Page 33 of The Lost Lord
Miriam giggled. “I cannot believe this is happening. I wished on a star for it when we were at the beach together.”
“Tell me what you wished for,” Richard winked and cast a sidelong glance at Mrs. Kent. She frowned like a thunderstorm. “When we are alone. Some secrets are best kept from audiences.”
Mrs. Kent, overhearing, conveyed her disapproval by clattering the tea service as she gathered it on the tray. “Mr. Walsh has been exceptionally patient with your extended visit this afternoon. Go and see him.”
Richard reluctantly parted from Miriam and made his way through the gloom to the front portion of the house. He found Livingston in his study, boots propped on the desk, pistol within easy reach.
“I ought to have shot you when you kissed my daughter.”
“No one could have blamed you,” Richard observed. “Least of all me.”
The gruff man chuckled. It sounded like rocks clattering down a cliff, gathering speed as gravity pulled them to earth ever faster. “Close the door.”
“To spare the women the sight of my blood on your floor when your shoot me for what we both know I’m going to ask?” Richard responded archly. Firearms were a normal part of life in New York. Even in London it had been unwise to venture out at night without them. It was the thought of one being used on him that unnerved him. When Livingston threw back his head and laughed, Richard’s anxiety eased.
“I don’t want like you, but I do.” Livingston declared. His boots hit the floor and he sat up in his wooden chair. “Have you cleared this with Miriam?”
“I told her that I was planning to ask you for her hand. She was very happy,” Richard responded, eliding the truth. In England, it was customary to approach the bride’s father first. Here, there were different rules. Richard didn’t know what the expectations were. He acted based on his understanding of Miriam’s close relationship with her father balanced with her own, fiery spirit of independence. For once, it appeared he’d hit the mark.
“No father looks forward to the day when his daughter turns her affections to another man,” Livingston observed. He reached for a decanter of amber liquid that sat on his desk and poured two glasses. The man pushed want across the scratched surface.
“Thank you, but I don’t drink.” The words were out of Richard’s mouth before temptation could speak for him.
“That isn’t what I’ve heard,” the man said. “I’ve heard you’re something of a sot. How do I know you’re not putting on a show for my benefit?”
“I suppose you don’t.” Richards hands shook. The amber liquid beckoned like a familiar lover promising solace. Like Lizzie, if he would only bend to her will. As that was impossible to contemplate, Richard wove his fingers together in a semblance of prayer.Let me get through this without succumbing to temptation.“I have not had a drink since meeting Miriam. I won’t deny it hasn’t been easy. You’re not making it any easier.”
Livingston Walsh peered at him with new respect. “If you say so. Don’t like to see good whisky go to waste.” He tipped it down his throat. “Now then, I understand you’re going to ask me something.”
“With your permission, sir, I’d like to ask your daughter to marry me.” Richard dared to lean back in his chair, matching the older man’s posture. Relief and pride at speaking his mind eased the knot in his midsection that he didn’t know had been there.
Since becoming sober Richard had discovered a number of Gordian knots tying up his emotions in ways he’d never contemplated.
“What qualities do you bring to the table, other than a worthless title and questionable sobriety?” demanded Livingston Walsh.
Richard hadn’t seen that coming. He fixated on the empty glass, thinking how much easier if this would be if he’d tossed it back like a man. He swallowed and tasted the memory of many draughts before. Alcohol was part of what had brought him under Lizzie’s spell. Richard couldn’t go back to that life. The only way through this was total honesty.
“I am heir to nothing, lord of no one. What I have is a thousand dollars in the bank, a family with a vast fortune, and a business plan.”
“Is that so?” Livingston echoed. Richard couldn’t tell if he was sneering, skeptical, or both. “You’re a man of many surprises, Northcote.”
“We have both surprised one another this afternoon,” Richard observed. “I’m to bring a prospectus to Miriam for review. She has a better head about these things than I. It will take time, but I am hopeful that this joint venture will allow me to provide for Miriam in comfort, even a measure of luxury.”
“Hm,” was all Livingston said. “Most men get their start in business much earlier in life. Not to insult you, Northcote, but you are not a young man.”
“True enough. Then again, most men don’t grow up with their every need catered to by an army of servants in England, either. I would never have considered going into business had I not come to America.” The precise circumstances of Richard’s departure from his home country were best left undiscussed. Why did he bring it up voluntarily?
“You mean after you killed your father?” Livingston didn’t need a pistol to aim right at Richard’s heart.
“Yes. It was an accident, but still my fault.” This particular admission nearly choked him to speak aloud. Bile rose in the back of his throat as Richard recalled the horrific night when he had knocked over a candelabra and set fire to the drapes in his father’s townhome. The building had been engulfed in flames within minutes. Without his brother Edward’s quick thinking, lives would have been lost in the blaze. As it was, his father had been recovering from an aneurysm brought on by Edward and Harper’s spectacular elopement. Although the late Earl of Briarcliff had been rescued from the flames, he had not survived the night. Guilt plagued Richard as if he had swallowed a nest of snakes. He could assist a thousand slaves to safety and never feel as if he’d atoned for his part in his father’s death. It didn’t mean that he shouldn’t cut them short and see to his new duty, though. “I don’t know how you found this out. I’ve only told a few people.”
Howard. Lizzie. Richard would bet his life it was the latter spreading rumors about him, trying to keep him under her control.
“I’ve made inquiries about you. You are a conundrum, Lord Northcote.” As if taunting him, Livingston poured himself another glass of amber liquid and sipped it slowly. The faint scent of burnt peat teased Richard’s nostrils. He felt his resolve crumble. But he could hardly accept now, when he had already refused. He’d look like the worst sort of liar.
“How so?” Richard asked. He was not much of a mystery. Everything about his life added up to the fact that Richard was the evil son who had killed his father. All his shameful actions in England had been motivated by concern for his family’s legacy. Richard had spent fifteen years believing with every fiber of his soul that his brother was dead and that he would be the next earl. Edward’s incredible return had shattered Richard’s world, and he’d behave like an ass trying to make it otherwise. He had behaved like Lizzie. Selfish to the core. Heedless of who he harmed as long as he got the title which he believed he deserved, damn the rules of primogeniture.
“You have a passable reputation among New York’s finest families,” Livingston drawled. Clearly, Livingston Walsh was too rough-mannered to make the cut. Like Howard, he was a self-made man. Livingston had marginally more polish than Richard’s friend. “In fact, several men speak highly of your track record for delivering returns.”
