“To say the least.” Reverend Gaunt came across and held out a hand. “I’ll say goodnight. I will be here tomorrow, but must return to Stepleton the day following. Know that you may send to me if there is anything I can do, or if you again need a refuge. My house is yours.”
Touched, Giff squeezed the hand he held. “I don’t know what I’d have done without you, sir. And I’m grateful for your belief in me.”
A rueful twinkle came into the elderly rector’s eyes. “If you want the truth, Giffard, you are too like my nephew for doubt. In temperament at least. Henry was just such an impetuous fellow. Charging like the bull in the china shop and refusing to count the cost.”
Giff said nothing rather than say what was on his mind. He could regard only with odium any comparison to his real father.
The rector’s brows drew together. “What puzzles me is why he abandoned the hunt for you. I used to wonder if he knew where you were and chose not to go after you. Why, though?”
Why indeed. The obvious leapt to mind. “If he knew I was in India, it’s a fair distance.”
“He could have written.”
“The lawyers wrote, once he’d been granted his divorce. As far as I know, he never wrote. Certainly not to my mother. And not to me. Matt would have told me if he had.”
His uncle’s frown did not abate. Giff found it troubling. After all, if anyone knew his father well, it must be George Gaunt. “But Matthew Favell wrote to your father, I think you said? To Henry.”
“Yes. My father —” the word felt sour in Giff’s mouth — “never replied.”
“Those letters must be somewhere.”
“Not if Piers destroyed them.”
“Which suggests he went through all Henry’s papers when he died. He had no right to do so. Only the executors had that right. I do wish you’d speak to Hammersley, Giffard. He must know if there were letters.”
Giff grimaced. “When we met at Waldiche Keep that one time which started all this mess, Piers swore Hammersley told him there were no letters from Matthew among Lord Baunton’s papers. He said he enquired particularly since it was in his interests to do so.”
The rector’s features darkened and there was indignation in his gaze. “But you insist your stepfather wrote several times. Then Piers must be lying. Or he stole them. Who else had a reason to do so? There can be no other explanation.”
“Yes, there can.” Giff knew his voice had hardened, but it had to be said. “My father destroyed them.”
“Henry?”
The shocked tone rankled. “Why not? You’ve said it yourself, sir. He ceased to look for me. He had no wish to recover me. He may have thought, or hoped, I was dead, or soon would be. Why keep letters to say otherwise?”
“Because you are his heir, Giffard. Henry may have hated or despised your mother, but he had as much regard for his name and the true line as the next man. I refuse to believe he would have acted against his own best interests.”
“We differ, sir, as to what he considered his best interests. I can’t believe he wished for his son back. Nor to take over after his death. He would have made provision for it. At least to instruct Hammersley to seek me out, which he most certainly did not.” Galled beyond bearing, Giff threw up his hands. “Let us leave this, sir. To say truth, if Matt had not persuaded me to try, I should not be here at all. I’ve no ambition to step into my father’s shoes.”
“But you are the earl, Giffard, and Waldiche Keep is your seat. There’s no getting away from it. Will you permit Piers to keep what is not rightfully his?”
Right at this moment, Giff was half inclined to consign Piers to the devil, and the earldom with him. Why should he care? He had a life in India, one he would willingly resume — with or without his title, in spite of his English roots. And he’d regret none of it.
An image of a freckled face came into his head, and sat there, mocking him.
Yes, there was one regret. If he was obliged to leave his flower girl, that would be a wrench indeed.
He looked into his uncle’s anxious eyes. “No, I think not. Or if I can’t win, I’ll give the fellow a run for his money at least.”
Thanks to Sattar, he slept the night through, waking to stiffness and a plethora of aches. Groaning as he sat up, Giff looked with acute suspicion at his henchman, who was opening the drapes at the window.
“Did you put something in that tea you gave me last night?”
“You needed it, sahib.” Sattar went to the dresser where he’d laid down a tray. He handed Giff a tall cup. “Drink.”
Giff squinted at the dark contents. “What the deuce —! Chocolate? Are you out of your senses?”
“The woman made it. She hears of your injuries and this is her remedy. Drink.”