The truth of it

*Zac*
It is two weeks later when Draco comes to call. I have never seen my brother look so somber.

“What’s troubling you? Is it Mother?” I ask as I get up from my desk and pour my brother a glass of whiskey.

“No.” He downs the drink. “Best pour yourself one. You are not going to like what I have to say.”

And I know, damn it. I know. “Spencer notified you of the missing silver.”

“I am the one who pays for his services.” He points out.

“I will have him gone by morning." I huff.

He gives me a sad smile, “I suggest you wait until I have had my say.”

*****

The coach wheels whir through the moonless night as Draco and I travel to London. I have told Calliope that Draco has a problem with which he needs assistance. Her eyes held a combination of suspicion and curiosity. Without words, I had told her that all will be well.

I can only hope it will be so as the streetlamps of London come into view.

“Today it was two silver candlesticks, an um, and an assortment of smaller items. From one of the seldom-used guestrooms. How your mate learned where to fence my property is beyond me.” He says.

“What is beyond me is why you have me managing your estate when you don’t trust me with it. You have damned servants spying on us.” I huff.

He shakes his head, “Spencer reported to Calliope that the silver went missing and she had no interest in pursuing the matter. He went to you, and you also failed to understand the implications. So, of course, he wrote me with his concerns.”

“And then you had my mate followed?”

“Be grateful that is all I did. I could have had her arrested.”

I huff, “For stealing candlesticks?”

“They have hung men for less.” He points out.

I am seething. We should have simply confronted Calliope with my brother’s accusation at the residence. I am certain there is a logical explanation. If she needed more money, why did she not simply tell me? I would have arranged it. It might gall me to go to either of my brothers, but they are both wealthy men. They could have accommodated a request.

“After she gets her blunt,” Draco continues, “she meets Fancy in Cremorne Gardens and passes the money on to her.”

“I think you see trouble where there is none,” I say, trying to keep my voice even, to give the appearance that I am not bothered. But I am. It was shortly after I was knighted that Calliope began going into London every Tuesday to shop. Once I offered to join her, but she insisted that she needed a little time alone.

My first instinct had been that she was seeing a man, but when would she have met him to arrange the assignation? Besides, it is a ludicrous thought. Calliope doesn’t have a deceiving bone in her body.

“She and Fancy were together in the East… at the hospital," I continue. “Calliope sometimes has nightmares. I’m certain she is merely trying to talk it out. Perhaps they are commiserating together. There are a thousand explanations. We should have just asked her."

“My man estimates that Calliope is selling enough silver and other items that she is able to give Fancy seventy pounds each week. That’s almost four thousand a year." Draco says.

“Maybe Fancy is in some sort of debt, and Calliope is assisting her." I suggest.

He raises a brow, “With Dearbourne as her benefactor? The man is almost as wealthy as I am. He would grant her anything she damned well wanted to keep her satisfied and writhing in his bed."

“I don’t like this skulking about behind Calliope’s back. I should have just asked her." The words repeat a familiar refrain that I have been singing ever since I reluctantly climbed into the coach with Draco.

We have not drawn the curtains. Draco sits in the corner opposite me, a scepter in the darkness, staring out the window. The light from the streetlamps we pass darts in and out, briefly outlining the sharp planes of my brother’s face, the set of his strong jaw, his determination. While Draco has always acted older, he still held the physical appearance of youth. When has that wandered away?

He possesses a mysteriousness now, as though the shadows welcome him as lord. It is an odd thought, a strange realization. I thought I knew Draco well. I am beginning to suspect I don’t know him at all.

“So who is this fellow you hired to spy on my mate?” I ask.

“Someone who does the occasional odd job for me." He says.

“And you trust him?”

“With my life,” Draco replies.

I sigh, “Just as I trust my mate.”

“If you did, you wouldn’t be in this coach.” Draco’s gaze bears down hard on me, and I glare out the window.

The scar on the side of my face throbs. It’s been ages since I have felt it at all. Even my leg begins to ache, as though whatever miracle had settled in to lessen my hurts is turning into mist and drifting away. I should order the damned coach turned about.

Instead, I stay as I am, rigid and stiff, my mind wandering over the past six months and wishing to the Goddess the memories I have recently created are enough to fill in the emptiness left by those I have lost.

The coach rolls to a stop in front of a terraced house with an elegant facade. The rent would have been a pretty penny, but as Draco has pointed out, Dearbourne has an abundance of pretty pennies to shower on his mistress.

Draco disembarks and stares back at me. “The reports I have read of your exploits indicate you weren’t a coward.”

I study the exterior of the building. It suddenly seems foreboding. A bad idea to enter it. “Why are you insisting upon this?”

“Because I believe you need to know the truth.” He says.

“And you already know it?” I ask.

He shakes his head, “No. Not everything.”

“What is it you suspect?” I push.

Draco sighs deeply and speaks as somberly as one might at a funeral. “You have been swindled.”

“Of what, for the Goddess sake? I have little enough.”

He sighs, “Your heart.”

*****

Standing in the grand entryway, at that moment, I despise my brother. I have always soemwhat resented him, welcomed the opportunity to best him at everything possible, but I have never loathed him with a passion that has me trembling. Every muscle tenses in order not to reveal my reaction. My leg aches, and I wish I had brought my walking stick. I’m not going to limp into this preposterous interview, or whatever the devil it is that Draco has arranged.

I hear quiet footfalls on the stairs and glance up to see Fancy, packaged in red silk, gliding down them. Her ebony hair, still abundantly thick, is pinned up in an elegant style that reveals the sensual slope of her neck. She is designed to attract a man’s attention and clasp it close until she tires of him.

The blue of her eyes is so deep and rich as to appear violet. I had never seen eyes her shade before I met her. They are exotic, enticing. They promise a man heart-thundering, bone-melting passion. She has become a courtesan of the highest regard. Each sensual movement of her body confirms it. I can see Draco struggling to remain immune. Oddly, I find myself occupied by a rather strange thought: Why the devil hadn’t she shorn her hair while she was in the East?

“My prince,” she says softly, with a curtsy. “Sir Zac. What a surprise and a pleasure that you have come to call. My benefactor will be arriving shortly, so I have not much time to visit. How may I be of service?”

I glare at Draco. “This was your bloody idea.”

Fancy’s eyes widen slightly, and she indicates another room. “Please make yourselves comfortable in the parlor. I will ring for tea.”

“This isn’t exactly a social call,” Draco says. “But it would be a good idea to go into the parlor and close the doors.”

I can’t recall ever seeing Fancy disconcerted, but she gives a good show of appearing nonplussed as she escorts us into the parlor. As soon as the doors are closed, Draco’s gentlemanly facade slips away, and he attacks.

“We are aware that you are meeting Lady Dragon every Tuesday afternoon at Cremorne Gardens. We are also aware that the purpose of the encounter is so that she may pay you a handsome sum. What silence is she paying you to keep?”

Fancy visibly pales, her hands shake, and her eyes mist over as she looks at me. “I’m so sorry.” Her voice breaks. “I should have stood up to her, but she threatened to destroy me if I told you the truth.”

“And what truth is that?” I ask, already weary of the theatrics.

“I gave birth to a son in Paris. It was a difficult birth. Your mate stole him from me when I was too weak to stop her. The boy she claims is hers, your son... he is mine.”