Page 54 of The Moonstone Major
Nothing was going to come of it, for Viscount Brennan had died years ago. Whatever might have been learned back then was likely destroyed or securely hidden away. Chloe would ultimately be heartbroken.
Nor did he like that the duke and the marquess were footing the costs. He was determined to pay them back no matter the outcome of the investigation, no matter how long it took him to gather the funds.
He had only agreed to the investigation for Chloe’s sake.
And also for the fact that his washbasin kept toppling off his bureau until he finally promised Captain Arundel’s portrait that he would permit Mr. Barrow to proceed on his behalf.
The washbasin miraculously stopped toppling once he had made that promise.
He refused to believe it was a ghostly doing. After all, it was ultimately the right decision and one he would have reached eventually because Chloe was so broken up about their situation and her sadness destroyed him.
Her hopefulness destroyed him even worse.
Was it not worth the expense of an investigator to put finality to her dream of wedded bliss between them? How else would she move on?
He did not know how he ever would.
But his feelings weren’t important, only hers. So he had agreed to the duke’s proposal.
However, until there was proof of a greater inheritance or some explosive secret of his birth revealed, he saw no point in encouraging more of a friendship between him and Chloe.
For this reason, he had broken his promise to waltz with her tonight, purposely remaining home instead of going to the church dance. His gut was in a knot over it.
The Hawkes were at the dance, so he was quite alone in the cottage and now soaking in the familiar solitude.
He had been born alone.
Grew up alone.
And would die alone.
This was his fate.
He finished his glass of brandy and poured himself another.
The night was hot and damp. Or perhaps it was just that one felt overheated when drinking oneself into oblivion.
There were very few clouds in the sky, so he did not think it would rain anytime soon. Indeed, the night sky was clear enough to put on a dazzling display of stars. Perhaps he was already too drunk and seeing double…or triple.
What did it matter?
He had stripped down to his breeches, grabbed that bottle of brandy, and was determined to drink himself into a stupor. Anything to stop thinking of Chloe.
To stop aching for her.
Before entering his obscene state of inebriation, he had thoughtfully lit a lantern and placed it on the kitchen’s window ledge. It would cast just enough light onto the terrace—where he now sat, if one could call his slouch a proper way of sitting—to keep him from tripping over the furniture once he decided to walk inside.
He was in no hurry to disappear into the house. First, he was probably too drunk to make it up the stairs tonight. It was very possible he would sleep on the grass and wake to find himself surrounded by the early-morning mist.
Second, he already felt too closed in by his thoughts. He liked the outdoors, the light breeze off the water and the way it wrapped around his skin. The air he breathed was refreshingly clean and fragrant.
Of course, the scent of flowers permeated the air and reminded him of Chloe’s delicate scent.
Had he poured himself another drink?
His glass looked empty, so he poured again and was about to put it to his lips when he saw a ghostly vision rising from the beach stairs. First that blasted basin kept toppling off his bureau and now this? “What the…?”
He blinked.
