Calum's Exile, Page 2
Leigh Barker
Viscount Crispen Lloyd-York looked up from the pile of bills on his ornate oak desk and waited for his father to walk painfully across the big room, hook his cane on the seat opposite, and sit down with a groan.
The only good thing about the man was he was old and would be gone soon. He watched the old man flinching as he tried to find a way to sit comfortably. When his father was dead, he would become the Earl of Ashford Down, finally. All the old man had to do was get on with it and just go.
“You’ve heard about Richard?” his father said when he’d finally settled.
“I have.”
“You don’t appear to be very upset about it.”
“Why would I be?”
“He’s your son. I think you should be at least a little unsettled.”
“He was the bastard offspring of a drunken dalliance with a tavern wench.” He straightened his papers. “I could have just left him to rot, but I didn’t. I took him in, educated him, brought him up, and gave him a life and a name. A life he wouldn’t have had in a tavern.”
The old man shook his head slowly. “Yes, you did all of that. The mechanics of fatherhood, but that was all.”
“What would you have had me do?” He raised his eyebrows. “Treat him as my own? I think not. You know he reverted to his blood as soon as he was old enough. And now that he’s dead, I shall have to pay off his debts. Just as I did for his mother.”
“What did you expect him to do? Your door was always closed to him. Where else would he go?”
“It’s in the breeding. Nothing was ever going to change that.”
“You contributed to that, did you not?”
“Not intentionally,” Crispen said. He clenched his jaw, annoyed still at his drunken carelessness and the trouble and expense it had caused him.
“You had no difficulty taking Quentin as your own when Robert died.”
“That was different.”
“How? Quentin was your nephew, but Richard was your own flesh and blood. Yet your nephew became your de facto son and heir. And where did that leave Richard?”
Crispen held his father’s hard stare for as long as he could, then looked out across the manicured lawns. “This estate and this house has been in our family for fifteen generations.”
“Yes, I was there, remember? But what has that to do with disinheriting your son.”
He looked back at the old man. “I told you. He is… he was never my son. He was the offspring of a whore.” His expression hardened. “I will not put the future of this family in the hands of a bastard with a whore’s blood.”
“Well, you don’t have to worry about that any more, do you? The Scottish rebel has removed that embarrassment for you.” The old man could see he wasn’t telling his son anything he hadn’t already thought. He stood up. “I’m ashamed of you. Heartily ashamed.”
Crispen shrugged. “What is done…”
“It is not done!”
Crispen frowned deeply. “The boy is gone. And I have the bills to prove it.” He tapped the pile of paper.
“And his killer still lives and breathes, and brags to his Scottish whores that he murdered the son… the grandson of an English Earl.”
“If that bothers you so much, why don’t you do something about it?”
“Because I was hoping you would be the man I wished you were.”
“I’m sorry if I disappoint you.” Crispen picked up the bills and resumed cross-checking them against a neat ledger. Then looked up. “Is there anything else, Father?”
“I have sent someone to put it right.”
“Really? Put what right, exactly?”
The old man took his stick and began the slow walk back to the door. “The man who killed Richard, my grandson…” He looked back, but got no response. “Will not see summer.”
“That’s your choice. Please save your breath and don’t tell me how it ends.” Crispen put a question mark against an entry in the ledger. He would need to talk to the gardener. A short talk. He didn’t look up when the door slammed shut.
The only good thing about the man was he was old and would be gone soon. He watched the old man flinching as he tried to find a way to sit comfortably. When his father was dead, he would become the Earl of Ashford Down, finally. All the old man had to do was get on with it and just go.
“You’ve heard about Richard?” his father said when he’d finally settled.
“I have.”
“You don’t appear to be very upset about it.”
“Why would I be?”
“He’s your son. I think you should be at least a little unsettled.”
“He was the bastard offspring of a drunken dalliance with a tavern wench.” He straightened his papers. “I could have just left him to rot, but I didn’t. I took him in, educated him, brought him up, and gave him a life and a name. A life he wouldn’t have had in a tavern.”
The old man shook his head slowly. “Yes, you did all of that. The mechanics of fatherhood, but that was all.”
“What would you have had me do?” He raised his eyebrows. “Treat him as my own? I think not. You know he reverted to his blood as soon as he was old enough. And now that he’s dead, I shall have to pay off his debts. Just as I did for his mother.”
“What did you expect him to do? Your door was always closed to him. Where else would he go?”
“It’s in the breeding. Nothing was ever going to change that.”
“You contributed to that, did you not?”
“Not intentionally,” Crispen said. He clenched his jaw, annoyed still at his drunken carelessness and the trouble and expense it had caused him.
“You had no difficulty taking Quentin as your own when Robert died.”
“That was different.”
“How? Quentin was your nephew, but Richard was your own flesh and blood. Yet your nephew became your de facto son and heir. And where did that leave Richard?”
Crispen held his father’s hard stare for as long as he could, then looked out across the manicured lawns. “This estate and this house has been in our family for fifteen generations.”
“Yes, I was there, remember? But what has that to do with disinheriting your son.”
He looked back at the old man. “I told you. He is… he was never my son. He was the offspring of a whore.” His expression hardened. “I will not put the future of this family in the hands of a bastard with a whore’s blood.”
“Well, you don’t have to worry about that any more, do you? The Scottish rebel has removed that embarrassment for you.” The old man could see he wasn’t telling his son anything he hadn’t already thought. He stood up. “I’m ashamed of you. Heartily ashamed.”
Crispen shrugged. “What is done…”
“It is not done!”
Crispen frowned deeply. “The boy is gone. And I have the bills to prove it.” He tapped the pile of paper.
“And his killer still lives and breathes, and brags to his Scottish whores that he murdered the son… the grandson of an English Earl.”
“If that bothers you so much, why don’t you do something about it?”
“Because I was hoping you would be the man I wished you were.”
“I’m sorry if I disappoint you.” Crispen picked up the bills and resumed cross-checking them against a neat ledger. Then looked up. “Is there anything else, Father?”
“I have sent someone to put it right.”
“Really? Put what right, exactly?”
The old man took his stick and began the slow walk back to the door. “The man who killed Richard, my grandson…” He looked back, but got no response. “Will not see summer.”
“That’s your choice. Please save your breath and don’t tell me how it ends.” Crispen put a question mark against an entry in the ledger. He would need to talk to the gardener. A short talk. He didn’t look up when the door slammed shut.
