Page 26 of A Murder in Trinity Lane
I turned sharply and strode out before my temper got the better of me. But in the corridor, I came to a sudden halt and addressed the valet. “I’m concerned about Lord Phillip and his, er, bed sport activities. Does he take . . . necessary precautions?”
Harrington didn’t so much as blink. “Yes, Your Grace. His lordship arranges for a regular supply of French letters from a chemist in Holborn. A dozen or so,” he added with quiet efficiency.
“Monthly?”
“Weekly,” Harrington added with quiet certainty.
I blinked. “Good God.”
“His lordship is nothing if not . . . diligent.”
I snorted. “That’s one word for it.”
In the sitting room, I planted myself near the fireplace, arms crossed, blood simmering just beneath the surface. Minutes later, Phillip strolled in, shirt half-buttoned, trousers wrinkled, hair a rumpled mess. The very picture of careless charm—and yes, beauty. All three Thornburn siblings shared that curse.
“You need a bath.”
Without bothering to comment, he flopped into a chair, stretching out like a cat in the sun. “To what do I owe the honor, dear brother? Making sure your little investment hasn’t gone to rot?”
I refused to rise to the bait. “I’ve cut your allowance, Phillip. I pay for these rooms. I pay for your food. I pay for Harrington. And yet you manage to find money—for cards, for drink.” I curled my lip. “For women.”
“Ahh, it’s the women that rankles. Not everyone leads the life of a monk.”
“I do not—” I bit back the retort and forced my tone flat. “How are you paying for it all?”
He leaned back, trying for nonchalance. “Friends lend. Favors are exchanged . . .”
“No.” I stepped forward, letting the weight of my anger settle. “Tell me exactly how you’re paying for your disreputable habits. Because if I don’t know, I can’t stop you from destroying yourself.”
The easy air in the room vanished. Tension stretched taut between us.
Phillip looked away, his fingers drumming the chair’s armrest. “You’re overreacting.”
My voice dropped, soft but cutting. “Am I?”
He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “I’ve . . . found a few people. Made a few arrangements. You’d be surprised how easily doors open when one’s brother is the Duke of Steele.”
A chill crept down my spine. “Names. I want names.”
He gave a careless shrug. “What does it matter?”
“It matters because they’ll own you. And through you, they’ll try to own me. And Nicholas. And Mother.”
Something hot rose within him. “Don’t you dare bring Mother into this!”
“Why not? She’s already worrying herself sick over you. She knows, Phillip. She knows.”
“Not the full extent of it, surely.”
“No,” I said softly. She did not know the worst of it, and thank God for that. “But enough.”
His jaw clenched. “So what if I drink? Gamble? Keep company with whoever I please? I’m not married. I have no responsibilities.”
I exhaled slowly, fighting the surge of frustration. “You bear the name of a ducal house,” I said tightly. “You’re gambling with more than coin, Phillip. You’re gambling with our name, our reputation, legacy. Can’t you see that?”
He turned his face away. For a moment, I thought I saw a flicker of shame—maybe even fear.
But then he stood abruptly, flashing that same easy grin.
