Until we meet again.”
With that stunning remark, he left the room.
Chapter 3
ONLY ONE REFUGE afforded Roman the comforting he required when his conscience crowded with doubt. The moment his hired hack drew before the doors of Plymbridge Hall, his ancestral pile in Devon, he grabbed his walking stick and leaped from the still-swinging carriage. Today he wanted to be inside Plymbridge Hall faster than usual, for aside from his eagerness to close its great doors on his demons, his brothers Tony and Bart were here. They’d asked him to come down from London a few days prior—Blast it all, had it been a fortnight already?
Tony wouldn’t be pleased.
A footman ran from the house and made short work of hauling Roman’s luggage down. In spite of Plymbridge’s shabby appearance—and Roman’s adeptness at ignoring his responsibilities—the heap ran like clockwork. It must, for Tony wouldn’t have it any other way.
Satisfied no harm would come to his garments, and disinclined to manage the servants any more than absolutely required, Roman went into the house. Shambling in the corridor stopped him from racing up the staircase to the library. Old Helms must be on his way.
Roman stamped his boots and sighed wistfully at the fireplace. In spite of a generous tower of crackling logs, barely a whisper of warmth escaped the grate. It must be costing a fortune to keep the place from freezing solid.
He pushed the traitorous thought away. If Tony permitted the expense, it wasn’t for Roman to criticize.
At long last, Helms shuffled in. “My lord, welcome home. Shall I take your coat?”
“I’d much rather you put your old bones to use pouring out a brandy. Did you really leave your blanket to greet me?”
As much as Roman wanted to be on his way to the library, he could never brush off old Helms. With his infrequent trips to Devon, this could very well be the last time the old codger was here to welcome him home.
Helms’s eyes gleamed. “Had I any notion it was you making a racket, my lord, I certainly wouldn’t have. Up you go, then. I’ll have a nice toddy sent in.”
Roman jabbed his walking stick in the butler’s direction. “Good man. I always did have a soft spot for you.” Then he tossed his beaver hat into old Helms’s gnarled hands and took the stairs two at a time, careful to avoid uneven spots in the runner where a toe could catch.
As he strode into his library, he did his best to look as though he’d only happened by, and wasn’t in fact being called to the carpet. He wasn’t a complete wastrel; he did hope his brothers had made progress with the litigation tying their hands. His impoverished estate could sorely use the moneys forecast to stack its coffers. For that matter, every one of the Alexander men looked forward to being flush once their new quarry was up and running.
No mining could be done, however, until the land encompassing the vast vein of granite was shown to be within their boundary.
Both of his brothers were in the room. Tony didn’t attempt to rise from Roman’s desk, despite the fact that he knew perfectly well he ought to be seated at his own.
Roman curbed his annoyance. There was no point in trying to do anything about the snub. Tony was Roman’s heir, and every bit as self-important as if he’d been born the marquis. He didn’t hide his preference for Roman’s seat of power. A defect of being a Member of Parliament, worsened by the full control Roman gave him over Plymbridge.
“It’s been two weeks,” Tony said. His fingertips rested on the page, marking his place in a long column of numbers. “What kept you?”
Roman slowed his pace lest his brother think he’d been rushing. He sauntered to the couch where Bart, Tony’s identical twin, flipped a page in the book he was perusing.
With the toe of his boot, Roman nudged Bart’s legs off the low table. Bart dropped his feet to the floor. But he smirked just enough to make it clear he’d kick up his heels
With that stunning remark, he left the room.
Chapter 3
ONLY ONE REFUGE afforded Roman the comforting he required when his conscience crowded with doubt. The moment his hired hack drew before the doors of Plymbridge Hall, his ancestral pile in Devon, he grabbed his walking stick and leaped from the still-swinging carriage. Today he wanted to be inside Plymbridge Hall faster than usual, for aside from his eagerness to close its great doors on his demons, his brothers Tony and Bart were here. They’d asked him to come down from London a few days prior—Blast it all, had it been a fortnight already?
Tony wouldn’t be pleased.
A footman ran from the house and made short work of hauling Roman’s luggage down. In spite of Plymbridge’s shabby appearance—and Roman’s adeptness at ignoring his responsibilities—the heap ran like clockwork. It must, for Tony wouldn’t have it any other way.
Satisfied no harm would come to his garments, and disinclined to manage the servants any more than absolutely required, Roman went into the house. Shambling in the corridor stopped him from racing up the staircase to the library. Old Helms must be on his way.
Roman stamped his boots and sighed wistfully at the fireplace. In spite of a generous tower of crackling logs, barely a whisper of warmth escaped the grate. It must be costing a fortune to keep the place from freezing solid.
He pushed the traitorous thought away. If Tony permitted the expense, it wasn’t for Roman to criticize.
At long last, Helms shuffled in. “My lord, welcome home. Shall I take your coat?”
“I’d much rather you put your old bones to use pouring out a brandy. Did you really leave your blanket to greet me?”
As much as Roman wanted to be on his way to the library, he could never brush off old Helms. With his infrequent trips to Devon, this could very well be the last time the old codger was here to welcome him home.
Helms’s eyes gleamed. “Had I any notion it was you making a racket, my lord, I certainly wouldn’t have. Up you go, then. I’ll have a nice toddy sent in.”
Roman jabbed his walking stick in the butler’s direction. “Good man. I always did have a soft spot for you.” Then he tossed his beaver hat into old Helms’s gnarled hands and took the stairs two at a time, careful to avoid uneven spots in the runner where a toe could catch.
As he strode into his library, he did his best to look as though he’d only happened by, and wasn’t in fact being called to the carpet. He wasn’t a complete wastrel; he did hope his brothers had made progress with the litigation tying their hands. His impoverished estate could sorely use the moneys forecast to stack its coffers. For that matter, every one of the Alexander men looked forward to being flush once their new quarry was up and running.
No mining could be done, however, until the land encompassing the vast vein of granite was shown to be within their boundary.
Both of his brothers were in the room. Tony didn’t attempt to rise from Roman’s desk, despite the fact that he knew perfectly well he ought to be seated at his own.
Roman curbed his annoyance. There was no point in trying to do anything about the snub. Tony was Roman’s heir, and every bit as self-important as if he’d been born the marquis. He didn’t hide his preference for Roman’s seat of power. A defect of being a Member of Parliament, worsened by the full control Roman gave him over Plymbridge.
“It’s been two weeks,” Tony said. His fingertips rested on the page, marking his place in a long column of numbers. “What kept you?”
Roman slowed his pace lest his brother think he’d been rushing. He sauntered to the couch where Bart, Tony’s identical twin, flipped a page in the book he was perusing.
With the toe of his boot, Roman nudged Bart’s legs off the low table. Bart dropped his feet to the floor. But he smirked just enough to make it clear he’d kick up his heels
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