Page 57 of Love Lessons for a Lady

“No. I will not marry Saphira Finch-Hatten.” A satisfied grin pulling his mouth upward, Aston crossed his arms, thoroughly enjoying having flummoxed his grandfather.

That took the wind out of the viscount’s sails. His grizzled eyebrows slashed together, and irritation flattened his lips. “I suppose Werner told you of my plans.”

“He did. I shall choose my own bride. In fact, I already have.”

Grandfather’s keen raptor’s gaze fixed on Aston. “Who?”

“No one you know, thank God. If what Werner says about his health is true, Grandfather, then I shall eventually become your heir. I’ve never wanted the title, and I still don’t.”

Aston perched on the arm of a chair and folded his arms again.

“Regardless,” he said, “we don’t always get what we want in life, do we? Some people manipulate and scheme and blackmail and bribe and coerce and bully, and even commit murder, to get what they desire.”

Grandfather went perfectly still, the way an animal does when cornered by prey and aware they face death. He swallowed reflexively, his gaze darting back and forth.

Well, Aston had his answer as surely as if the viscount had confessed.

He hadn’t wanted to believe what he’d read in the short note delivered by Uncle Conley’s solicitor’s clerk while he’d been out yesterday. He’d found the sealed letter on his table upon awakening this morning. Uncle Conley had suspected his father had killed his brother and sister-in-law to ensure they didn’t take Aston away.

Aston rose and, taking measured steps, crossed the room until he was directly before his grandfather’s desk. How many times had he faced the viscount across the vast expanse of the piece of furniture, as a small, terrified lad and dozens of times since? Always with the older man confident of his power and authority.

Not anymore.

The title mattered so little to him; Aston would gladly leave this house and never give the viscountcy another thought.

His grandfather eyed him warily. A first for the curmudgeon.

“I don’t know what nonsensical drivel you are talking about, Aston,” he blustered.

Aston removed Uncle Conley’s letter and dropped it, still folded, in front of his grandfather. “Did you have my parents killed to keep me in England?”

Every ounce of color drained from the viscount’s face as perspiration simultaneously beaded his upper lip and forehead. He groped in his pocket for his handkerchief. As he mopped his face, he fearfully eyed the folded rectangle like one would a cobra about to strike.

“I’d bet my inheritance that you did.” Palms flat on the desk, Aston leaned forward. “I’d also bet there’s someone who knows exactly what you did. Someone you paid to do your dirty work.”

Grandfather’s gaze shifted to the left. More confirmation, the bloody sod.

Was the murderer still alive?

Likely, given the viscount’s anxious reaction.

Aston straightened. “Have I mentioned that three of my co-investors in the Italian marble quarry, Viscounts Sethwick and Warrick, and the Earl of Ramsbury once worked for the Home Office? They have the most extraordinary way of turning up information. Information that people would prefer to remain…private.”

Sagging into his chair, Grandfather deflated like a broken balloon. He appeared old, and broken, and surprisingly fragile.

Regardless, Aston felt not a jot of pity or compassion.

“What do you want, Aston?”

A considerable concession that. The old buzzard hadn’t outright admitted his guilt, but Grandfather might as well have done.

“I want you to take yourself off to that remote hunting lodge you never use in the Borderlands and stay there the rest of your miserable days. I want you to leave Werner and me alone and never interfere in our lives again. Or so help me God, I will have the matter of my parents’ deaths investigated.”

The viscount gave a weak nod. “I’ll go. By the end of the week.”

“No. You’ll leave immediately after Uncle Conley’s funeral, which is tomorrow afternoon at four. I’ve made the arrangements. I suggest you have your valet begin packing at once.”

Aston pointed to the inkwell and quill. “Write a letter to your solicitor granting me full proxy to act on your behalf. Werner will need medical care, and I don’t want you to have any excuse for showing your face in London again.”