Gillian tsked over his cut and offered her handkerchief.
“Out!” Noble thundered, stepping protectively in front of Gillian.
“My lord, your manners!” Gillian prodded him to move. Noble stayed where he was. Gillian prodded again. “We have a guest who has suffered an unfortunate accident.”
Crouch snickered. Charles and Dickon snickered. Tremayne One and Two snickered, looked at each other in surprise, and immediately frowned at the floor when Tremayne Three snored.
Noble growled. “Out, damn you. Now!”
“Noble!” Gillian pushed to her husband’s side and tried to make her apologies. “Sir, I do apolo—”
“You do not. My wife does not apologize to the murdering bastard McGregor.”
The Scot dabbed at his split upper lip and grimaced in what Gillian thought was a smile. “It’s no concern of yours, my lady. I’ve received enough apologies for your husband’s behavior from the prior Lady Weston to last me a lifetime.”
With a snarled oath, Noble’s right fist shot out and caught the Scot on the chin. His head snapped back, and he would have fallen over backward but Crouch, standing behind him, grabbed him and held him up in case the earl wished to thrash him soundly.
“If you ever come near my wife again”—Noble grabbed the poor man’s cravat and hauled him over until he was just inches from his face—“I will cut out what passes for your black heart and dance the Highland fling on it.”
“You can try,” the man croaked in response, not seeming to be intimidated by Noble’s threatening countenance. Gillian gave him full marks for bravery, although she was forced to subtract a few for lack of common sense. One didn’t beard the Black Earl in this sort of a mood unless one had a death wish. “You can try, but we both know what will happen. You’ve tried to best me before, Weston, and failed. What makes you think you can do it now?”
Noble’s fingers tightened on the cravat. McGregor’s face turned red beneath the blood, and he struggled to free his arms from Crouch’s grasp.
“Now I have something worth fighting for. I warn you, McGregor, stay out of my life or prepare to forfeit your own.”
Noble released him so suddenly that the Scotsman would have hit the floor if Crouch hadn’t been holding him.
“Get rid of this rubbish, Crouch,” Noble said, and turned on his heel for the library.
“Did you think I would forget so easily, Weston? Do you think I will allow you to murder another innocent woman the way you did Elizabeth? Do you think I’ll let you torture this woman the way you did your first—”
Gillian flinched when one of the Tremaynes, who was assisting Crouch help the gentleman speeler out the door, accidentally shoved his elbow in the poor man’s mouth. She made a mental note to have a talk with the staff about the manner in which they helped wounded guests down the front steps, then turned to face the library. If Noble thought he was going to let that scene pass without comment, he could just think again!
She poked her head around the door. Noble had his back to her. She was about to speak when he slammed his fist down on the desk.
Oh, dear. He didn’t even flinch, and she was sure that had to hurt. She closed the door softly and eyed the members of the staff, engaged in cleaning up the mess on the hall floor. They suddenly refused to meet her gaze and attempted, with the exception of the Tremayne sleeping on the floor, to escape her presence.
“Tremayne Two.” She pointed at the butler. “I should like to speak with you.”
“Certainly, my lady,” he replied, tugging down his sleeves and straightening his neck cloth. “I shall be with you as soon as I have assisted Mr. Crouch.”
“Now, Tremayne.” Gillian frowned and tried to imitate Noble at his most haughty. It wasn’t a very successful imitation, but it did the job. Tremayne made one or two more attempts to escape but followed with lagging steps after Gillian as she went upstairs to her small sitting room.
“You’ve been with Lord Weston the longest.” She attempted to keep her voice stern, but the butler’s long face was making her feel like the meanest sort of ogre. “You may tell me what that scene in the hallway was about.”
“Actually, Hippy has been with his lordship the longest,” Tremayne said, shuffling his feet.
“Hippy?”
“Hippocratus. My eldest brother, his lordship’s head coachman. Mother was of a classical bend of mind.”
“I see. And…ah…I cannot help but asking, but Tremayne the valet…?”
“Plutarch, my lady.”
“No, truly? Well, that is different. And you?”
Tremayne lifted his chin and stared down his nose at her. “Odysseus, my lady.”
Gillian considered this new bit of information and tried very hard not to allow the slightest peep of laughter to escape her. She swallowed hard several times and eventually was able to speak without her lips twitching.
“I cannot help but notice, Tremayne, that there appears to be an argument between you and your two brothers. Would you care to tell me why that is?”
Tremayne shuffled his feet and cleared his throat. “It’s a bit of a long story, madam.”
Gillian cast a glance at the carriage clock on the mantel. “I don’t have time for a long story, Tremayne Two, so if you could abridge it, I would be most grateful.”
The butler cleared his throat again and clasped his hands before him, much in the manner of a small boy about to recite his lesson. Gillian sat back with a sigh. Evidently she was not to have the abridged version.
“It began many years ago, madam, when we lived in Oxfordshire. There lived in the house next to ours a sweet girl by the name of Clara…”
“Ah, a woman is involved!” Gillian said with satisfaction. “I do love a story with plenty of romance. How old was this sweet Clara?”
“At the time of the Misunderstanding she was eight, my lady.”
Gillan stared. “Eight? Not eighteen, but eight?”
“Yes, my lady. It was a very long time ago, as I said.”
“What on earth could have happened to cause such a rift between three brothers that you must battle with them to this very day?”
Tremayne looked pained. “She — that is, Clara — promised to attend the fair with me, my lady.”
“And I take it she did not keep that engagement?”
“No, my lady.”
“Did she attend with One?”
“No, my lady.”
“Three?”
“No, my lady. She attended the fair in the company of one Jabez Willson.”
Gillian felt a little dizzy. “Then why,” she asked carefully, “are you still fighting if she slighted you all evenly?”
“That is a good question, my lady.”
Gillian waited for him to say more, but nothing else was forthcoming. “And?” she prompted.
“I’m afraid we can no longer remember.”
Gillian fought the urge to throttle him, decided not to pursue the origin of the feud, and turned back to her original question. “The gentleman speeler in the hall, Tremayne, who was he?”
“That would be Alasdair McGregor, my lady. He has recently become Lord Carlisle.”
“Yes, well, that tells me who he is, but not who he is, if you understand.”
Tremayne looked confused.
“What is his history with Lord Weston?”
Tremayne looked stubborn.
“Why is Lord Weston so angry with him?”
Tremayne looked unsure.
Gillian frowned at him and was about to speak quite harshly when he gave a little shrug and sighed. “Lord Carlisle is an old acquaintance of Lord Weston, my lady.”
“And?”
“They had a falling out five years ago.”