His Sinful Heiress [Mature Read]

Chapter 3: A Gathering Of Hounds

London, October 1884

Things were much worse than Henry had imagined.

When he arrived at Westhill Manor in Windsor, it was nearly time for the evening repast, and thick darkness surrounded the vast estate, save for the entrance illuminated by grand torches. A candle burned in every window of the main wing in honour of the late duke; long black buntings hung from the windowsills above the entrance, signifying the family's recent loss and mourning.

Henry reached into his greatcoat and produced a flat glass flask. Uncorking it, he took a hearty sip before stepping toward the grand manor that had housed his family for generations. He was careful to maintain his composure, aware that he needed to manage his intoxication and not let it foolishly drop under the norm required to endure the ordeal awaiting him inside. However, he also knew that so far he had been drinking on an empty stomach.

It seemed he was already expected; the majordomo opened the doors before Henry had even ascended the steps to the threshold.

"Allow me, Your Grace," said the valet, approaching with outstretched hands to take his greatcoat and hat.

Henry had to summon all his self-control to refrain from rebuking the man for presuming his title. The man is merely fulfilling his duties, behaving as supposed to and adhering to long-standing tradition established for centuries, he reminded himself. Taking a deep breath to steady himself, he cleared his throat.

"Where is my brother?"

His voice, tense and unrecognisable, betrayed his inner turmoil.

"In the drawing room, Your Grace."

Henry nodded and, after a brief hesitation, began his walk towards the designated room. The closer he came, the more his legs seemed inclined to buckle, to prevent him from facing the body and accepting the inevitable. Everyone had long anticipated this moment in Andrew's life, him included, yet it still felt surreal, impossible.

Utterly aghast.

The hum in his ears returned, accompanied by the firmer thuds of his heart, resonating within his temples.

Just before he could see more of his brother than the dark, polished boots as the door to the drawing room was being opened by the servant, Henry felt a touch on his shoulder.

"Halt, close the door," came the soft, yet firm voice.

Henry turned to his left, towards the source of the voice, and met the gaze of his uncle, Lord Giles Clarke, his father's younger brother.

"Henry, my boy," the elder man addressed him, "it is indeed a very sorrowful day for us all."

His eyes were swollen and red, a testament to his grief. Despite everything, it was clear that uncle Giles genuinely mourned his nephew.

"Before you behold our Andrew, there is something you must know," his uncle continued, sighing heavily.

"He took his own life, didn't he?" Henry inquired softly, barely audible.

It seemed the second time had been the final one, the final charm in the grand tapestry of life led by one troubled gentleman named Andrew Clarke. And mayhap led was an unfit word that ought to be replaced by suffered.

Giles nodded. "It is more about how he did it, though."

The uncle then led Henry aside, away from the inquisitive ears of the servants, his hand still resting upon his nephew's arm.

"You see, Henry... his body was retrieved from the Thames early this morning when a passerby noticed his white shirt amidst the darkness. If it hadn't been caught by a fallen tree... we might never have known his fate; leaving us to guess what happened to him," Giles sighed and continued, "The family's official account is that he went to the Thames for his usual morning walk and suffered an unfortunate fall into its swift waters."