“Only that she was unhappy there,” she was quick to explain. “But that alone was hardly argument enough to convince you to attend one of the parties. Particularly in light of the past the two of you share. I did not realize that she was in physical jeopardy.” Her voice faltered. “Do you think I would have allowed her to go otherwise?”
William leaned over to pat soothingly at her hand. “After the duke died, I had Lindberg charm his way into an invitation through one of the other guests. He’s kept an eye on her during the parties. His reports indicated a notable…lack of manners, shall we say, among the other guests. But he felt confident in his ability to protect her.”
“He was wrong.”
“He managed the job for considerable amount of time,” William argued.
“Neither here nor there,” Whit said, shaking his head. “What of Christian?”
“Ah. I sent him a little under four years ago. He’d been party to a particularly sensitive mission and needed to remain out of sight for a bit. I sent him to the baron’s, preferring to err on the side of caution where both he and Mirabelle were concerned…though it would appear I failed in that.”
“We’ll argue who’s at fault later,” Whit replied, though he had no intention of doing anything of the sort. He knew exactly whose responsibility it had been to protect Mirabelle—his. “Explain the counterfeiting. The baron claims to know nothing of the plate.”
“I had Alex plant the plate.”
Whit blinked. “You…what? What the devil for?”
“So you could find it,” William answered without a hint of shame at planting evidence.
“What if he’d been innocent?” he demanded.
“Then I wouldn’t have planted it.”
Whit ground his teeth at that bit of circular logic. “You were certain of his guilt.”
“Yes, but I wasn’t certain how careful the baron might be in hiding the proof of that guilt, and with Mirabelle in the house, time was of the essence. I hadn’t thought her in any real danger, but erred on the side—”
“William.”
“Right. You were to spend a day, perhaps two, searching before finding the evidence. Long enough to see what sort of man the baron is and, if necessary, to insist Mirabelle return permanently to Haldon.”
“She wouldn’t accept the invitation from anyone but you,” his mother added. “I should know, as I tried.”
Whit stared at her. “Did it never occur to you, to just tell me what sort of man the baron was?”
“You knew as much as we did, Whit,” she replied softly. “The baron’s propensity for drunkenness has never been a secret.”
Bloody, bloody hell.
She was right. There had always been whispers of Epperly’s fondness for drink. But overindulgent fops were more common in the ton than handkerchiefs. He’d thought, when he’d bothered himself at all over the matter, that Mirabelle’s uncle was just another useless and essentially harmless wastrel. Like his father.
He dragged a hand through his hair. “Why now? Mirabelle and I have been at odds for years.”
Lady Thurston sighed. “I had very much hoped that the two of you would find your way to each other naturally, but you were taking too long about it, and time was running out.”
“Running out for what?”
“There is less than two years left before Mirabelle receives her inheritance,” she elaborated. “She plans to purchase a house of her own with the funds. She’ll no longer live at Haldon, where the two of you would be so often in each other’s way.”
“She could have visited,” Whit pointed out, though the point was moot, now that Eppersly had stolen the money.
“After so much time spent being a guest, I suspect she would have preferred we come to her more often than not.” She tossed him a doubtful look. “And I don’t believe for a moment that you would have joined us. Knowing as much, I tried first to see if a forced truce would work.”
“It was working.”
“Yes, and the mission to the baron’s was to finalize matters.”
He laughed without humor and turned to William. “My mission to uncover a printing plate you’d made and planted yourself.”
“I didn’t make it,” William argued.
“Your father did,” Lady Thurston informed him. “More than ten years ago.”
Whit held up a hand for silence, and wondered that it wasn’t in a fist, or full of the hair off his head. This conversation was going to drive him mad. “You,” he snapped at William, “told me, not two minutes ago, that you planted that plate. And now you,” he said turning to Lady Thurston, “tell me my own father is responsible for forging it?”
“It was meant to be a prank,” his mother elaborated.
“A prank,” he repeated.
She nodded. “Yes. Your father and Eppersly thought it up—over a bottle of port, no doubt—and imagined it would be a fine joke to play on their friends. They hired an engraver of little talent who’d look the other way for a few extra coins, and they ordered the ink from the same sort of man.”
“They bought the paper in a London shop,” he guessed.