Page 13 of To Tempt Lady (Victorian Outcasts #10)

twelve

In his father’s study, Marcus read for the third time the final technical report on the bridge from Her Majesty’s Railway Inspectorate. A structural failure had caused the bridge to snap. No doubt about that. The train hadn’t derailed and hit the posts, triggering the collapse.

The wind had played a huge role in the incident, but the structure had shown signs of quick degradation, and an inspector should have caught them. If Father had inspected the bridge, he would have found the faults. Marcus was sure of that.

If they’d completed the second inspection, had not the storm caught them off guard, Father would have ordered the bridge closure, and the tragedy would have been avoided.

Now their solicitor would be decisive to save Father’s future.

Two weeks had passed since the tragedy. Emma and Trevor had sent word of comfort but no help.

He understood why and wouldn’t blame them.

Besides, the newspapers had already sentenced Father to death as the only one responsible for the incident.

Sir Horace had been quiet, not accusing but also not defending Father, blissfully ignored by the press.

Thanks to some legal loops Sir Horace’s solicitor had found, he wouldn’t receive more than a slap on the wrist.

He reclined on the chair, listening to the fire crackling. The cosy room had always been his favourite refuge. With its walnut wainscoting and the rich brown curtains Mother had chosen, it had the atmosphere of a library.

He touched the oak wood desk. He’d learnt the basics of physics at that desk and had tea with his mother, despite Father’s lukewarm protests about using his working desk as a tea table. More than once, Marcus and Mother had stained a technical drawing or a book on mechanics with cocoa and tea.

He smiled, remembering Mother’s horrified face and her attempts at covering up the disaster while smearing the cocoa further.

Your father will never notice the stain, she would have said.

But Father had always noticed.

The doorbell ringing pulled him back from the sweet memory. It couldn’t be Father. He was in his solicitor’s office. Marcus had wanted to go as well, but Father had categorically forbidden him to come for whatever reason.

The butler’s footsteps sounded from the hallway, then voices came.

“Sir.” The butler opened the door to the study. “You have a visitor.”

He exhaled. “Not another journalist. I have nothing to say.” He stood up and fell silent as a police officer came into view.

“Mr. Marcus Kingston?” The officer removed his hat. “I’m Police Constable Parker.”

“What is it?” The inquest was over, and the police had no business knocking on his door.

The constable shifted his gaze. “I’m afraid I have some terrible news for you. There’s been an accident. Your father fell on the railway at Victoria Station when a train was coming. He died before he could receive help. I’m sorry.”

Marcus clenched the edge of the desk, struggling to make sense of what the constable had said. “There must be a mistake. My father had no reason to go to the station. He’s at Spencer & Associates, his solicitor’s firm.”

“Your father is Sir Albert Kingston, isn’t he? There’s no mistake. Witnesses saw him slipping off the platform right when an express train was coming.”

“But no, he—” The room tilted. He rubbed an aching spot on his forehead. “I want to see him.”

The constable hesitated. “He’s at the city mortuary, but I must warn you. Many people find the mortuary rather shocking.”

Marcus nodded, or maybe he didn’t. He couldn’t make sense of his life. He must have been a pitiful sight because the officer cleared his throat.

“I shall accompany you,” the officer said, “so we can have an official identification although a couple of people confirmed it was him, and we found documents in his pockets proving his identity.”

A thousand thoughts rushed across Marcus’s mind during the drive to the mortuary. There had to be a mistake. Father was supposed to be with their solicitor at that moment, and the solicitor’s office was on the opposite side of the city.

He had no reason to go to the station…unless. No, Marcus wouldn’t consider that option.

“Are you sure you want to carry on, sir?” the constable asked.

“I am.”

“Would you like to inform a friend or ask a family member to be with you?”

“No, thank you.” Besides, he wouldn’t know whom to call.

He doubted Emma or Trevor would come.

He walked into the mortuary almost without realising he was moving. It was as if his body didn’t belong to him anymore. His legs moved forwards without any effort from him.

While Constable Parker talked with the medic in charge, Marcus ignored the voice at the back of his head, whispering dark things. Maybe Father had changed his plan and had to go to the station for some reason. But surely, it couldn’t be… He wouldn’t have decided to flee London, or worse.

“Mr. Kingston,” Parker said, “please follow me.”

Marcus did as told. A wide and dark corridor stretched out in front of him, filled with doctors in bloodstained aprons.

The smell of blood and disinfectant spread by a Lister’s spray offended his nostrils, but the sight of the bodies lying under the blankets shocked him back to reality. So many people.

The constable stopped at a table, and a few formal words were exchanged, along with the medic’s condolences, which Marcus didn’t acknowledge. The medic gently pulled the blanket down.

Marcus sucked in a breath as he gazed upon the familiar face. It was Father. The medic showed him only Father’s face unblemished and untouched aside from a shallow cut near the temple. The signs of last weeks’ fatigue had disappeared. Father looked peaceful and serene as if resting.

“This is your father, isn’t he?” Parker asked.

Marcus could only nod. Pain held his throat in a vice, and a heavy weight pressed against his chest. His sight blurred, and no matter how many times he blinked, he couldn’t see properly.

“Sir,” Parker said, “would you like me to take you home?”

