CHAPTER17
The soft, plush material beneath Silverton’s head lulled him into a full sense of security. Only when he tried to roll over did awareness return to him in waves, as a sickening reminder of how trapped he was.
Silverton had hoped never to hear again the voice of his brother Charles, a heavy drawl that came through a permanently damaged mouth. The noise cut in to his relative peace. “Bloody stupid woman, she gave you too much laudanum.”
Silverton’s vision was still blurry. He tried to lift himself, but he could feel he had been restrained. Blinking until his vision started to clear, Silverton could see there were thick ropes holding his wrists in place. He could feel a similar hold on his ankles. It was clear he had been bound to the bed, although he suspected the comforting pillow had not been placed there by his brother.
A laugh came from his left-hand side, and with a painful movement of his head, he turned to see his twin.
“Dear Greggors,” Charles said, using Silverton’s hated nickname. “You’ve been asleep for most of the night. But here you are awake as the dawn light arrives, as a good as a newborn.”
Unable to resist, Silverton gave another fruitless tug at his bindings, but they did not move an inch from their location on the bedposts.
Seeing his twin again was different from that moment in January, because now Silverton could see all his brother. There was no night-time to hide any secrets.
His twin was similar enough to Silverton for anyone to see they were brothers, but Charles’s lifestyle had ruined that shared square jawline they had both inherited. His appearance was marred with too much alcohol, slackening the muscles and reddening his eyes. To combat this, Charles had donned a smart set of clothes, his cravat one of fine white linen, and his suit of the finest buffed tan colour. It presented the most dissolute contrast.
“You found enough of my girls tied like this for you to know I’m not likely to have made something that’s breakable.” Charles’s taunt rankled him, but his twin spoke the truth. Silverton had found several of those poor women, bound and gagged, most of them dead and abandoned, left to starve when they had been used up.
It did Silverton no good to dwell on the matter, so he forced himself to business. “How long has mother been helping you?” This, at least, caused Charles to pause as he looked down his nose at his brother. An unpleasant thought occurred to Silverton—precisely where might his mother be, now that Charles was returned? “Where is our lady mother?”
Charles moved even nearer, his frame passing into the shallow rays of light from the nearby window. The nasty scar on his face was thanks to the duel they had fought almost five years ago. During that particular brawl, Charles’s lip had been split with a poisoned dagger. There was an irony to it that the mark had been administered by a weapon bought by Charles himself to kill his twin but taken up randomly and used in defence by Silverton. Although, dark humour did not seem possible right now.
“What makes you think our dear mother hasn’t always helped me?” Charles smirked. “She has always cared greatly for me. Despite your wishes or our father’s. It may well be your greatest weakness—you desire to protect, no, save women, but you have a sheer inability to understand them. Or ever be loved by them.” He set himself down on the bed close to Silverton’s legs. “Of course, it is thanks to her that you’re still breathing. Not that it will last. But if you do as I say, I’ll make it as painless as possible.”
“Not something any of your previous victims can claim.” Silverton slumped back on the mattress. The bindings would not give. He was unable to contain the look of hatred at his brother.
The dig seemed to hit, but then Charles just laughed. It was an unpleasant jeer that recalled the childhood games which Silverton had never enjoyed. Once, he had tried his best to remember a fond memory of Charles from their youth, but it seemed impossible to reconcile such actions with the man his twin had become. “That offer would have conditions, of course.”
“I expected nothing less,” Silverton replied. “But as with so many things, Charlie, you will be disappointed in your endeavours.” Surely Charles knew that Silverton would never be likely to betray his crown, his country, his friends, no matter what Charles offered him. But a creeping fear was bubbling away in his gut—he had mentioned Maeve to his mother. He had said her name to Lady Silverton, but had he said anything else that would give the game away? The name was not especially common in Kent, being Irish, but in London it was not unheard of. Perhaps if their mother said it, Silverton could claim it was a lie on his part, or claim it was an acquaintance of his in the city, an actress or something similar… whether Charles would believe that was another thing entirely.
