He shook his head. His mother had nothing to do with this. Why would she take her father-in-law’s possessions with her? She’d never even met the man.
But his grandmother . . .
The Dowager Countess, Margaret Doubleday. Stephen hadn’t seen or spoken to the woman in years. He had heard that ever since her husband died, she’d been a recluse, preferring to spend most of her time in the country. At one time, she had been a belle of Society, setting the fashion, attending every ball and theater. But something had happened, and she’d changed. By the time Stephen had reached his majority, she almost never came to London at all anymore.
His few memories of her were of a woman with haunted eyes, who constantly looked over her shoulder. He could hardly reconcile this portrait to what he read of her in the journals.
And yet, if anyone knew something about James Doubleday, it was his grandmother. Where the hell was the old woman now anyway?
An hour later, Stephen was pacing his mother’s drawing room, waiting for her to appear. She had a small house on Mount Street with large windows that gave her a good view of all that passed outside. He did not see her often. She had never forgiven him his youthful transgressions. In particular, she blamed him for losing the family fortune, though it had been her husband who decided to honor Stephen’s vowels. Lord Westman could have refused. It would have destroyed Stephen’s honor, forced him to flee to the Continent, but at that point, his parents would have been glad to see him gone.
And they did see him gone.
Stephen had hoped, upon returning from India, that his mother’s attitude toward him would have changed. He was the earl now, and she had always favored his brother, the heir.
But he’d been mistaken. It hadn’t been the title she loved, but her first-born, James. And no matter what he did, Stephen couldn’t be James.
Now Stephen paced the room a few more times, refused a third offer of tea from Phillips, her agitated butler, and then almost pounced on his mother when she finally opened the door. She held up her hand when he went to her to kiss her cheek, and he had to settle for a formal bow.
“Stephen.” She nodded at him and crossed to her favorite chair. The one overlooking the street. “This is an unexpected visit. To what do I owe the honor of your presence?”
Her hair was white and looked heavy in its chignon at the back of her head. Her face, always pale, was even paler now with only the faintest color in the cheek. Her neck was long and regal, her hands small and delicate, her eyes brown and uninterested. Stephen pushed onward.
“Mother, I am sorry I have not called before now. I trust you are doing well.” He sat opposite her on the green damask couch.
She waved a hand. “And if I died, would you really care?”
“Of course. But you’re not about to die. You’re in excellent health.”
She gave him a piercing look and went back to her perusal of the street. “There are other things that kill a person besides failing health. Shame, for one.”
Stephen looked down at his hands, feeling the sting of her censure. He had done all he could to save the family from social and financial ruin. He’d more than proved he was capable of the task, but she was never going to see that. He was not James, her eldest, her favorite.
“Actually, Mother,” Stephen said, trying to keep the mood light, “I’ve been thinking a bit about our family history myself.” She hadn’t been referring to the shame of that, he knew, but it was as good an opening as he was likely to have today.
“I was in the attic the other night—”
“Whatever were you doing up there? Dallying with one of the maids, I suppose.”
Stephen clenched his hand on the chair’s arm. “No, Mother. I was going through some of the crates, and you will never believe what I found.”
She gave him a look that seemed to indicate he had failed to impress her before.
“Grandfather’s journal,” Stephen said, holding the book aloft for her to see.
She blinked and went back to her view of the street.
“I was reading it today,” Stephen said as though she cared, “and I found at the end the journal ended rather abruptly. I thought I might finish out the memoir, but I couldn’t find any other journals. Do you know where they might be? With Grandmama, perhaps?”
His mother turned to him and gave him an icy stare. “You have come to ask me about journals? In this time of crisis, you have come to ask me about journals?”
Stephen shifted in his chair.
“You are worthless. Worthless!” She spat and stood. “Why did I ever waste my time with you? I should have killed you when you were born, you useless scamp.”
“Mother, I hardly think—”
“No, you never did. That was the sole territory of your brother. You lie around all day and read journals. Do you realize our family is ruined? Do you realize we are all about to be evicted from our homes? Is that what you want? Do you want your mother living on the streets?” She was screeching now, and Stephen had to fight to keep his own voice level.
