Page 57 of The Duke Undone

“What?”

“When you talk to Mabeldon, you will talk to him sober, God help me.”

“I’m not a drunkard,” he said. He lowered his arms carelessly. “George is a drunkard.”

A slip of the tongue, one he didn’t notice.

“George isn’t anything. Your brother is dead.” She couldn’t gentle the words, their harsh reality. “Drinking yourself into a stupor won’t change that. And you are a drunkard. They don’t all let fly with their fists.”

She thought he was going to stride out of the shop. He looked stricken, tension vibrating his limbs. He pushed his hair back with both hands, massaging his skull. Then he stuffed himself back into the chair, like a figure from a jack-in-the-box, coiled to spring. They looked at each other. She broke his gaze to look pointedly at the teacup. After a long pause, he picked it up, sipped. A little of his tension seemed to dissipate.

“You’re speaking from experience,” he said, watching her. It was peculiar that this man, so demonstrably lacking in the qualities she valued—taste, talent, applied intelligence, commitment, generosity, loyalty, integrity—should elicit her confidences. He had a knack for striking straight to the heart of things.

The beer had lent his eyes that high gloss, that fixity. She shouldn’t assume there was genuine emotion behind that intense—intensely curious—stare. Nonetheless, she responded to it.

“My father was the gentlest man alive. He was a wood engraver, for newspapers mostly. He drank to dull the pain in his back and his fingers. Many nights my mother would finish his blocks. After she died, he had less help and all the more reason to drink. His reasons were good reasons.”

Pain, grief—what better?

“But the results were . . . not good.” It was hard to lay out the facts. She had never feared her father. He had wanted the best for her mother and for her. What he had brought upon them—that was a different story.

“He missed deadlines. His firm let him go. He took on piecework for other engravers but left it unfinished for a drink at the pub that turned into two, three, four. I helped him home more nights than I can count.”

Weston was looking at her queerly. She stopped, unwilling to endure his pity. But it wasn’t pity she saw in his face, but recognition.

“He’d begun to lose his vision.” She forced herself to continue. “But that’s not why he fell down the stairs, an ugly fall.”

He’d lingered for weeks. He’d had time to regret many things. Regret, a useless emotion. Her father’s regrets didn’t change her childhood. Didn’t bring her mother back.

She stood too quickly, bumping the seat of the chair with the tender backs of her knees. She grimaced, stepped around Weston to reach the meager sideboard where the bread lay wrapped like a mummy. At Weston Hall, the tea involved little sandwiches, pastries, and Madeira cake. At Miss Stirling’s dress shop, it was all mummified bread that savored of chalk.

“Before George died, I didn’t drink.”

She made a disbelieving noise. “Are you speaking in comparative terms?”

She unwrapped the bread, positioning her body so Weston couldn’t observe the process. Surreptitiously, she probed, then sniffed the loaf. Passable, barely. She half turned, reaching for the knife, and met his eyes. He took another sip of tea.

“Certainly,” he said. “I don’t mean that I abstained. But I always liked horses, sports, mornings. It didn’t suit me—up all night, abed until afternoon, my head splitting. And I couldn’t lose my wits. If I went to the casino, to the . . .”

He hesitated.

“Brothel?” She gestured with the knife. “Don’t be shy. You thought we met at one, if I recall.”

He looked rueful, began to shake his head, then shrugged.

“I went to make sure George was only neck-deep in trouble. If he went under, I pulled him up again. You could say I kept his head above water.”

The metaphor was unfortunate. Weston seemed to think so. His expression became more haggard, lips thinned, cheeks hollowed. He carried the guilt of his brother’s death, of his sister’s disappearance. It was all there, written on his face. He looked down into his teacup.

“He liked to pick fights for me to finish, to make wagers in my name and leave me on the hook for them.”

“Charming,” she murmured. “And you hopped to do his bidding?”

She sawed a slice from the loaf, plated it, and carried it a step to the table.

“He was my older brother.”

She dropped the plate on the table in front of him. He looked startled, at either the rough service or the fare. She flushed despite herself. What did he expect? She wasn’t a serving wench, and this wasn’t a restaurant. He blinked at her. Then he laughed, picking up the bread and taking an enormous bite, his teeth flashing.