“You must be champing at the bit to know my terms since you have seemingly become distracted from our normal games.” Charles moved in a disjointed manner, his limbs abuzz with excitement, even his foot tapping when he paused to stand still. He stretched as he moved through the sparse chamber, his hands gliding through the discarded items before he turned back to the bed, his eyes glittering with an unhealthy blaze, lit by God knows what. There was a fire that quaked and fluttered within him that hinted at instability. “It would be easier for all if you just agreed to my terms. Mother won’t like the noises you’ll make. It would distress her so, but nonetheless if I must, I will not hesitate to render you so… unrooted, perhaps? Unmanned? No… I should think of a better word for what I plan to do next.”
“And when did you start to care for our mother’s concerns? Your abandonment of her has hastened her decline.” No parent was meant to have favourites, but it could not be denied that Lady Silverton had never been discreet in her preference for Charles, even when the boys were young. Naively, Silverton thought that, were Maeve and he ever to manage to see eye to eye again, and attempt to have children, he would never be so cruel as to have a preference. No matter, the chance of seeing his wife again was remote. The chance of him being able to a father an infant, not a gleam in anyone’s estimation anymore. Silverton would be better to face his unpleasant reality, but one thought hurt more than Charles’s threats. If he were given his time again with Maeve, how differently would he have acted?
Silverton followed Charles’s movements around the room, wondering if there was any hope for him—any sort of rationale that might be reached within his unhinged brother.
“No, I do not think that is quite true of our dear mad mother.” Charles seemed to ponder the suggestion by Silverton before he grinned. The sort of smirk that drew attention to his damaged mouth and marked it as more of a grimace. “No—I place it at the door of our father’s death. That is when I noticed the change in her. Quite, quite hysterical she was.”
Their father had died over a decade ago. It was an event which had changed and shaped Silverton more than he liked to acknowledge. The news of the previous viscount’s death had reached Silverton when he had been staying with his maternal uncle in London. The memory of how the messenger had interrupted an afternoon piano recital of his young cousin—the pinpricks of colour from his cousin’s dress of fuchsia, the loud shouts of his maternal aunt, the dropped cups and saucers—were all a blur as he had listened to the reports of his darling father’s death and forced himself to stay still and calm. The gentle press of feminine fingers over the ivory keys of a pianoforte still conjured up a panic within that Silverton suspected would never entirely go away.
It had shocked him then, and if he could help himself, Silverton rarely thought of his father. But Charles and Lady Silverton had been present, had witnessed the viscount’s death, had been fortunate enough, if that could be called fortuitous, to be able to say goodbye.
“I suppose,” Silverton straightened as much as his manacles would allow and wetted his lips before he spoke, “that you too were affected by the sight of his apoplexy and collapse to the ground. There is something in that.” Silverton would have liked to stretch out his hand towards Charles, to offer something in the way of comfort despite everything his twin had done. “Something in being able to say a farewell. Knowing you did all you could.”
A stillness had been rendered in Charles, either by the memory of their father or something else entirely. Only when his insistent tapping foot started up again did Silverton realise his brother was yet again transported away from recollections and back to the present.
“Father called for you.” Charles giggled, and fidgeted. “You thought mother my champion, but it was father who favoured you.”
“Does it matter now?”
“It was you he wanted. You he called out for, when it was me—” Charles stopped himself, a guilty look passing across his face, in part obscured by the half-light that lingered in the room. “If he’d asked for me, I would have done something.”
“No one blames you,” Silverton said. It was the truth; he had never thought his brother guilty of patricide. Charles’s erratic and then criminal behaviour had not started until the pair of them were both at university. He had never considered it until now, but that mania, pulling and shrieking to edge its way out of Charles’s eyes, told Silverton that perhaps he should have. Could his brother have killed their father? “If you untie me—”
“Come now, you don’t think me such a fool?” Charles shrieked, the volume of his shout seeming to surprise even him. “Once you’re dead, what makes you think anyone will care about me? I will be able to go my own way. I will be the new viscount. Mother has ensured that you kept my name safe.”
“My Set—”
