“Are marrying off or preoccupied with babies. They will not bother with me. Did you know I stood in a shady spot of Verne’s garden and watched the new father with his infant daughter, carrying the little brat this way and that, utterly besotted with the child. He would not pick you, in a choice between yourself and the girl. He did not notice me or the gun which I could have easily fired at either him or the baby. What a fool to render himself so vulnerable.”
With each angry word, Charles drew nearer, the fury mounting in him as if there was a fuse inside him, which took very little to light. Despite his sprawled and vulnerable position on the bed, Silverton felt sorry for his brother. It was evident that the sweet scene Charles had witnessed was something he would never be capable of understanding or appreciating.
Charles was so angry and bitter; it was tragic that it had reached the point where all he could manage was such hatred. Leaning down, Charles gripped Silverton’s throat between his nimble hands, tightening his grip until Silverton felt he would pass out again. “Pay attention, brother.” Spittle flicked over Silverton’s face from his brother’s mouth. “These are your last few hours. You really need to stay focused on what I say and not on what you think.”
“Whatever hare-brained scheme you’ve cooked up, Charlie, it won’t work,” Silverton managed to utter. The words were mumbled because of Charles’s grip, but his twin got the message.
“Fuck you—if you think I’m scared of the Crown or of your illustrious title, you could not be more wrong.”
“You’ve always been frightened of it,” Silverton said. Perhaps he should have been more scared himself, but his initial fear was fading to be replaced with a righteous anger that he felt would be sufficient to shield him. “Because you’ll never be good enough. That is what father knew about you too. You were not worthy. You never would be worthy.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. When you die, which will be very soon now, your title and this place will become mine. I am your heir. But this is even better—because you won’t have to die, or at least, no one will ever know you are dead. Of course,” he mused, “You will be dead, but everyone will think that you are me, and I am you. Does it not fit together? You, who have always been resentful of the burdens of the title, made to step aside rather than simply waiting to wither away?”
Unable to help himself Silverton laughed at the sheer absurdity of what his brother was suggesting—that Charles would simply be able to step into his shoes without anyone noticing. The adrenaline must be affecting him because it seemed to be driving him towards winding his brother up, rather than coaxing Charles down from the height of his scheming.
“I am your twin, and if I carve up your body so it resembles mine, who would ever be able to tell us apart?” Charles continued, unabashed, warming to his plan. “It is my best concoction—and I can speak like you, resemble you if I so choose. I have received enough reports on you over the years that I do not think it would be too hard.” He moved away, and snatched up a cane from the floor, like the one which Silverton had been using in the previous year. Charles brandished it over his head. “I will even be able to mimic your walk, see?”
Not for a minute did Silverton believe his wife would ever think Charles was him, but the idea that she might be forced to face Charles terrified him. The image of the two meeting and Maeve knowing the truth—Lord, it was not to be born. What action could he take now to best protect Maeve? Nothing seemed logical, and all his choices were poor ones.
The door handle rattled at that point and swung wide to reveal Lady Silverton. Her face beamed as she looked between the two of them, oblivious it seemed to the bindings that pinned her eldest down. “Playing again,” she murmured, carrying the tray forward. “You must not wear yourselves out, though. The pair of you are looking so tired.” She moved closer to the bed as she looked down at Silverton. “I do my best to take care of you, but it never seems good enough.”
One look at her told Silverton it would be no use appealing to his mother for anything approaching help. It seemed as if she too had fallen into the same delusional daydream that Charles had. However, if he could make her stay in the chamber with them, then there might be some hope to hold off whatever Charles intended to do next.
“Mother, you must stay.” His voice was low, although he fully suspected Charles could hear him. “You must stay to hear everything Charles has spoken of. All he has planned for us.”
“To see you as you used to be together,” Lady Silverton said, as she lowered the tray onto the bedside table. The array of food and drink smelt rotten, and the stench further twisted Silverton’s already anxious stomach. “It is all I have ever wanted. A return to how we used to be,” she continued, seemingly unaware of how bad the food smelt.
“Indeed,” he managed. His eyes moved around the tray, hoping for something that might be useable as a weapon. A blunt-looking fork was about all he could see, however.
“Yes, Mother.” Charles had drawn near, his eyes flicking over the tray before he looked away in disgust. “You understand the importance of us discussing this uninterrupted, though?”
Lady Silverton gave a dimpling smile, as if she were half her age, at being scolded so. “Of course. I know.”
“Leave us and we will, I am sure, reach an arrangement which will be suitable for all.”
It seemed as if Lady Silverton was dwelling on the matter, torn between the two commands of her sons, before she gave a dutiful nod to Charles and turned back towards the door in a languid, looping walk.
Charles gave Silverton a vicious, triumphant smile, and he was again reminded of how little his brother had grown up—how his brother was regressing, malformed and vicious, before him.
“Wait.” It was the same sing-song voice Lady Silverton had used when they had run and played as children, but with each sugary lisp, Silverton braced himself for some further piece of bad news. “Don’t forget dearest”—her eyes locked upon Silverton—“you must tell him all about your wife.”
CHAPTER18
Within an hour of Fischer having left for Silver Hall, Maeve was beginning to regret her decision to stay behind. Chiefly because not knowing what was going on was driving her mad, but also because sitting beside the body of Dr. Sprot unnerved her.
She had tried to think practically of what the best course of action would be—where she might be of use. Whilst her head was saying to hurry to London to find Verne, Trawler, or anyone of her husband’s Set, another, stronger part of her, a part she supposed was her heart, was telling her to go to Silver Hall. Warning Silverton was her duty as a spouse. He deserved to know of his mother’s involvement, and she could hardly bring Silverton’s child into this world knowing she had not done her all to save him. How would she face their babe and not feel guilty?
It sounded remarkably like a justification to her own ears, but Maeve knew the truth: She wanted to warn Silverton because she wanted to save him. And because she wanted him to realise how wonderful, generous, and kind-hearted she truly was. More than that, she wanted him to love her as much as she loved him. The ungrateful bastard.
Maeve tiptoed towards the door. She knew Sprot was dead, and that would be yet another thing she needed to explain to the authorities, but surely everyone concerned would be more frightened to learn about a traitor in their midst. When her hand touched the doorhandle, and she slipped from the room, she was greeted with the odd sight of Betty, her maid, and the frowning, tear-stained face of her sister, Grace. Both women were holding makeshift weapons, one of them held a raised riding crop and the other a saucepan.
Grace was wearing her night things, her strawberry-blonde hair braided in a long plait, though the white tie had come loose, fanning tendrils out. Her bookish face was oddly blank without her glasses, and she blinked owlishly at her sister. When Maeve looked down, she could see her sister had shoved her feet into their father’s old boots in her haste to come to her aid, and this gesture of love made Maeve’s tears swell.
“Oh.” Maeve let out a strange whimper of a noise. She was so used to being the proper, bright, and sensible older sister, whereas Grace always got to go her own way. It was nice, it was loving and kind to see the generosity of her sister’s feelings towards her.
Grace rushed forward to hug her. Maeve pulled her younger sister closer and breathed in the familiar scents of ink and tea that was quintessentially Grace.
“Where’s Papa?” she managed to ask, reverting to their childhood name for their father. The presence of Mr. Walsh would be a valuable one, given his experience alongside Silverton.
