Discovering the Devil

T w e n t y - s e v e n

XXVII

THE ring had been a cruel wink from his father.

In all fairness, it wasn't as if most of the interactions with his father weren't born out of some variant of cruelty. But this gift had been especially sinister. It was not because of what the ring meant to his mother (Harry valued anything symbolizing their marriage very little) or because it was merely something that had belonged to his mother.

The ring was cruel because he hadn't expected it.

Interestingly enough, the piece was a maternal heirloom stretching back generations, it had had nothing to do with the Duke of Fordham until his betrothal.

His mother, as the story had been told, always loved her mother's emerald ring. She was now eighteen and it was her turn to inherit it. It was a bit unorthodox, but when the duke asked for his wife's hand days before her birthday, Harry's grandmother knew her daughter would appreciate it for her engagement. The Duchess of Fordham had been floored. It had been the perfect choice. At least, it had been the perfect choice until it wasn't.

After his mother's hasty funereal, Harry recalled a meeting between his grandmother and his father. Harry, sharpening his skill of listening in on hushed conversation, eavesdropped through a crack in his father's study door.

"Might I have the ring back, Will?" his grandmother had asked briskly. "It's such a precious heirloom. I'd like to keep it in the family."

Harry had expected his father to refuse either with lies or outright arrogance. At that point he knew his father bore no love for his mother, so there was no reason for the duke to appease her family now that she was gone. The duke could also say he was holding on to the ring for safekeeping, in case Harry might need it or wish to bestow it upon a future bride. Instead, his father had simply agreed.

"Of course," he'd said sweetly. Harry had heard a drawer open and clap shut, followed by something being set on a table. "Here you are."

To his knowledge, it had been in his grandmother's safekeeping, probably handed down to a distant female relative. Only it wasn't. It was sitting in his drawer, taunting him. He had so many useless questions. Had his father given away a ring made of paste? How could he have anticipated the request? Had his father robbed his grandmother's estate? Why had he kept it? How long had he had it?

And, what if he'd given the real thing away and manufactured a replica of his mothers for a time such as this. It seemed paranoid to think his father was capable of such unnecessary malice, but who knew?

Anyway, they were pointless questions. Harry didn't expect to ever know the answers.

"You have a visitor," Winston announced one morning.

Harry sighed. Of course, he hadn't been expecting anyone. Was it Lady Redwood again? Or, his father perhaps? He was in no mood to entertain either, especially the latter. "Who is it?"

"Mr. Abernathy, sir."

Harry frowned. If not for his recent wedding invitation, he wouldn't have recognized the name. It was Andrew Abernathy, Polly's man. Harry did not need to guess why he was here. "Show him in."

Mr. Abernathy materialized in his drawing room a few minutes laters. His hands were clasped tightly together, his fair caramel coloring was a bit chalky. He was clearly nervous.

"Mr. Abernathy," Harry said with uncharacteristic warmth. "It's a pleasure to see you."

His visitor merely stared.