Bart was frozen, his gaze fixed on the prisoner with the most shocked expression of his life; his eyes were fractionally wider than normal. The man before him swallowed anxiously, appearing just as uncomfortable as Bart felt, as they both waited for Thomas to speak.
The young man in question shifted slightly, swinging one foot to the side to cross at the ankles. It was difficult to see what emotions were playing over his face.
"Your silence is to your credit. I'm sure we can organise further," one hand raised to hover in mid-air as he studied his nails, "incentive for you to remain quiet."
Some of the fear faded from the prisoner's face. "Thank you m'lord!"
Bart abruptly realised that he was holding his breath. As he dragged in air, he drew the attention of the room. His gaze met Thomas', shadowed as it was, and the man seemed to... bat his eyelids at Bart?
"My colleague here," he indicated Bart with a tilt of his chin, "had less faith in your loyalty than I."
It suddenly occurred to Bart that it had only been one eyelid: a wink! Whatever Thomas was playing at, he was taking Bart along for the ride. Either he was involved in this attack or... he was pretending to be someone. Perhaps someone he could pass for when he stood back in the shadows and let his voice drop slightly lower. Someone who had already shown their dislike of David...
Unaware of his companion's realisation, Thomas continued the charade he was weaving. "But now let's test your memory; what precisely were your orders?"
The man hesitated, though it was difficult to read any thoughts or feelings on his bruised and battered face. He shifted his weight to the other foot and the chains clanked, a noise which echoed throughout the cell. Eventually he seemed to decide to talk.
"You told me, m'lord, to find the fella goin' by 'John' that'd be at that fancy wedding and get rid of 'im." The prisoner couldn't get the words out fast enough.
"'Get rid of him' how?" There was a hardness to Thomas' voice that had the hairs on the back of Bart's neck standing on edge. Whatever role he was playing – Bart had to assume it was his father or his brother – he was good at it. The cloak of disguise settled perhaps a little too easily on his shoulders.
His tone seemed to have a similar effect on the man they were interrogating. "You didn't care, m'lord! You just said you wanted 'im dead, is all!"
The words were exclaimed into a dead silence. Between the revolver and the attack... it was one thing to assume that murder had been the goal, but another entirely to hear it said aloud.
"And is he dead now?"
The prisoner flinched away. "No, m'lord." The confession was nearly inaudible.
Thomas let out a long sigh, examining his nails again. "Did I ever tell you why I wanted him dead?"
Perhaps he'd been expecting more anger, because the man seemed to relax slightly at the question. Unfortunately for Bart and Thomas, he was already shaking his head. "No, m'lord."
They both hid their disappointment well.
"You only said that you didn't want your father finding out about your mistake. So I was careful, m'lord! Didn't tell none of the lads that works for 'im."
That confirmed, at least, that he'd mistaken Thomas for his brother Henry.
Thomas smiled, though it was more of a sneer. "Well, I suppose there's no reason to tell you now then." With an imperious sniff, he swivelled on one heel and disappeared into the corridor, the shadows swallowing him whole. Bart made to follow but paused.
"What of the girl?" Unlike Thomas' apparent ease with deceit, Bart had to choose his words carefully to make sure he did not misspeak.
The man shrugged, noticeably more relaxed with 'Henry' out of the room. "She were a witness." His hand drifted unconsciously to his forehead, and he winced as he rubbed the red spot in the centre. For the first time, his own expression darkened. "Get me out of here and I'll kill 'em both for you and m'lord."
Bart swallowed anything he might have said and left abruptly. He stalked down the corridor, comforted by the heavy clang of the cell door behind him and the rattle of the gaoler's keys. To himself, he vowed to make sure that man never left the prison. He would not lay a hand on Beth.
Thomas was waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs, a flask having magically appeared in one hand. He finished taking a swig as Bart drew to a stop, holding the vessel out to Bart as he winced at the burn down his throat.
"Apologies for leaving so quickly, but I couldn't stand being Henry for a moment longer. I'll have to drink myself into a stupor tonight to cope with the residual effects."
Equally shaken, though perhaps for different reasons, Bart accepted the flask and upended it over his mouth, taking a heavy draught. When he looked back to his companion, returning his whisky, the man was grinning up at him.
"So, did I have you worried for a moment there?"
.
