Page 75 of An Affair at Stonecliffe

“Not me yet, but it won’t be long.” He leaned his head back. “Thomas and Horace. Sterling. Dunbridge. Winfield. Brookwell—he couldn’t stand it, you see, when his boy was killed at Waterloo. Put a gun to his head himself.” He looked intently at Carlisle. “You’d better watch out for yourself. It’s after our sons, too.”

“What is, sir? What’s ‘after’ us?”

The older man waved his hand in a vague circle. “Fate. Destiny. The curse. We shouldn’t have done that, you know. It’s tempting fate, gambling with your children’s lives. I’d understand if it was just us. Cruel to take our children, too. Brookwell’s boy was the latest.”

“Brookwell, sir? You mean Milton?”

“No, no, Milton was killed at Waterloo, I just told you.” He frowned at Carlisle. “The younger one. James. John. Something like that.”

“John Brookwell died?” Carlisle glanced over at Noelle.

Haverstock nodded. “Couple of months ago. Disturbed a robber, you see, and they bashed him over the head with a fireplace poker.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

Noelle wondered how Carlisle could be so calm. Her own heart was hammering inside her ribs. Another of the heirs dead? This went far beyond coincidence.

“All I have left is my Timothy, and it’s clear he’ll be gone soon enough. Frail—always has been. We nearly lost him last winter. The least thing can carry him off.” He stared moodily down into his glass, adding, “Bloody Freddie.”

“Freddie Penrose?” Noelle asked. She remembered Lady Lockwood’s slighting reference to the man yesterday.

“Aye.” Haverstock’s mouth twisted. “It was his idea, well, his lawyer’s, I suppose. Freddie’s not the sort to have ideas.”

“Mr. Penrose’s solicitor drew up the agreement?” At the old man’s nod, Carlisle went on, “Do you have a copy of it, sir? Nathan Dunbridge and I have found nothing of it in any of our fathers’ papers.”

“Drewsbury always thought it was a bunch of rot. I think he went along with it just because Dunbridge wanted it. Everyone knew Dunny’s lands were mortgaged to the hilt. They’re a pleasant lot, you understand, but money has always slipped through the Dunbridges’ fingers.”

“This document, sir,” Carlisle said, bringing the conversation back to his question. “Do you have a copy of it?”

“No.” The old man waved his hand. “All very hush-hush, you know. I think that was part of the fun. Freddie’s man kept it. He took care of the money. Invested it.” He sighed. “It was a bit of lark, you see. A gamble. One might have only girls, as Freddie did. Sir Basil turned out to have no children at all. Bloody stupid idea...like rolling dice on your children’s lives. It’s why we’re cursed.” He looked into Carlisle’s eyes intently. “You understand, don’t you? It’s not natural for sons to die before their fathers.”

“No, sir, it’s not.” Carlisle paused. “I—I’m trying to understand...do you remember the main terms? Could you tell us when it was supposed to end?”

“Ah, well... I don’t remember exactly. It went down to all the heirs, grandsons and so on. Ends a few years from now—we had to set a date, because it couldn’t run on forever. Some legal thing.”

“But surely there might be more than one of the men’s heirs alive when it ends,” Noelle pointed out. “What would happen then?”

“Split it up among them evenly.”

“Just the heirs? Not the men who originally set it up, too?”

He shook his head. “No. It was for the future, you see. Doubt any of us will still be alive then anyway.”

“But what if none of the heirs outlived it? What would happen then?”

“Goes to some charity. A foundling home.” He sighed, settling deeper into his chair, his words slurred. “You should talk to Freddie. Not that he’ll know much, but he’ll send you to his solicitor.”

They took their leave of Lord Haverstock, nodding a goodbye to Priscilla. As they made their way toward the entrance, Noelle murmured, “Another son dead? How many does that make now?”

“Far too many for my liking,” Carlisle answered. The footman opened the front door and they walked out, but just as he started to close the door, there was the clicking of rapid heels on the floor of the hall behind them, and Priscilla called, “Wait. Mr. Thorne. Lady Rutherford.”

They turned, and Priscilla joined them outside, closing the door behind her. “I’m sorry. I wanted to say—that is, I needed to speak in private with you.” She stopped, her hands clenched together in front of her. “I’ve never heard about this trust you mentioned.”

“Neither had we,” Carlisle assured her. “It was quite by accident we found out.”

“Of course, girls were excluded,” she said, with a bitter twist of her mouth. “I don’t suppose it really matters; I doubt Timothy will live to see that day. The thing is—well, I thought you ought to know that Timothy and I don’t believe that Sprague died in a boating accident.”

“I’m not sure I understand.” Noelle couldn’t think of a delicate way to phrase her question. Was she saying he died in a different manner? That he wasn’t really dead? As strange as all this was turning out to be, she wouldn’t have been surprised by anything.