A Terrible Beauty (Season of the Furies Book 1) by Stephanie Patterson Page B

Five
     
    Michael handed his hat and cane to the footman and followed Lord Ambrose’s butler upstairs to the study. He felt a pang of guilt for being the reason the elderly retainer made the slow and obviously painful journey up the stairs to Lord Ambrose's study. The man should have been pensioned off long ago.
    “His lordship will join you momentarily,” the older man announced, his voice as dry and brittle as a leaf on a hot desert wind. Michael acknowledged him with a nod before drifting towards the middle of the room as the butler quietly closed the door behind him. It was a heavy room, both in style and atmosphere. Although a fire burned in the large, stone fireplace, it accomplished little in removing the chill from the air. The cool grayness of the day permeated this house. It must he damned cold in winter, Michael reflected.
    “Would you like a brandy?” Rafe Kingsford inquired from a chair by the fire. He saluted Michael with his glass. “It helps keep out the chill. This room feels more like a cave than a study, doesn’t it?”
    “Is it always this cold?” Michael asked as he poured himself a glass. He held up the amber liquid to the firelight briefly before taking a swallow. Her eyes were a similar color.
    “So you’ve decided to join our little group? Seek a little retribution of your own?”
    “That remains to be seen,” Michael replied smoothly. “I’m simply here to determine facts at this point. I’ll make my decision after I know more.” Kingsford unfolded himself from his chair. He was a tall, large-framed man, but Michael had seen him move with lethal precision in the boxing ring of the athletic club they both frequented. More than one man regretted his decision to step between the ropes with Kingsford, though Michael had always held his own against him. Kingsford crossed the room to splash more brandy into his glass giving Michael his first good look at him in the library’s murky light.
    “What happened to you?” He indicated Kingsford’s swollen nose and the bruises shadowing the skin underneath his eyes.
    “The damned chit nearly broke my nose.”
    “Araby Winston?” Michael couldn’t imagine her raising a hand to anyone in case it soiled her glove.
    “No. It was her friend Sarah Melbourne.”
    Michael chuckled. “I wonder what made her do that,” he drawled.
    “Not nearly as much as I intended, I assure you.” One corner of Kingsford’s mouth curled up in a half smile. “She’s a feisty little thing. She could be more of a challenge then I originally thought.”
    “What is your intention to the girl?” Michael asked more out of idle curiosity than anything else. Miss Melbourne was nothing to him other than a clue to this business between Kingsford and Lord Ambrose. She was also a good friend to Araby Winston, a young lady who interested him much more than was prudent.
    “I intend to ruin her in a very public and permanent way,” Kingsford replied easily.
    “Why would you care enough about the silly child to do that?”
    “For the same reason you care about your brother,” said Lord Ambrose from the doorway. There was a fierceness in his eyes, a fervor that made Michael wary. “The Melbourne girl is one of The Furies. They are not merely a group of high-spirited debutantes, Mr. Lassiter. They are representative of the lack of moral character that blights good society and as with any blight, it must be eradicated if the orchard is to remain strong and fruitful.” He indicated for the other men to join him at a grouping of chairs by the window. Michael wished there had been a third seat by the fire. It would have been much warmer.
    When they’d seated themselves, Lord Ambrose continued. “The Furies could be ignored when they confined themselves to making some young girl cry, or a young man make a fool of himself.” He waved his hand dismissively. “Every season has young ladies of that nature. What these girls have done, however, speaks of a maliciousness of