was more prepared for a fight. On some level, he’d been prepared for a fight ever since the day Collins had assaulted him as a boy in the Stoneham stables.
“We’re not boys anymore,” Ethan said. “What makes you think Collins is any threat to my peace of mind at all?”
Heathgate’s glacier-blue eyes gave away nothing. “I saw the condition they put you in, and that wasn’t schoolboy nonsense, and believe me, having attended Stoneham for four years, I saw plenty of nonsense. Something is wrong with Collins. He was tossed out of at least three other schools for either extreme violence or incidents similar to the one you were involved in. There’s probably a word for the kind of man he is, but if he were a horse, I’d put him down.”
“He did the same thing to others?” The heart in Ethan’s chest took up a heavy drumbeat, not dread exactly, but a sense of the moment bearing portents with far-reaching effects. “How many?”
“At least two others whom Hazlit spoke to personally,” Heathgate said. “Hazlit says Collins was engaged briefly, but the lady wouldn’t have him. And as quickly as Benjamin has assembled a very thorough report, the man has to be nigh notorious. Then too, Hazlit has some personal animosity toward Collins which I do not doubt goes back as far as your own. They’re both from Cumbria, though Hazlit keeps his antecedents quiet. You’ll read the notes?”
“I will.” The idea of Collins originating from the same shire as Alice made Ethan want to retch.
Heathgate continued to study Ethan. “You wonder if it’s ever going to completely go away, don’t you? You bury yourself in your commerce and immure yourself here in the woods of Surrey, and all the while, in the back of your mind, it lurks, waiting to pounce.”
“Do you expect me to admit that to you?” There were depths to Heathgate, and not necessarily happy ones.
“Oh, of course not.” Heathgate’s smile was humorless. “Whatever you’re dragging around, whatever memories you’re trying to ignore, they don’t learn their proper place until you turn around and stare them down.”
“Have you taken up hearing confessions too, your reverence?” Ethan’s tone was dry, just short of desperately disrespectful.
His guest’s expression was utterly serious. “My name is Gareth. I will thank you to use it henceforth, should we be informally private.”
Ethan’s eyebrows rose, for such an invitation was beyond peculiar—also blatantly flattering. As neighbors, someday Ethan might have been expected to address the marquis simply as “Heathgate,” but never by his given name. Only a brother might have presumed to call him by his name.
“I will read your notes, Gareth.” Ethan said the name carefully, feeling the strangeness of it, but thinking the name suited the very masculine specimen before him. “And you have my thanks for taking an interest in my situation.”
“I’m off, then. I’ve invited James and Will to ride out with me tomorrow morning, weather permitting. Amery might bring Rose if he can’t weasel out of it, but the boys learned you mean to take your two cubbing this fall, and so you see before you a doomed papa.”
When Heathgate dropped a subject, at least he dropped it entirely.
“Cubbing is harmless enough,” Ethan said as he walked his guest to the front door. “I have no appetite for true blood sport.”
“Neither do I, but Nick enjoys it, doesn’t he?”
“I think he enjoys a good gallop and a romp with the hounds. A man his size is not permitted to cringe at a grisly death, or to sympathize with poor Renard.”
“A man his size?” Heathgate’s gaze traveled Ethan’s length, which exceeded his own by a couple of inches.
“I am a veritable sylph compared to my brother. Just as you are ancient compared to yours.”
“Just so.” Heathgate pulled on his gloves. “My marchioness found a gray hair on me yesterday. Don’t have daughters, my friend. They age a man as sons cannot.”
“You’re a font of wisdom, at least today.”
“‘A prophet is not without honor, save in his own country,’” Heathgate quoted. “I have to dispense my wisdom where it will be appreciated—so see that you heed me.”
Ethan let him have the last word because, after all, the man had made sense—except for that blather about daughters. But rather than head back into the library and read the damned notes, Ethan turned the other way and sought his younger son. He had plans for his day, and his night, and reading sordid history did not comport with those plans at all.
The gentry were proving accommodating, suggesting to Baron Collins that he’d been remiss not to frequent English house parties in years past. While enjoying fine food, decent drink, and the occasional housemaid—or footman—Collins could keep an eye on Ethan Grey and meet easily with that handy tool known by the locals as Thatcher.
“I can’t be sneakin’ about like this,” Thatcher grumbled. “Miller watches me, and the work won’t do itself when I’m waiting for ye to come strollin’ along.”
“Stable work is completed before dark,” Collins retorted. “And I wasn’t about to risk hanging felonies without corroborating your characterization of Grey’s situation.”
“Ye done what?”
A handy tool often sported a dull blade. “Without making sure Grey is as rich as you say he is. Many a fine lord is living on credit.”
“He ain’t a lord. He’s a right bastard.”
“He’s a wealthy man.” An affront to the natural order, that was, when the scion of an old and noble house had to scrounge for accommodations while a lowly bastard prospered. “He will soon be much less wealthy.”
Except as Thatcher reported the routine in the stables, Collins realized the timing of his plans would be delicate. Ethan Grey’s stables were busy, with grooms on hand at all hours and the tyrant Miller overseeing every detail. Worse, the children were closely supervised, and Mr. Grey himself often in company with them—and having Grey about would not do at all.
“I shall be patient,” Collins decided. “I’ve waited nigh twenty years to put this particular upstart in his place. I can wait a bit longer.”
Thatcher shuffled away in the shadows, leaving Collins to study the edifice up the hill from the paddocks.
Ethan Grey had indeed prospered, and that… that simply wasn’t to be borne.
“I liked sleeping with you,” Alice announced when Ethan let himself into her room. The hour was late, approaching midnight, and she’d already donned her summer nightgown and wrapper, though the evening was decidedly more autumnal.
“I liked sleeping with you too.” Ethan smiled to see her already out of her clothes. She no doubt thought she’d foiled his desire to see her naked as she undressed, silly woman. “And I’m sure I’ll like it even more tonight.”
He drew her to her feet from where she sat at her writing desk and wrapped his arms around her. She was all warmth, soft curves, and fresh lemony fragrance, and Ethan felt arousal stirring just to be holding her. There was more to his reaction, too—a kind of mental sigh, to have achieved the sanctuary of her embrace.
“It isn’t too late to change your mind, Alice,” he whispered near her ear. “I won’t think less of you if you send me packing.”
“At least you can think,” Alice said, kissing his jaw. “I’ve been useless all day, watching the hands of the clock crawl forward, wondering when the sun decided it would choose today to refuse to set.”
“The days grow shorter. You are impatient.” And may she always regard their joinings as eagerly.
