose up in him at this further proof of his brothers’ perfidy. But he would not mourn those losses; what was the point? They were just things, and their absence could not take away the memories.
The map book, on the other hand…
Grabbing the lamp, suddenly desperate to get his hands on the thing, he pushed the chair back and dropped to his knees. He paused only a moment, his hand on the handle of the deep bottom drawer, before yanking it open. A clutter of papers filled it to the brim. He dug them out and tossed them aside. Finally his fingers reached the bottom, found the small latch that released the hidden door.
It popped up with a faint creak. Holding his breath, Quincy lifted the lamp and peered inside.
