of sending Thorn after you, but I feared that the two of you would disappear into the London stews, and we’d never see either of you again.”
Ignoring that barb, he bent to press a kiss to her cheek, then scanned the room. “Where is Thorn, anyway?”
“There’s no telling. You know how he is—good at finding wenches and wine no matter where he travels. No doubt you taught him that skill.”
It was a measure of how little time they’d spent together that she still knew naught of his true character. “I did no such thing.”
Gwyn surveyed him with a sister’s usual skepticism. “Then why did Father always worry that you would lead Thorn astray here in England?”
“I have no idea. Thorn is perfectly capable of leading himself astray, which Mau—Father ought to have known. And despite what nonsense you may read in the papers, I’m not Thorn. I don’t spend my time in the stews.”
“Hmm. Methinks the man doth protest too much.”
“Don’t quote Shakespeare to him,” Mother said plaintively. “Or he’ll start mocking me by quoting Fletcher.”
“I don’t mock you, Mother,” he retorted, relieved to change the subject away from his supposed wild nature. “I merely think you’re unfairly biased toward our ancestor. Shakespeare is the better playwright, and you know it.”
“I know no such thing! Fletcher wrote some of the most engaging, witty plays in the English language. Why, The Wild Goose Chase never fails to make me laugh.”
“You see what you started, Grey?” Gwyn smiled. “Next thing we know, she’ll be acting out the scenes.”
“I beg your pardon, Sis,” Grey said, “but you were the one to start it. I’m just standing here defending myself.”
Sheridan came over. “What has Grey done now?”
Mother’s irate expression softened. “Nothing. Today he can do no wrong.”
A lump stuck in Grey’s throat.
“That’s good to hear,” Sheridan said blandly. “Because I need to steal him for a bit.”
Mother tightened her grip on Grey’s hand. “Must you? He just arrived.”
“I’m afraid I must,” Sheridan answered. “But you’ll have plenty of time with him later. He’s planning on staying at Armitage Hall for a while.” He fixed Grey with a hard look. “Aren’t you?”
Damn. “I am now.” Grey narrowed his gaze on his brother. “So tell me, how long am I staying, exactly?”
“We’ll discuss that.” Sheridan gestured toward the door. “Shall we?”
With a quick squeeze of his mother’s hand, Grey said, “I’ll be back soon, Mother. Keep a chair warm for me, will you?”
Then he followed his brother out the door and down the hall to what had been Maurice’s study when he was alive.
After Grey took a seat, Sheridan went to pour them both some brandy and handed Grey a glass. When Sheridan then stood there staring down into the amber liquor, Grey asked, “Is this about the family finances? Because I’m happy to pay for the funeral and offer you a loan at whatever terms you—”
“It’s not about money. Not yet, anyway.” Sheridan sipped some brandy, then faced him. “It’s about the manner of Father’s death.”
“By drowning.”
Sheridan met his gaze. “Yes. But not an accidental one, I don’t think.”
“What in God’s name do you mean?”
“I believe Father was murdered.”
Grey took a healthy swallow of brandy, then another. “And what exactly brought you to that conclusion?”
“A few things. First of all, there are the details of his death. He drowned when he apparently fell into the river from the bridge near the dower house—”
“There’s a dower house?”
“It’s where Bea and her brother Joshua have lived ever since my grandfather died.”
Grey had assumed that Miss Wolfe was at the hall only for the funeral, but apparently she was a fixture hereabouts. Odd that he hadn’t met her on his two previous visits.
“Where exactly is this dower house?” Grey asked.
“A few miles away, at the other end of the estate. Grandmother and Bea lived there for most of the period when Joshua was serving in the Royal Marines. He’s a major, you know. After he was wounded and consequently discharged, Uncle Armie proposed that Joshua reside there and serve as head gamekeeper for the estate. Which he’s done for a few years now, since before Grandmother’s death.”
Grey frowned. “Gamekeeper? A duke’s grandson? For God’s sake, that is hardly a gentleman’s profession.”
“I agree, but I gather that his choices were few after his return. It took him some time to recover from his wounds, which left him lame. As a result, he walks with a cane. He has trouble in crowds, and some fear his mind is . . . well . . . disordered. For one thing, he has a vile temper. Indeed, he’s prone to violent outbursts.”
“War can do that to a man.” Then the entirety of Sheridan’s remarks registered. “You’re not saying you suspect Joshua Wolfe of—”
“Yes, I am. I fear that my cousin may have murdered my father.”
Chapter Four
The stark words hung in the air, as if the spirit of Maurice himself lingered in the study. Grey shivered before he caught himself. There was no such thing as ghosts, damn it. He set down his brandy glass. “Your lame cousin, you mean.”
“Hear me out.” Grim-faced, Sheridan took the chair next to his. “Father was only on the bridge the night he died because Joshua had summoned him to the dower house. And Father didn’t just fall off the bridge; he fell through the railing and into the river. We know this because a large portion of the railing was broken away.” He leaned forward. “Now tell me, Grey, what made him fall? It’s not as if Father was ever clumsy.”
“Well, no, but he was getting older, and if it was dark—”
“He was armed with a lantern. And it was a full moon. No reason for him to fall. What’s more, the bridge is sturdy, so even if he did somehow stumble into the railing, it should have held under his weight. I believe someone set him up to drown—damaged the bridge before he crossed it and then pushed him through the railing to make it look like an accident. Bad leg or no, Joshua has the muscular arms of a field hand—strong enough to shove an old man into a railing, believe me. Especially if he took that man off guard.”
Grey sighed. Clearly, Sheridan’s grief had disordered the man’s brain. “And why the hell would you suspect Wolfe of such a thing?”
“You’re
