had never willingly read a book in his life.
The man Clarence called Father was ensconced in a hooded maroon leather chair behind an enormous mahogany pedestal desk. He did not ask Clarence to sit down, but Clarence sat anyway, taking a small satisfaction in this defiance.
"You will kindly explain to me," Henry said in his bull-throated voice, "why you brought McCady Trelawny here to disrupt my party with that belching monster."
"As it happens, he brought himself." Clarence dared a small, taunting smile. "Not that it signifies, for he should hardly need an invitation. He is, after all, your nephew."
"He's an insolent bastard!"
The word bastard reverberated like the clap of a church bell in the room's heavy velvet silence. Clarence's smile twisted into one of bitterness.
The green cut-glass lamp on the desk gave an unhealthy tinge to Henry Tiltwell's heavy jowls and pouchy eyes. He could not meet the younger man's gaze but toyed instead with the rings and seals on his fob. He had big, splayed hands. They were a tutworker's hands, though he had never wielded a pick.
In moments like these Clarence was glad the man was not his father.
Except that he could be his father. Because his mother had refused to, or couldn't, say which man had fathered him. She had, after all, been sleeping with both men at the same time—her husband and her sister's husband, that lecherous rake the earl of Caerhays. Clarence could never understand why Henry Tiltwell had forgiven her. If she had been his wife, he would have killed her.
"I want you to stay away from the Letty girl," Henry said, and Clarence had to drag his thoughts back with a wrench. "That peculiar friendship was bad enough when you were a boy; it could have disastrous consequences now. I don't want any hole-in-the-corner marriages or paternity suits. I've bigger plans for you than to see you leg-shackled to some provincial chit, who is tarred with peasant blood and has no dowry to speak of."
"I doubt in any event that Lady Letty would look favorably upon the suit of a tutworker's grandson," Clarence said, but mostly to himself. Henry still frightened him and probably always would.
"What? Speak up, curse it."
Clarence lifted his head. "I have no intention of marrying for a number of years yet, sir," he said, which was the truth, though only a part of it. He had every intention of making Jessalyn Letty his wife. But he needed to make a fortune first. His own fortune.
His mother had died last year. There was nothing to prevent his father from marrying again, and rumors had reached him lately that Henry was looking. If another son, an indisputable son, was to blossom suddenly on the Tiltwell family tree, Clarence had no doubt that he would be disinherited as fast as a new will could be drawn.
So in the meantime, as long as Henry held the purse strings, Clarence would dance to the man's tune. It was not in him to starve in any garrets for the sake of pride and principles. Whether he was Henry Tiltwell's true son or not, he would use the man's influence and connections, not to mention the Tiltwell capital, to build his own fortune.
In that way he was very much Henry Tiltwell's son: He was very good at making money.
McCady Trelawny sprawled in a chair before the fire, his booted feet on a red leather ottoman, a glass of brandy cupped in his palm. It was a sprawl that somehow still managed to convey ancient breeding and sophisticated elegance. It was a sprawl Clarence knew he could never affect if he lived to be a hundred.
Clarence paused in the doorway to his bedroom. McCady looked up at him with heavy-lidded eyes and said in his mocking drawl, "You look as though you could use some brandy to chase away the mulligrubs."
Clarence didn't want any brandy. But he went anyway to the ormolu side table and poured a finger's worth into a toddy glass. He wet his lips, but didn't swallow.
McCady's brooding gaze was on the fire, giving Clarence the opportunity to study his cousin's
The man Clarence called Father was ensconced in a hooded maroon leather chair behind an enormous mahogany pedestal desk. He did not ask Clarence to sit down, but Clarence sat anyway, taking a small satisfaction in this defiance.
"You will kindly explain to me," Henry said in his bull-throated voice, "why you brought McCady Trelawny here to disrupt my party with that belching monster."
"As it happens, he brought himself." Clarence dared a small, taunting smile. "Not that it signifies, for he should hardly need an invitation. He is, after all, your nephew."
"He's an insolent bastard!"
The word bastard reverberated like the clap of a church bell in the room's heavy velvet silence. Clarence's smile twisted into one of bitterness.
The green cut-glass lamp on the desk gave an unhealthy tinge to Henry Tiltwell's heavy jowls and pouchy eyes. He could not meet the younger man's gaze but toyed instead with the rings and seals on his fob. He had big, splayed hands. They were a tutworker's hands, though he had never wielded a pick.
In moments like these Clarence was glad the man was not his father.
Except that he could be his father. Because his mother had refused to, or couldn't, say which man had fathered him. She had, after all, been sleeping with both men at the same time—her husband and her sister's husband, that lecherous rake the earl of Caerhays. Clarence could never understand why Henry Tiltwell had forgiven her. If she had been his wife, he would have killed her.
"I want you to stay away from the Letty girl," Henry said, and Clarence had to drag his thoughts back with a wrench. "That peculiar friendship was bad enough when you were a boy; it could have disastrous consequences now. I don't want any hole-in-the-corner marriages or paternity suits. I've bigger plans for you than to see you leg-shackled to some provincial chit, who is tarred with peasant blood and has no dowry to speak of."
"I doubt in any event that Lady Letty would look favorably upon the suit of a tutworker's grandson," Clarence said, but mostly to himself. Henry still frightened him and probably always would.
"What? Speak up, curse it."
Clarence lifted his head. "I have no intention of marrying for a number of years yet, sir," he said, which was the truth, though only a part of it. He had every intention of making Jessalyn Letty his wife. But he needed to make a fortune first. His own fortune.
His mother had died last year. There was nothing to prevent his father from marrying again, and rumors had reached him lately that Henry was looking. If another son, an indisputable son, was to blossom suddenly on the Tiltwell family tree, Clarence had no doubt that he would be disinherited as fast as a new will could be drawn.
So in the meantime, as long as Henry held the purse strings, Clarence would dance to the man's tune. It was not in him to starve in any garrets for the sake of pride and principles. Whether he was Henry Tiltwell's true son or not, he would use the man's influence and connections, not to mention the Tiltwell capital, to build his own fortune.
In that way he was very much Henry Tiltwell's son: He was very good at making money.
McCady Trelawny sprawled in a chair before the fire, his booted feet on a red leather ottoman, a glass of brandy cupped in his palm. It was a sprawl that somehow still managed to convey ancient breeding and sophisticated elegance. It was a sprawl Clarence knew he could never affect if he lived to be a hundred.
Clarence paused in the doorway to his bedroom. McCady looked up at him with heavy-lidded eyes and said in his mocking drawl, "You look as though you could use some brandy to chase away the mulligrubs."
Clarence didn't want any brandy. But he went anyway to the ormolu side table and poured a finger's worth into a toddy glass. He wet his lips, but didn't swallow.
McCady's brooding gaze was on the fire, giving Clarence the opportunity to study his cousin's
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