In the Garden of Deceit (Book 4) by Cynthia Wicklund Page B

as dinner was soon to be served, and the family members were in
their respective rooms getting ready. That served him perfectly. He
must speak to his mother. Might as well do it while he was angry
enough to say what needed to be said.
    He
swung through the front door and onto the walk outside. The first
shadows of night were creeping over the landscape, and in the
distance he could see the dower house, the fading sun striking its
stone surface as a final farewell to the day. He bolted across the
lawn rather than taking the path, long strides fueled by indignation.
    The
dower house was the original home of his forbears—and thus
several centuries old—until one particularly affluent ancestor
had erected the manor house. As he understood it, that was the last
of his relations to actually have an abundance of wealth, each
generation growing successively poorer until the Tremonts had found
themselves near penury.
    He
supposed that situation was rectified now. He winced at the thought.
    As
he reached his mother’s step, James grabbed the brass knocker
and gave it three swift raps. With pleasure he recognized the butler
who opened the door.
    “Harris,
good to see you, my man.”
    “And
you, my lord. I missed seeing you when you were here last.”
    “How
are you getting on now that Mother has confiscated you from the big
house?”
    “Getting
on is the correct term, my lord,” the old man stated, bent and
gnarled with age. “In years that is. Cannot fathom why the Lord
has left me here so long.”
    “Why?
Because you are needed. The Lord knows that. How would the Tremonts
survive without you?”
    The
servant gave him a mocking smile. “Indeed, my lord.”
    “Where
is my mother?”
    Harris
looked suddenly wary, and it was then that James heard a masculine
voice emanating from the front room. Without waiting to be announced,
James brushed past the butler and thrust open the door to the parlor.
Two heads spun around at his entrance, one his mother, the other his
cousin Derrick.
    This
was all it took to cap off his day. Fury like vitriol poured through
his system, taking any calm that he had managed to retain. So
appalled was he, for a moment he could not speak.
    “What
the hell is he doing here?” he shouted, breaking the stunned
silence.
    His
mother rose from the sofa, perennial glass of spirits in her hand,
and moved toward him. “Now, James—”
    But
James was not looking at her. “I told you to be gone by the
time I arrived home, Derrick. You had better have a dire explanation
for defying me.”
    His
cousin’s demeanor was lazy, almost smug. Unfortunately, the
effect was ruined by the purple bruise on his mouth.
    “Your
mother took pity on me. Offered me a place to stay.”
    James’s
attention shifted to the dowager. “Excuse me?” he said in
an awful voice.
    The
only clue he had that the old woman was nervous was the slight
shaking of her hand as she took a deep gulp of what he assumed was
brandy. At least, that had always been her choice of drink. Her
breath echoed in the glass as she swallowed, making her sound uncouth
and, frankly, pathetic. James was immediately repulsed. He had grown
up with an alcoholic mother. This blatant reminder of her addiction
was more than painful.
    “Derrick
had nowhere to go,” she said as the brandy cleared her throat.
    “I
don’t give a damn. He’s not staying on my property.”
    “This
is my home, James.”
    “At
my indulgence.”
    “Are
you threatening me?”
    He
changed his tack. “Why would you help him, Mother? You’ve
never cared for Derrick.”
    She
stiffened. “That’s uncalled for.”
    James
sent his gaze to Derrick again, not because he was worried about his
cousin’s feelings, but because he wondered just how thick was
his skin. If the young man was offended, he chose not to show it. In
fact, his smile widened although it had taken on a brittle quality.
    “What
did he do that is so terrible?” the dowager asked. “Spoke
the truth? Is your wife a fool