Page 52 of Enlightened

Chapter Seventeen

When they got back to Curzon Street, Liddle opened the door. David wondered if the man ever rested.

“My lord, your father arrived a short while ago. He is waiting for you in the drawing room.”

Murdo absorbed that news. “And Mr. MacLennan?”

“In his bedchamber, sir. I made sure the marquess did not see him.”

Murdo nodded. “Good man.” He turned to look at David. “Would you come with me?”

“To see your father?” David asked uncertainly.

“If you wouldn’t mind.”

“All right, if you’re sure that’s wise.” David’s uncertain tone betrayed his scepticism.

Murdo managed a weak smile. “I’m not sure at all, but I’d like you to be there.”

David followed Murdo down the candlelit corridor and into the drawing room where the marquess was waiting. The older man sat in the same winged armchair he’d selected the last time he’d come. It was the obviously dominant chair in the room, the master’s chair. A goblet of some spirit—brandy perhaps, or whisky—rested on the occasional table beside him, untouched.

He looked up, his eyes going first to Murdo and then to David.

“Send your catamite away,” he said. “I wish to speak to you alone.”

“If you want to speak to me at all, you will do so in Mr. Lauriston’s presence.” Murdo turned to David and smiled. “Please excuse my father’s manners, Mr. Lauriston, and do take a seat.”

“MisterLauriston, is it?” the marquess mocked as David lowered himself onto a straight-backed chair, glad to rest his leg. “A nice title for a whore.”

Murdo’s expression didn’t alter, but he said coolly, “You know he’s not a whore. You know exactly who and what he is, don’t you?”

The marquess laughed, an ugly sound. “Of course. He’s a lawyer, but his family are peasant stock. As low as they come.”

Did the man think such words would insult him, David wondered? He felt no shame over his origins. Quite the contrary, in fact. He stared at the marquess, saying nothing, waiting for Murdo to reply.

Murdo didn’t seem inclined to speak either. He simply stood, watching his father until, eventually, the marquess was forced to break the silence.

“You are a fool, Murdo,” he said. His words dripped with bitterness and with something else—bewilderment.

Murdo smiled and shrugged. “Maybe so. Is that all you came to tell me, or is there more to come? If so, I’ll help myself to a drink before we go further.”

Without waiting for an answer, he went to the sideboard where a decanter and glasses sat. Removing the crystal stopper, he poured two generous measures into a pair of goblets.

“Just tell me this: why did you do it?” the marquess bit out.

Murdo crossed the floor, halting in front of David to offer one of the goblets to him. David took it, his fingers brushing Murdo’s as they transferred the glass between them. He found the tiny touch oddly comforting and hoped it was comforting to Murdo too.

Murdo didn’t take a seat. Instead, he stood at the fireplace, resting his elbow on the mantel. He was able to look down at his father from there, giving himself the advantage of height, since his father had commandeered the master’s chair in his son’s own house.

“You wouldn’t understand,” Murdo said. “It was…a rescue mission.”

The marquess shook his head in disbelief. “To what end? So, Sir Alasdair Kinnell thrashes his wife every now and again? She made her bed when she married him, and it’s not as though you’re bedding her. Whatever you said tonight, I knowthat’snot the case!”

David found himself on his feet without having made the conscious decision to stand. A jolt of pain travelled down his leg from hip to knee, but he managed to suppress a gasp.

“You will not speak of that lady again,” he said in a deadly voice. “You are not fit to lick her boots.”

The marquess smiled, eyeing David’s reaction with undisguised interest.