About two hours away by coach from the Humphrey estate, David was standing in a library and trying to ignore the pounding in his head. He was staring at a portrait of a man he vaguely recognised as his father. The artist had captured a harsh jaw, probably clenched, and bushy brows that shadowed an intense, unwavering gaze. There was no hint of humour or friendliness. David had been studying the picture and his patchy memory for any recollection of a smile on the man's face. He had none.
What he could remember however... He thought to himself that it was a perfect example of 'be careful what you wish for'.
Tearing his gaze away from the portrait, David moved across the room, through a doorway and into the adjacent study. These rooms were undoubtedly for the Earl. They were almost exclusively dark tones – heavy brown drapes, thick crimson carpet – and uncomfortable looking furniture. David's lip curled slightly as he passed one particular high-backed chair that lacked any inkling of a cushion.
This was not a room he had any recollection of. Not yet, anyway. He supposed this had to do with time. The memories that had returned were older, mostly from his childhood, with a few creeping into his adolescence. Not ages he supposed he spent much time in the Earl's private rooms.
There was a light knock at the door which obviously did not expect an answer as the door opened immediately. A woman walked in, a basket balanced on her hip, and her eyes already looking to the drapes. Surprise flickered across her face when she found him standing between her and the curtains. She dropped into a curtsy instantly.
"My apologies, m'lord. I did not mean to disturb you. I'll return later."
She was of average height and weight, with greying hair tied back in a bun at the nape of her neck. Her eyes, her nose, her lips were unremarkable. Yet there was something about her that tugged at the back of David's mind. As she made to move out the door, her skirts swished and he could suddenly picture smiles and secrets.
Smiles and secrets that tasted of...
"Honey..." he murmured, suddenly feeling the flavour on his tongue.
The woman turned, her movement stiff. "Pardon me, m'lord?"
David shook his head, as if trying to shake away the taste. "No, forgive me, Mrs... uh..."
The staff had all been warned about the damage to his memory, and she did not look particularly insulted. Instead, she offered a strained but polite smile. "Mrs Hackett, M'lord."
"Mrs Hackett, of course." David edged forward slightly. "Did you perhaps sneak me sweets as a child?" he felt silly asking, but he couldn't shake off the idea of the memory. "Something with honey?"
She stood there for a long moment, her brow puckered with the slightest of furrows, and David felt like an idiot. This may have been a different woman, or if it were her then perhaps she didn't recall. And it was equally likely that his mind had made the whole thing up!
Mrs Hackett shifted the basket on her hip. "Honey and lemon cakes. The cook's specialty."
The grin that broke out on his face startled them both. More so when he let out a short laugh, folding his arms across his chest. "Honey and lemon cakes..." he repeated to himself. He thought he could see them in his mind, small yellow cakes that fit perfectly in the palm of a child, coating hands with layers of sticky honey and specks of lemon rind. But sticky fingers did not matter when one was crouched in the corner of the kitchen, watching the hubbub of activity swirl around and giggling as the cook swatted away the serving girls' hands.
The same pair of eyes that watched him in his memory, watched him with hesitation outside of it. With a quick shake, David roused himself back to neutrality. He bobbed his head at her. "I do not know if I ever said thank you... I mean I can't remember..." He shrugged awkwardly. "Thank you; for then and for now. That's the first happy memory that's returned."
Some of the coldness melted from Mrs Hackett's face, but she merely bobbed a curtsey and took her leave. David had already directed his attention to the stack of papers on the desk in front of him by the time she threw a contemplative look back over her shoulder. Instead, he sifted through missives and bills and ledgers, piled hazardously on the desk. Those on top were dated within the last week, further down the last month, deeper still several months ago...
David paused, before digging into the pile more earnestly. He picked through them hurriedly, making his way to the bottom with only a few casualties sliding to the floor. One of the oldest missives, yellowing slightly at the edges, was dated – he frowned – six months ago? Where had he been for six months?
Footsteps and the rustle of fabric announced a visitor at the door, and David glanced up just as the Dowager Countess of Namby – his mother - issued a petite cough. The cough was just about the only petite thing about the woman, which would have been an awfully unkind thought if one of the other petite things wasn't her heart. A handful of memories from childhood and twelve hours in the same home meant David felt entitled to that opinion.
He tried and failed to keep a frown from falling into place. "Mother." He dipped his head in greeting.
