“Shut your mouth, you stupid bitch.”
“No,” Mouse pressed on. “I know all about your machinations. You couldn’t stand it, could you? Because despite how my uncle treated me, he loved Bertie.”
“You don’t know anything. Your uncle was a blubbering fool when I last saw him. It took mere moments to convince him to write me into his will.” Carlyle’s eyes went wide, like a startled horse, and his body curled downward into itself, despite his bold words.
“Moments and a fair amount of blackmail, I’m sure. Wasn’t that your trick for manipulating Bertie before Roger caught on?”
“Your Bertie was a deviant,” Carlyle snarled.
“Keep his name out of your mouth,” Mouse hissed back.
“He was a perverted, twisted accident of nature, and yet the entire world loved him: the boys at the college, the teachers, and even his father. They all knew what he was in the end and still loved him. How could I possibly be the only one who saw him for what he really was?”
“I know who Bertie was. He was kind, smart, and loving,” Mouse said, her voice raw. “And he is still loved. He still wins, even in death.”
“Ah,” Carlyle said, his face twisted into a feral form halfway between a grin and a scowl. “But you still do not see. I’ve won. The house is mine, the title is mine, and best of all, your silence is mine.”
Mouse scoffed. “What are you talking about? I won’t let you do what you did to my cousin to someone else.”
“You seem very sure of yourself.”
“There is nothing left for you to hold over me. Thistlemarsh is lost, and Bertie is dead. He is beyond the reach of archaic laws and ignorant social stigma. How exactly do you think you can stop me from telling people about your blackmail of my uncle? I think the War Office generally frowns on that sort of thing from their officers, but if they will not believe it, the papers will be only too happy to have the story. I am sure your father will dislike that.”
“You understand nothing. I did not use Bertie’s perversity to blackmail Lord Dewhurst. Bertie was already dead, and Lord Dewhurst would throw himself on the sword rather than bow to me. No, it was the name of his son’s lover that struck fear into his heart.”
Mouse froze, and Carlyle read her face as easily as newsprint.
“You know as well, then. Your uncle certainly did. He was only too happy to comply when I threatened to come forward, as I am sure you will be. I suspect that Reverend John Martin’s parishioners would be less accommodating than your uncle was, should they find outwhathe is.”
In the furnace of her belly, Mouse’s fear melted into a hot core of disgust that tightened her fist and rooted her in place. When she spoke, her words were crisp.
“You are pathetic.”
Carlyle stood and was halfway to her in the blink of an eye. Mouse rushed forward to meet him.
“Hit me, then, you toffee-nosed bastard.” Her father’s accent bloomed in her words, like flowers unfolding in the sun’s heat. “Hit me, knowing that you can’t hurt me in any way that matters. Knowing that, all things being equal between us, you would still lose.”
Carlyle faltered, trembling.
“You were right,” he said. “This conversation was a waste of time.”
He took deliberate steps to the door, then turned back to her.
“I will return at the end of the week. Make sure you and your possessions are not here to greet me.” He dug a piece of paper from his pocket, tipping it toward her. “I will know if anything is missing that belongs to the house.”
He opened the door. Thornwood filled the space as soon as it swung out fully. Carlyle bowed and motioned for Thornwood to move into the room.
“It was lovely to see you again, Mouse.” With that parting jab, he closed the door behind him, leaving Mouse and Thornwood alone.
24
Mouse wilted, her courage evaporating. Thornwood took her shoulders, steering her to the chair behind the desk.
“It’s over,” Mouse whispered.
“Just let me think,” Thornwood said, pacing the room. He reminded Mouse of a cornered dog, trapped and ready to bite. Or perhaps she was projecting.
“It is over,” she repeated, more loudly this time. “We lost because of my uncle’s bloody animal trophies and our own stupidity.”