On her heels was a fat gentleman, barely two inches taller than she was. Nicholas had seen him gambling at White's a couple of times. Was this his dear stepmama's lover, Alfred Lemming, whom Rosalind had mentioned to him?
He waited until she was very close before he arched a black brow and said mildly, 'I believed only my betrothed was a no-account.'
'She is, more no-account than you are, sir. At least your antecedents are known, more's the pity. What are you doing here? Don't you dare try to murder my son again!'
'Someone tried to kill him,' Richard said to his mother. 'A gun shot right past his ear. A pity whoever it was did not succeed. I told him I had nothing at all to do with it. I was at my club, my friends will vouch for that. So now he is questioning me about Lance.'
'You were nearly shot?' said Lady Mountjoy, blatant disappointment in those hard eyes of hers. She looked him up and down. 'So you are Nicholas Vail. You look even more like the old earl than you do your father, and those two were nearly twins.'
'I suppose you must also say that about Richard,' Nicholas said.
'Perhaps. I told that impertinent girl you wish to wed that you would likely pass on your grandfather's insanity, but it was for naught. The chit exhibited no understanding of the human brain.' Miranda, Lady Mountjoy, looked from him to Richard and back again, and frowned. They were even dressed similarly this morning, and everyone in the drawing room knew they looked clearly like brothers, unlike her precious Lancelot.
'Tell me, ma'am, where is my third half brother, Aubrey?'
'Ah, so now you think he's a murderer? Well, Aubrey isn't in London,' Lady Mountjoy said, and sighed. 'He is at Oxford. Aubrey is a scholar, if you must know, studious from his earliest years, always surrounded by his books.'
Richard said, 'Aubrey wouldn't know which end of a gun to use, so forget about him.'
Miranda thought about the thick violent red hair that covered his scholar's head-Aubrey's hair was almost the exact color of that little hussy who would take precedence over her if she indeed married Nicholas, and that was surely a revolting prospect.
Miranda pictured Aubrey in her mind. How she hated that his shoulders were stooped, that he had to wear glasses because he'd surely read every book at Oxford. Ah, how she'd begged him to let Richard take him to his private boxing salon, straighten his back, get his chin to go up, to show pride in his heritage, perhaps give him a dollop of aggression. How could a man stand up for himself if his shoulders were round as a bowl? His father hadn't been any help, he'd simply clouted the boy whenever he chanced to say something clever or quote from an ancient Greek philosopher. Ah, but she wasn't about to tell this interloper any of that.
As for Lancelot-at least he shot well, enjoyed hunting and riding. Even though he comported himself like a romantic poet, his shoulders were straight. Even though there wasn't much hair on his face for that valet of his to shave, he could still sneer as well as Richard.
And now here was Nicholas standing in the drawing room, her drawing room, big and fit and hard, just like her precious Richard, but there was something more in his dark eyes, something that bespoke experiences and fantastic adventures and something else-and what was that? Pain, black and deep?-no, she wouldn't think about his life after his grandfather died. After hearing nothing from him for years, they'd believed him dead, and in her heart, she'd rejoiced at the justice of it and swelled with pride when she looked at Richard.
Only Nicholas wasn't dead. He was alive and looming, ready to kill her boys. 'You could have died when you were a boy,' she said, 'so why didn't you?' Miranda was aware that Richard was staring at her and she shut her mouth.
'I am like a tough strip of leather, ma'am, although'- he looked her up and down-'perhaps I am not as tough a piece of leather as you are.'
'See here,' Richard said, taking a step forward.
'No, dear,' said Miranda, halting him. 'So someone tried to put a period to you-well, you can forget about any of my sons.'
'No,' Nicholas said, 'I don't think it was Richard. We'll have to see about Lancelot, won't we?'
'See here, my name is Lance, damn you!'
'Lancelot-' Nicholas rolled the name around on his tongue as he turned to see his half brother, the sunken- chested, pallid butler standing just behind him.
'Lance! My precious boy, what are you doing back in London? Richard told us you were visiting a friend in Folkestone.'
Lancelot shrugged. 'We had a wheel break on the carriage. No choice but to come back. So what? What is he doing here?'
'So you might easily have been the one to try to put a bullet through my brain this morning,' Nicholas said, a blast of cold in his voice, wondering how long it would take him to strangle this supercilious little sot, and enjoy every second of it.
'Nonsense,' Lancelot said, and frowned at a tiny speck of dirt on his burgundy velvet jacket. 'I am an excellent shot. If I had been in London, if I had shot at you, you'd be lying dead on your damned back.'
'You're not as good a shot as I am,' the butler suddenly said. 'Don't you remember our competition? And Master Richard is the best of all of us.'
The butler was very free in his speech with his employers, Nicholas thought, and watched his stepmother gape at him. Nicholas asked, 'What is your name?'
'I? I am called David Smythe-Jones.'
Nicholas couldn't help himself, he laughed. 'Davy Jones? Your parents are seafaring people then, with strong ties to irony?'
'No, they believe in treasure, trapped in long-ago sunken Spanish galleons, lying deep in the sea. However, since they live in Liverpool and haven't a groat to go searching for their prize, it isn't likely they will ever find it. Still my mother spends her life searching out old treasure maps and making plans.'
Nicholas studied the young man, his petulant mouth, his nervous hands always moving. Then he looked at his two half brothers. So very different they were. And here, of all things, the third half brother, Aubrey, was a scholar. He wondered what his sire had thought about what his seed had produced. He raised his hand to get their attention. 'No more bickering, no more insults, no more protestations of innocence. Including you, sir,' he added to Alfred Lemming, who was standing on his tiptoes, ready to leap. 'All of you will listen to me now. I am Lord Mountjoy, the Earl of Mountjoy. None of you will ever take that title. My son will follow me and his son will follow him down through future generations. If your mother taught you this was really your birthright, and not mine, if she taught you that you were the rightful hairs, than she did you a grave disservice.
'I will say this only once. If anything happens to me, I have several close friends who will avenge me.' He turned to face Richard. 'If I die, you will die, and Lancelot will die. Given my friends' rage were I to be murdered, I doubt Aubrey would survive either. Then there will be no Vails, the line will be dead as all of us. Do all of you understand me?'
Lady Mountjoy yelled, shaking her fist at him, 'You're utterly mad! You are so mad you threaten my sweet boys who have never harmed you.'
'Attend her, my lord, for that is the truth!' Alfred Lemming bellowed, his face now alarmingly red.
Nicholas sketched his stepmother a brief bow. 'I will see that you are not killed, ma'am. I would want you and your fat lover to continue on; perhaps eventually you would feel despair that you taught them to hate me, taught them I was an enemy to be destroyed, rather than their brother whose responsibility it would be to protect them, to be at their backs, perhaps even to assist them. In the end, madam, you would realize you were surrounded by nothing at all.'
There was stone silence for a moment before Alfred Lemming stepped forward on small well-shod feet and said, barely above a whisper, 'I say, my lord, you should not make such a blanket statement as that.' His very white brow was damp with perspiration, but he persevered. 'Despite the venom and threats floating around the drawing room, it is no excuse for bad manners. I am Lord Heissen and I will personally vouch for the young gentlemen. That is the point, my lord. They are gentlemen, not hooligans. You have come from heathen places, doubtless tracked by heathen enemies with no sense of what is suitable in a civilized world. No English gentleman would fire a gun in the midst of traffic-to possibly be seen and identified. It is absurd that you would be suspicious of these fine upstanding boys.'
