Page 41 of The Truth About Lord Stoneville

He gazed steadily at her. “It does if the price for his help is higher than a respectable young woman should have to pay.”

She took his meaning at once, coloring deeply. “It isn’t, I assure you.”

“Tell me something, Miss Butterfield. Do you know anything about the character of the man you are relying on for help?”

“I know enough.”

“Did you know that his mother murdered his father? And then shot herself?”

Pure shock kept Maria speechless.

What if I swear on my mother’s grave to uphold my promise? That’s a vow I’d take very seriously.

“Oh, poor Oliver,” she whispered.

“I wouldn’t be so quick to sympathize if I were you,” Mr. Pinter snapped. “Ever since that day, he’s lived a life of debauchery. The man you’re trusting to help you is known for his many affairs with opera dancers and loose women. He plays in the fleshpots of London while letting Halstead Hall go to rack and ruin.”

A sudden tightness in her chest made it hard for her to breathe. “Where did it happen?”

He blinked. “What?”

“The murder of his father and his mother’s suicide. Where did it happen?”

“In the hunting lodge on his estate. Why?”

Some places are better left to rot.

His bitter words took on new meaning. “And how old was he?”

“Sixteen, I believe.”

Her heart twisted in her chest. “He was only a boy, for pity’s sake! Have you no compassion? He lost his parents in the most horrible way imaginable, then suddenly found himself, at a tender age, the head of a family of four young brothers and sisters. Don’t you think if such a thing happened to you, you might strike out at the world? Or lose yourself in some den of iniquity?”

Mr. Pinter scowled. “No. I would learn from the tragedy by embracing a more sober way of life. Instead, he and his siblings spend their time scandalizing society with their reckless behavior.”

She thought of the Sharpe family—how adorable they were together, and how kind the two sisters had been so far. Then she remembered what the servant had said about their treatment by society, and her temper ignited.

Rising to her feet, she fixed the runner with a blistering glance. “You judge them by your own standards without knowing them personally. How dare you?”

Clearly taken aback, Mr. Pinter rose as well. “I haven’t told you the worst of it. After his parents died, he inherited everything. Some say he knew more about what happened than he admitted. That he might even have been there, if you take my meaning.”

A chill coursed down her spine. “I donottake your meaning, sir. Surely you’re not implying—”

“He’s notimplyinganything,” said a caustic voice from behind her.

Her stomach sank as she turned to see Oliver standing in the doorway. He wore his many-caped cloak of black wool to cover his lack of a coat. With his face a mask of nonchalance and his dark eyes hooded, he reminded her of the huge black gyrfalcon she’d seen once, swooping down to seize prey in its beak.

Oliver’s cloak flapped as he strode into the room. “Mr. Pinter is stating his opinion of me quite decidedly. I’m a scoundrel and a debaucher. I’m untrustworthy. And most importantly, I probably murdered my own parents.”

Chapter Eleven

When Pinter didn’t deny the accusation, Oliver wanted to throttle him. Wasn’t he allowed to have one person see him for what he was, without having it colored by a thousand versions of his past? Every time he thought the gossip was dead, it reared its ugly head again.

And to think that Pinter had suggested that his family should have “learned” from the “tragedy”! Damned arse had no idea what he was talking about.

He probably should have marched in to stop Pinter when he first heard him from the outer office. But if he hadn’t stood there listening, he wouldn’t have heard Maria defending him and his siblings so sweetly.

Have you no compassion?