He shook his head and cleared his throat. “May I have a moment?”

There was an exchange of nods, then the officer and the doctor left him alone with the dead.

Emma’s legs shook as she went up the front stairs of Marcus’s townhouse with her brother.

The news of his father’s death had shocked her deeply, and she needed to see how Marcus was faring in person. She’d sent him messages in the past weeks, and whenever she’d asked him to see him, he’d made excuses.

Father hadn’t wanted to come, and in fact, hadn’t she insisted, Father would have forbidden her to go.

Trevor took a deep breath before knocking on the polished door. From the outside, the house looked pristine and immaculate, untouched by any tragedy. If not for the black crêpe and white silk ribbon on the knocker, she wouldn’t have thought a tragedy had happened.

She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, eager to see Marcus.

The door inched inwards, and a butler appeared. “Kingston residence.”

“Lord Trevor and my sister, Lady Emma. We would like to see Marcus if he’s accepting calls.”

Boxes and trunks crammed the entry hall, and aside from the butler, the house seemed empty.

“My lord, my lady.” The butler held the door open for them and showed them to a parlour. “I’ll tell Mr. Kingston you’re here.”

A detailed steel model of a train rested in a box, glinting with a muted light. Photographs of Sir Albert with a young Marcus next to a bridge under construction filled another box. She paused to study the portrait of a beautiful woman with Marcus’s same grey eyes.

Only the sound of Trevor’s soft footfalls could be heard in the eerily quiet house.

“Marcus must be distraught.” She touched the model of a bridge sitting on top of a pile of books and photographs in yet another box.

“I fear the worst has still to come for him.”

“What do you mean?”

The door opened, revealing a pale and dishevelled Marcus. A dark stubble covered his jaw. His face didn’t show any surprise or pleasure as he gazed at them. No emotion.

He bowed and muttered something that sounded like, “Good afternoon.”

“Marcus.” She rushed to hug him but stopped when he stiffened.

“We’re so sorry for your loss.” Trevor squeezed Marcus’s shoulder.

“I’m afraid my maid isn’t here.” Marcus stretched out an arm towards the armchairs. “If you want tea, I’ll ask Taylor to brew it.”

“Don’t worry about that.” Emma put her hand on his arm, and a spark of vitality lit his gaze. “How can we help?”

It was hypocritical of her to ask when they hadn’t done anything to help him. Maybe, if Papa had intervened, Sir Albert would be alive.

He looked away. Behind him, the butler carried more boxes to the hallway.

“Everything is almost ready.” His voice sounded strained as if his throat hurt.

“Are you leaving?” Trevor asked.

Marcus nodded. “I have no choice. The company has been dissolved, and the legal expenses need to be paid. Even dissolving a company is a process that requires money. A lot of money.”

Emma sat on the sofa. “Are you in debt?”

Just the thought sent a shiver down her neck. If Marcus couldn’t pay, he would be locked up in Fleet Prison.

“Do not worry.” He frowned.

“You could have sent for us. We would have helped you.” She regretted her words the moment they left her mouth. The last thing he needed to hear was a scolding. And to be honest, he had every reason not to seek her help. She hadn’t given him any hope.

Her father could help. She had little control over the family’s finances, but she could convince, beg if necessary, Papa to help Marcus at least that one time.

His gaze turned from sad and lost to sharp and angry in a moment. “No, I don’t think you would have.”

She deserved his doubt, but his situation was different now.

“But seriously. Tell us what you need,” she insisted.

Trevor gave her the slightest shake of his head. “Where are you going?” he asked.

“One of my father’s friends offered me accommodation for a few days.

After that, I don’t know.” He leant against the wall and tilted his head back.

A tear hung on the tips of his eyelashes, and it was the saddest sight she’d ever seen.

Even now, he tried to hold back his emotions.

“The money, I don’t care about it. There isn’t much I can do about that. ”

“There has to be something we can do for you,” she said, but he didn’t seem to have heard her.

“I’m not sure what happened at the station,” he whispered.

She and Trevor had discussed the incident, too. Witnesses had said Sir Albert had walked on unsteady legs as if he’d been drunk and then slipped, but some people had claimed his move had been deliberate.

“He shouldn’t have been there,” Marcus said. “He had an appointment with his solicitor but didn’t go to him.”

“With everything that happened to him,” she said, “he might have been simply confused, tired, and disoriented.”

Trevor nodded. “He must not have slept well in weeks.”

Marcus shoved his hands in his pockets. “He was very tired, yes, and dispirited.”

The sound of the butler carrying more boxes filled the uncomfortable silence. The fireplace was cold, and the air was frigid.

“Thank you for coming,” Marcus said, walking out of the room.

Was he dismissing them? But she wanted to do something to help him. She followed him to the entry hall. “Where are you going exactly? I would like to write to you.”

He held the front door open for them. “I’ll send you the address.”

“Marcus.”

“We’d better leave.” Trevor touched her arm. “If you need anything, let us know.”

Marcus gave him a brusque nod.

She brushed past him. “Please let us know.”

He narrowed his eyes to slits. “I promise.”

When she walked down the steps to the pavement, Marcus shut the door. She turned around for a last wave, but he wasn’t looking at them from the window.

It was another goodbye, and her heart was crushed by its weight.