“Hence this splendor in which you live, Uncle,” Morgan taunted, spreading his hands as if to encompass the faded ugliness of the bedchamber before opening the door. “I’ll ask one of the servants to come sit with you. Obviously you are now slipping toward delirium.”
“No! I’m telling the truth. I swear it.” James clawed his way to the side of the bed, the better to see his nephew, the better to allow his nephew to see him. “You cannot know all the things I’ve done, the vile, dastardly crimes I’ve committed.”
“Cannot and do not care to know.”
Lord James sneered. “Oh, nevvy, how far you have to fall from that perfidious pinnacle of indifference you perch on. You do care. You will care, because I hold all the cards now, all the answers to your schemes that you still do not admit to, even to yourself. You want revenge, nevvy. Damnation, man, you may even deserve it!”
“Perhaps you’re right. But it will be in my own time, Uncle, and in my own way.”
“Of course. I should have realized that you wouldn’t wish my help, even if I am trying, in this feeble way, to atone for any indirect connection I might have had with dear Jeremy’s death. I understand, nevvy.” Lord James began to pick at the coverlet, his eyes averted from Morgan. “But then, there is still the matter of the child.”
Lord James held his breath as Morgan let go of the latch and turned, his dark eyes narrowed as he stared straight into his uncle’s grinning face. “Child? What child?”
“What? Did you say something, nevvy? I cannot hear you very well, and the room grows dim. Come closer, nevvy. Come close so that I can give you my last confession.”
He heard Morgan’s footsteps and smiled into the frayed collar of his nightshirt. He counted to ten, slowly, then began to speak once more. “Once upon a time,” he began, then chuckled at his own wit, the laughter turning into a wet cough that left bits of blood on his already soiled handkerchief.
“Once upon a time, nevvy,” he continued, “there was a man like me, a man who found himself where he should not be, while another man, a lesser man, usurped his rightful place. We met, this man and I, no more than once or twice, and we bemoaned our fate together over several bottles of wine. Perhaps more than several bottles.”
“Go on,” Morgan urged, pulling the chair back over beside the bed. “Continue your fairy tale.”
Lord James shot his nephew a searing look, reveling in the lack of necessity to hood his dislike for the younger man. “I have every intention of continuing,” he said shortly. “We chatted idly, without real purpose—until the day the man’s circumstances changed and it became imperative for him to take steps to protect himself. He tried to enlist my help, but I refused. Why should I do for him what I might have done for myself?” He shook his head. “I only wonder why I never did it for myself when I was younger…when we all were younger. I only wonder….”
Morgan stood. “And I can only wonder, Uncle, why I am allowing a perfectly good roasted chicken to continue to lie downstairs untasted in my dinner basket.”
“No! Don’t go! You must hear the rest. I did not help the man, but I know what he did.” Lord James lowered his voice conspiratorially. “I followed after and watched—then fired my pistol to scare them off before they’d finished. He was even so stupid as to lift his mask and show his face, to crow about his success, so that he knew I saw him plain. That was a great help to me, almost as great a help as the child. After all, nevvy, what good is it to know something if you cannot turn a profit from it, hmm?”
“Uncle, I haven’t the faintest notion what you’re talking about.”
“Of course you don’t,” Lord James agreed, feeling very satisfied with himself. “As one of those Greeks scribbled so long ago, nevvy, ‘The fox knows many things, but the hedgehog knows one great thing.’ You look surprised. Did you think I was a total barbarian? I know something of the classics. You, nevvy, are like the fox, but I am the hedgehog. Blackmail, which depends on knowing a single great thing, would never occur to you. But it occurred to me.”
Lord James rubbed his palms together, gleefully remembering the long-ago night of his greatest brilliance. He could see it as clearly as he could see his nephew’s strained features. Maybe more clearly. “I waited until after the shot that silenced the woman before I fired my own pistol, frightening them off. And then I waited longer still, until I was sure they had gone, before riding in. I found the child on the ground—muddy, her mother’s blood mixing with the mud and rainwater on her face and little dress. The father was half sunk in the mud—back shot! But I digress. Bit me, the little hellion did, when I pulled her away from the bodies just as her mother breathed her last. I could have killed the child then—snapped her neck like a dried goose bone—but I didn’t. I needed her, you see.”
“The child?” Morgan’s voice was hushed, as if he wished to ask the question but did not want to interrupt. Which was as it should have been. It was time the boy paid his uncle a little respect.
“Yes, of course, the child. I put her in a safe place. Not a very nice place, I suppose, but you must remember—I could just as easily have disposed of her. Suddenly I had all the money I needed, although the fool never knew it was his occasional drinking companion who was taking a share of his new wealth. All the money I could ever want, delivered to a safe address at the beginning of each new quarter. Such a gentlemanly, civilized arrangement—for a time.”
He stopped his story once more, to cough, and to contemplate the injustices of his life.
“The payments stopped a few years ago,” he continued swiftly, not caring for this part of the story, “when the man demanded more proof and ordered me to produce her. I couldn’t, for they told me she had reached her teens and left the orphanage where I had so gladly deposited her that first night. That was careless of me, wasn’t it, nevvy? Misplacing the brat like that, if in truth she had left the orphanage. Luckily I already had Thorndyke—or unluckily, depending upon how you consider the thing. But this is the chit’s house by rights, not yours as is stated in my will, considering that the blunt I got from blackmailing her parents’ killer is what kept this place going for so long. This hulking money-eater and several grand estates scattered all over England that were deeded in her name by her father—all are hers. She’s a rich orphan, this missing heiress I spared in my generosity.”
“You have proof of this dastardly crime, I imagine?”
“Proof? Imbecile! You demand proof from a dying man?” Lord James could not hide his elation, sure all his hooks had sunk home with deadly accuracy. Now, at last, his little play was falling out as he had planned. It almost made his dying worthwhile, to be able to leave the noble Morgan behind to ruin his life trying desperately to right his uncle’s wrong.
Now it was time to reel out the line a few feet before hauling his newly caught fish in once more. “Never mind, Morgan. I shouldn’t have mentioned it,” he said, pressing back against the pillows. “Obviously you’re not interested in my heartfelt confession. Why would you want to help me atone, in this the house of my death?”
Morgan rose from the chair, his cool composure discarded, his eyes flashing fire. Grabbing hold of his uncle’s nightshirt with both hands, he half dragged him up from the bed so that Lord James had to turn his head to hide a triumphant smile. “Enough of this nonsense! This is no game we’re playing, not anymore. No more dancing around the facts, Uncle. I need to hear you say the name. I need to hear the proof from your own lips. Damn you, man, answer me!”
Now, Lord James thought. Now is the time to take my exit—now, while he believes me. He began to cough, racking coughs that had him spitting small specks of blood that tasted of rust and maybe even the dirt that would soon cover his mortal shell. There were two Morgans hovering above him, menacing him with their flashing