Bronwyn Scott - The Secrets Of Lord Lynford

That impressive connection had been on view throughout the week for all of London to see, as if to say ‘let no one doubt there are no lengths to which we would not go for one another’. The fathers had taken their leave discreetly a half an hour ago to give the four friends privacy to grieve together, as they would no doubt be doing themselves at another undisclosed location. They had lost their dear friend just as Eaton and the others had lost a man they’d looked upon as an uncle and mentor but Vennor had lost a father and a mother all in one blow.

‘Thank you, Eaton. I’m glad the guests are gone.’ Vennor took the brandy and slumped into the chair beside Inigo. He favoured them with a tired smile. ‘I had no idea my father’s friends possessed so many daughters of a certain age. I knew it would happen, of course. I just thought people might have the decency to queue up after a period of mourning. I don’t think I can tolerate one more offer of marriage wrapped in a condolence. I can’t bear to hear one more time that my father was a good man who’d want me to look to the future as soon as possible. Dear lord, some of them weren’t even subtle about the fact that I’m an only child and the Penlerick nursery is a veritable ghost town in immediate want of infants.’ There was none of the usual humour underlying Vennor’s words. There was only anger today, as well there should be. The deaths of Richard Penlerick and his wife were violent, senseless crimes.

Eaton’s chest tightened at the thought. Thank God it hadn’t been his own father in that alley. The guilt of such a sentiment gripped him, as did the reality. It hadn’t been his father yet . One day, though, it would be; an accident, old age, God willing not a crime, but the terrible moment would come. Not just for him, but for all of them. Eaton looked about his circle of friends: dark-haired, strong-jawed Cassian, heir to the Duke of Hayle, enigmatic Inigo, Boscastle’s scion with the pale blue Boscastle eyes handed down from generations of Boscastle Dukes. Were they thinking the same? That this scene would be re-enacted in variation three more times as each of them assumed the titles to which they’d been raised? They would all lose their fathers. It was an inherently deadly business being a duke’s son.

The morbid aspect of that ‘business’ had Eaton staggering emotionally as much as the visceral quality of the murder had him reeling, along with the rest of the haut ton . If a duke could be murdered in cold blood at the theatre, no one was safe. People did not like reminders of their mortality. Rich people especially. It was a brutal prompt that not even piles of money could stop death. It was never a question of ‘if’, but merely ‘when’. Just as long as it was not yet. He wasn’t ready to lose his father. But this week had proven age was no barrier to death, to the ending of an existence. Life was finite.

Penlerick’s death had been a wake-up call to the difficult knowledge that a man’s legacies were all that would remain of him to remind others he’d been here on this earth. Eaton recognised that perhaps he felt the hard truth more keenly than the others. With the smallest amount of luck, his friends would eventually leave behind children, heirs to their legacies, while he would not. Ever. No amount of luck, large or small, would change that for him. His legacies would be of the inanimate sort: schools, hospitals, places that would continue to do good long after he’d left this life. But there would be no sons or daughters to tend them. It was a truth Eaton didn’t enjoy facing. There’d always been time to delay facing it, but Richard Penlerick’s death proved his logic had been faulty. Not even time was on his side.

Vennor raised his glass. ‘A toast, to all of you and your support this week. I could not have borne up without it.’ He nodded to each of his friends. ‘Here’s to friendship in good times and bad.’

They all drank and Eaton fetched the decanter to refill glasses. He poured another brandy for Vennor. It was better to stay busy in order to keep his thoughts from straying too darkly. This was what he did best—taking care of the others. It was what he’d always done. How ironic that that particular talent would not be lavished on a family of his own. ‘You’ve done your duty splendidly this week, Ven. You can get tap-hackled to the gills now if you want. There’s no one to see, no one to judge.’ It would do Vennor good to get shamelessly drunk and let loose the emotions he’d kept on a tight rein since the news had come, but Eaton feared Vennor had other ideas.

Vennor shook his head. ‘There’s too much to do. Father had important legislation in the House of Lords. It would be a shame to see it falter now. I will take up his seat as soon as it’s allowed. Until then, I mean to direct things from here so we don’t miss a step. It will be my tribute to him.’

Eaton exchanged a worried look with Cassian. Going to work would only suppress the grief, ignoring it instead of dealing with it. Cassian leaned forward. ‘Why don’t you come to Cornwall with me and rusticate a bit in Truro? It’s what everyone expects and it will get those matchmaking mamas off your back for a while. As you said, there is a period of mourning to observe—it would be entirely natural if you didn’t take up the seat until next year.’

‘ I expect it of me,’ Vennor cut in sharply. ‘Besides, there’s more than legislation to look after. If I am here, I can see justice done.’

‘Justice or revenge?’ Eaton questioned. In his opinion, Vennor needed distance from the crime if he was going to come to terms with his loss, not to immerse himself in it. ‘You needn’t interfere. The Watch will handle everything.’

‘And I will handle the Watch,’ Vennor answered firmly. ‘I will find my parents’ killers and bring them to justice.’

Eaton’s gaze slipped unobtrusively around the circle gauging the group’s reaction. He wasn’t the only one concerned about Vennor’s course of action. The thugs who had mindlessly murdered Newlyn and the Duchess had left behind no clue. They might never be caught. He didn’t want Vennor disappointed. At what point did serving justice become an obsession? Would Vennor recognise that point when it arrived? How could he leave his friend alone to manage his grief, knowing that Vennor would obsess? Yet how could he stay away from Cornwall much longer? He had plans, too; his school, the musical conservatory, was set to open this autumn. His legacy was waiting. He’d not intended to stay in London long this year. He’d come up to town with the intention of supporting Marianne Treleven’s debut as a family friend, and then returning to Porth Karrek immediately. But it only took one look at Vennor’s face to make the decision to stay. His friend couldn’t be left on his own or he’d work himself into oblivion.

‘If that’s what you’re going to do, we’ll stay with you.’ Eaton scanned the group to see heads nodding in agreement. They would all put their plans on hold for their friend.

‘No, that’s not necessary,’ Vennor argued. ‘Eaton, your conservatory needs you. You cannot spare any more time away from home. I know what a sacrifice it would be for you, don’t tell me otherwise. My father would not approve. He supported your school and he’d not want it delayed on his account. You’ve devoted the last five months to preparing—you even cancelled your trip to Italy and I know how much that meant to you.’ Vennor shook his head. ‘I won’t have you throw it all over just to play nursemaid.’ He fixed Cassian with a stern look. ‘I won’t have you staying either. You can’t build your Cornish pleasure garden from London. Besides, your fathers will be here. I’ll hardly be alone.’