Page 44 of Wicked By Design

“I know. It had the inevitable consequences, I hear,” Damian said dryly, holding the doctor’s gaze. No doubt the man thought him callous. Grantham knew Deon had bled himself dry to keep the woman here in comfort. He wondered if he knew that her eldest son had refused to help. He certainly knew it was Damian who now paid the bills, as he had written telling the fellow to send them to him from now on.

Despite her animosity, it had been Deon who had taken on the responsibility all these years, though. Mama hated Deon. No, that was too slight a word for the passion that burned inside her, violent and raw-edged. She loathed him and feared him and blamed him for everything.

In the first months after his baby brother had arrived, Damian had known something was amiss, but not what. But then he’d been a child, looked after by a nanny, and the adults did not argue in front of him. He’d heard them sometimes, though, in his bed at night. The angry voices had frightened him.

After Deon’s arrival, his time with his mother had been allocated, whereas before she had always been by his side. After that, he had only visited his mama for brief intervals, where he was told to be a good boy. Then there had been the strange silences, and muffled arguments in distant parts of the house that seemed to last for hours or even days, but as the months turned to years, her behaviour became erratic, sometimes violent. She would grab hold of his arm, whispering things that frightened him, telling him his brother was wicked, a demon, an incubus, come to punish them all.

Their father said Mama was sick, and they were not to see her anymore.

Damian wondered why he had never blamed his brother, for it had been Deon’s arrival that had destroyed their lives. He had been the catalyst that had shattered his mother’s fragile peace of mind. Yet it had never occurred to Damian to resent his arrival. He’d rejoiced in his new sibling. Perhaps because Deon had been so little, so sweetly defenceless. Damian had been the heir, the eldest. It had been his job to protect him.

He had been eight years old, and his mother had been so strong, so savage with fury.

How could he make them understand how he hated her, and hated himself for not saving her, for not saving their father? Christ, it hadn’t even been him who had saved Gideon in the end, though he’d tried his damndest. If not for the servants, Deon would be lying cold beside their father, nothing more than dust and bones.

He shuddered, jolting himself back to the present, trying to remember what they’d been speaking of as he realised the doctor was talking to him.

“Sadly, yes, though it was necessary. I had to raise our prices as her needs have also increased.” The doctor’s voice was frank.

“Do not fear, Doctor Grantham. I gave you my word that I shall cover the costs from now on. I will not renege on the agreement.”

The doctor sat back in his chair, not bothering to hide his scepticism. “I cannot pretend I am not surprised. You have never hidden your feelings regarding the cost of keeping her here.”

Damian shrugged, he would not allow the doctor to judge him. Let the man live his life and see how he felt then. But despite that, she was his mother, for better or for worse. So, she was his responsibility, like it or not. Deon had borne the burden all this time only to discover they shared no blood. Ironic, really. If only he could say the same.

“Is she violent?”

“Increasingly so, I’m afraid.”

“Increasingly so,” Damian repeated with a biting lilt to the words. “My, my. Will we be safe to visit her? My fiancée wishes to see her for herself, but I do not want any risk to her safety.”

“We will ensure everyone’s safety,” the doctor agreed, though he looked dubious. “Miss…?”

“Lady Cecilia,” Damian corrected.

“Forgive me, my lady, but are you quite certain?”

Damian did not look at her. This was her choice. If she had any sense, she would refuse and leave now. He had made his point.

But he ought to know by now Celia was made of sterner stuff.

“I am prepared.”

Her voice was soft, determined, and he wanted to shake her. He wanted to take hold of her and drag her from the room, and never, ever allow her within ten miles of the place. Yet she had forced his hand, and he had warned her repeatedly that he did not react well to such treatment.

So, here they were.

They followed the doctor to his mother’s room. Damian saw nothing of the house as they passed. Instead, his mind tortured him for the fun of it, replaying the scene that still woke him at night. Mama, knife in hand. Father, lying so still, and why was he wearing a red cravat? Papa never wore red.

His heart thudded hard, and he clenched his fists as a bead of sweat trickled down his back. A nurse and two orderlies accompanied them, and they arrived to find another nurse coming out of the room, a bottle in hand.

“Ah, Mrs Jennings. How is Lady Rivington today?”

“Well, she didn’t clout me this morning, so that’s—” She broke off as she turned and saw the doctor had company. “Oh. I beg your pardon. She won’t take her medicine, as ever.”

“This is her son, Lord Rivington, come for a visit,” the doctor explained.

“Oh. She talks about you,” the nurse said with a smile. “Fair dotes on you, she does.”