With a sniff, the woman floated – as well as she was able – into the room, her gaze drifting. The quirk of her lip suggested she did not like what she saw. David noted with an internal wince that her expression didn't falter when it turned to him.
"This room is sorely in need of attention," she said, her tone amazingly absent of the disdain written on her face. "I shall instruct Mrs Hackett to address it immediately."
David ran his tongue across the edge of his front teeth, the sting a welcome reminder to watch his words. "It's fine. I would prefer to sort through it all uninterrupted."
The response was a world-weary sigh, but no further comment.
David rubbed the edge of the old missive between his fingers. "When was I last here?" The words came out more harshly than he intended, so he attempted to soften them with a smile and the quiet addition of "Mother?"
She turned sharply to the side, slowly moving from one edge of the study to the other, but not before David saw her expression darken. "I cannot recall precisely," she said with her back to him.
He did not need to know her to know she was being evasive. David leant forward, crushing a few of the letters as he loomed over the desk. "These correspondence are unopened and date back as far as last winter." The question was implied.
His mother ran a stubby finger across a shelf, grimacing at the layer of grime it collected. She turned the expression to him. "Well, that would account for it. That was when the Earl died."
The earl. His father. A man he couldn't quite remember yet somehow did not remember fondly.
He felt his chest tighten. He managed to suck in enough air to say, "I see." When she seemed unlikely to continue, he prompted: "And then?"
The dowager's hands met in front of her, figures clasping daintily, and she pinned him with her unrelenting sapphire gaze. "And then you left."
The acridity in her tone forced David to flinch away, knocking more of the papers askew. This was the mother he remembered from his youth; one moment dispassionate and detached, the next venomous. In an odd way, the change in her behaviour gave him something to respond to, and a familiar weight settled around his shoulders. Without outward emotion, he squatted down and calmly collected the scattered missives. Rising, he tapped one edge against the wood to align them, and then set them gently to the side. Only then did he look back to his mother.
"Why did I leave?"
One of her plump hands moved to grip the back of a chair, fingers wrapping around so tightly that the blood fled. "You were ungrateful. And spoilt. You did not want the responsibility of the earldom and so you fled like a coward!" Spittle accompanied the words as they left her mouth, but she didn't notice. She was too furious. "You agreed to the betrothal with Miss Holt and then you abandoned her to... to... sow your wild oats!"
That almost made David laugh aloud. If he'd ever had wild oats to sow, they'd disappeared with his memory; the only woman who stirred him was... He coughed to disrupt the thought. But if what his mother said about his oats was untrue... well, it was a relieving thought. If that was false, then it was possible that more – if not everything – she had said was a lie, and he wanted that desperately. He did not want to be a man who abandoned his responsibilities.
Which brought him to Miss Holt.
He ignored his mother's temper, and the roiling of his stomach, to ask. "Was there a romance between Miss Holt and myself?"
The Dowager Countess smoothed back the sides of her hair, her expression far milder than it had been before. "Who am I to say. There was an... affection. And more importantly, there was an understanding between you!"
"Then I expect there is a wedding contract?"
This time the fury that descended on her face was cold, like ice growing and slowly freezing each of her features into a terrifyingly composed expression. "A contract?" She spoke quietly. "Do you not trust your mother?"
David swallowed down his immediate answer. Instead, he plastered a small smile to his face, and bobbed his head. "Forgive me, Mother. I mean no insult. I'm sure there are many details on the contract that I should know, and without my recent memory..." He shrugged. "I'm sure you'll understand why I should view it again."
It was very clear that she did not understand, but she nodded anyway. "I'm sure Mister Holt will have a copy he can show you."
He dipped his head at her.
With another long sigh, the dowager turned towards the door. She spoke to him – instructed him – over her shoulder. "Miss Holt will come for tea tomorrow. You will be here."
She did not need a reply and so he did not offer one. He only relaxed when he could no longer hear her footsteps.
Exhausted by the interaction, David sunk into the closest chair, disappointed but unsurprised to find it deeply uncomfortable. He leant forward, catching his head in his hands and his elbows on his knees, and tried to ignore the rise of anxiety in his chest. There was so much he still did not remember – that he might never remember – and the weight of it had settled in his stomach. He had a fiancé, an estate, tenants, and an unpleasant dowager mother to manage, with no knowledge, expertise or assistance to speak to.
And the one person who might have made it all manageable was about two hours away by coach.