Page 27 of Juliet's Touch

Chapter nine

Ericsettledhisbattered body onto the soft squabs across from Fletcher. For a moment, he considered asking the man how an investigator could afford to own such a fine vehicle. But what was the point? It wasn’t any of his concern, and in the long run, he didn’t give a whit about Hugh Fletcher’s carriage.

Maybe Fletcher was rolling in blunt because he was married to Lord Chesterhill’s daughter. Or perhaps the marquess paid him handsomely to search for his bastards.

Eric scoffed at his ridiculous thoughts. Why was he still brooding when he didn’t give even half a shite about Fletcher’s finances? His association with this family was for one thing, and one thing only—his share of their massive pile of riches. He had no intention of spending any of the douceur on himself. However, he would swallow his pride so that he could free everyone who worked at The Pink Petal.

“Bloody hell.” Fletcher leaned forward to examine Eric’s face. “Someone beat the shite out of you last night.”

Earlier, when Eric had looked in the mirror, he’d averted his gaze so as not to stare at the burst blood vessel in his eye. Although difficult to look at, it was hardly a serious injury. But his nose? The damnable thing was probably broken. He ran his thumb across the bridge, sucking up the sting. And his jaw looked like someone had taken a hunk of wood to it.

“Who did you fight last night?” Fletcher asked.

“Thumbs McCartney.”

“Heard he is a decent up-and-coming fighter,” Fletcher said, “Who won?”

Eric folded his arms over his chest and closed his eyes. “Me.”

Chesterhill Manor was practically a palace. Ornate, massive, and extravagant. Despite its grandeur, Eric did not favor the ostentatious country house in the least. Give him a small cottage surrounded by trees, and he’d be as content as an ape with a banana.

He and Fletcher followed a man wearing livery through the foyer and up a curving staircase. Once they reached the third floor, the bloke escorted them into a brown and cream-colored study. A gentleman with wiry gray hair sat behind a stately desk. His monocle toppled from his fingers as he rose.

Good day, my lord,” Fletcher said. “As I promised, Eric Stone, The Stone to the fancy. Stone, may I present your father, Alexander Beckett, the Marquess of Chesterhill.”

His father. His. Bloody. Father.

Eric stood face to face with the fuckrat who’d abandoned him, and he felt nothing. No connection. No affection. Just a hollow numbness. Not even a mandate from heaven would induce Eric to return the marquess’s smile.

“Please sit,” Lord Chesterhill said. “Warrington, a round of whiskey, please.”

Eric held up a staying hand. “Water.”

He and Fletcher sat across from the aristocrat, who regarded Eric with unfettered curiosity, his gaze seeming to flick over Eric’s injured eye, then travel the length of his nose.

“Eric had a mill last night,” Fletcher said.

“Ah, I see.” The marquess clapped. “I wager you won, because Chesterhill blood flows through your veins.”

He’d won because he worked his arse off training. Ignoring his desire to throttle the arrogant pile of ancient dung, Eric shifted in his seat.

“I’m sure Fletcher has filled you in on the gift I am offering you,” the marquess said. “You no longer have to take a beating to put a roof over your head.”

“I enjoy fighting,” Eric said, his tone icy and flat. Perfect really, since this was precisely how he’d intended it to sound.

The marquess waved a hand. “Then by all means, continue fighting. Hire yourself the best coaches.”

Eric scowled. He already had the best coach in London, as long as he didn’t terminate Calder Valentine for sticking his much-too-concerned nose in his business.

Warrington, who must be a butler, not that Eric knew much about such things, handed glasses to each of them before taking his leave. The marquess studied Eric with an intense scrutiny while he sipped his drink. Returning an equally earnest perusal, Eric chugged his water.

The marquess tapped his fingers on his desk. “I believe Fletcher explained why I want to meet you.”

“He did,” Eric said.

“Splendid, splendid,” the marquess said. “I am grateful that you agreed to come. I intend to make up for my past flippancy with a generous gift to be spent however you see fit.”

In what world was abandoning a woman carrying your child mere flippancy? The gift had better be bloody generous and available instantly since Eric had agreed to endure this humiliation. He sucked on his cheek to keep from spouting a string of blasphemies.