For the Love of a Soldier by Victoria Morgan Page A

stepfather’s silent glare met Garrett’s query. “What? Isn’t that what had you losing your grip on your drink?”
    Arthur closed his eyes and took a deep breath, as if he could draw in the patience he lacked. “I did not say that, nor did I imply that with my question. But leave it to you to interpret the worst.”
    “On the contrary, interpreting the worst is your forte. Or is that just in regard to me?”
    Arthur snatched the brandy decanter from Poole, turned his back on Garrett, and poured himself a generous glass.
    Well versed on when his presence as mediator was effective versus futile, Poole made his departure but not before he arched a brow at Garrett. Bastard or not, Arthur was a guest under Warren’s roof, and Poole expected him to be treated as such. Garrett would have to lay down his sword and do battle another day. Sighing, he envied Arthur’s draining of his drink.
    A spasm of loose coughs choked his stepfather, and he removed his handkerchief as he doubled over.
    Garrett frowned at the congested cough, noting the grayish tinge to Arthur’s skin and the nasal tone in his voice. Therewas a wild look in his eyes that Garrett had never noticed before. He frowned. The man was sick, should be in bed. Another man might mention it, but Arthur had long ago rejected personal overtures from Garrett, not that he could dredge any up. That reservoir was bone empty.
    Recovering his composure, Arthur returned his glass to the sterling silver tray, sank into the armchair beside the table, and cleared his throat. “It was a civil question. You have avoided town. Made it clear it held no interest for you, nor has much else captured your interest since your return. It should be little surprise that seeing you here caught me off guard.”
    Garrett eyed his stepfather, wondering if he could evict him without Poole’s awareness. Impossible. Pity that, as the man was sick. Garrett didn’t want to catch what he had, let alone have any other exchange with the bastard.
    He crossed to the hearth and draped his arm on the mantelpiece, too tense to sit in his stepfather’s presence—or rather to lower himself to the man’s level. “Meaning, I have been a drunken recluse for the past few months.” He held up his hand to cut off Arthur’s interjection. “However, I am sober now. I arrived last week, but you need not worry because I’m leaving today. You won’t have to acknowledge me at any of your clubs or sit across me at a card table.”
    “I see. So Poole was being diplomatic in suggesting I not wait for Warren. I should have known he was trying to head off an altercation. Very civil of him.”
    “Poole doesn’t like bloodshed.”
    “Well, perhaps for Poole’s sake, we can avoid that.”
    “We can. Allow me to show you the door.” Garrett strode to the exit, turned, and lifted his arm to gesture Arthur ahead of him. “After you.”
    “Still as impertinent as always. But I came here to see Warren to discuss a business matter that has come to my attention. However, considering it involves you, perhaps I should go right to the source.”
    Garrett dropped his arm and warily eyed his stepfather.
    “Certain rumors have come to my attention.”
    “I see.” Garrett nodded. “No, I didn’t sleep with Lady Beaumont, ruin the virginal Miss Peoples, or proposition the Dunford twins, either separately or together. Yes, I relieved bothLord Bradbury and Viscount Morrell of over a hundred pounds each, but I gave them fair warning that I held the better hand.” He shrugged. “Of course, they were too drunk to listen to reason. Unfortunately for them, I was sober, which is the real news. Now, shall I show you out or give Poole the honor? I wouldn’t—”
    “The talk concerned a business venture,” Arthur’s voice rose. “Regarding your pursuit into the manufacturing of ale on one of your properties.”
    Garrett didn’t respond.
    “Well?” Arthur snapped. “Is it true?” He lifted his handkerchief and