Edith paused, her gaze steady on Sinclair. “So I thought, my boy, that it’s time we had a talk.”
Edith waited, but Sinclair made no response. Lifting her teacup, she sipped. Sinclair had taken a cup but hadn’t drunk; as Deverell watched, he slowly laid the cup and saucer aside on a table to his right.
The movement caught Deverell’s attention, set his instincts quivering. It was not just graceful but controlled—too controlled. Oh, yes, Sinclair was far more than he seemed. Had he forgotten Deverell was watching? Or had he not realized how revealing such minor honest gestures could be?
Given Sinclair’s age, Deverell suspected the latter. Given Sinclair’s intelligence, he felt sure of it.
Balancing her cup on her saucer, Edith continued. She was no longer looking at Sinclair. “Lowther was always a weak man. His weakness—his coldness, his lack of proper feeling—was what he had in common with your father. It was what made them such close friends. But while Lowther was clever enough, your father was brilliant.” She glanced at Sinclair. “Everyone who met him knew it—the depth and breadth of his mind was undeniable.
“Unfortunately, however, he had no real ability to connect with the world beyond his intellect. He had no notion of other people, or society in general, no empathy whatever. He was the third son of a viscount yet had not the faintest concept of morals, ethics, or even propriety. He could speak nine languages fluently but couldn’t comprehend that the world was real and did not revolve about him. Lowther, as I said, was similar, although he hid it far better. Your father, however—for him his salvation came in the form of your mother.
“She was his anchor, his link with the world. He would listen to her, and because he truly loved her—and for no other reason at all—he would do what she asked, to please her. Despite his flaws, he was generous in his love and totally committed to her. Together, with her acting as his conscience, he became for a brief time the brilliant scholar and philosopher he should have been.”
Edith paused; her voice lowered and Deverell had to strain his ears. “There was, of course, a price, and in some ways that price was your isolation. Your mother never meant to neglect you, but your father’s demands on her time and attention were constant and unceasing, so you were—in hindsight most unwisely—left much to yourself. And then they were gone—the brief flash ended with a carriage accident, and unhappily you were left to Lowther’s care.”
She looked directly at Sinclair. “Many of us tried to look in on you at first, but with your father’s death Lowther became even more cold and distant, and less amenable to society’s pressures. So you grew up alone with him your only guide. Looking back, that was something we—those of us who knew your parents—never should have allowed. But we never saw you, not since you were six, so didn’t realize…”
Edith paused, then set aside cup and saucer and faced Sinclair. “I’m one of the few still alive who knew both your parents well. You’re brilliant like your father—oh, you needn’t try to hide it, and it’s far too late to deny it—it shines in your eyes for any who know the signs to see. Knowing that, knowing Lowther and his limitations…well, my boy, it’s hard to imagine he was the one who thought up the recent scheme, and not you. Regardless, I’m quite sure you have enough of your mother in you that it wasn’t you who set the scheme in motion—that was Lowther—but the scheme I’ve heard described has the stamp of your mind on it, not his.”
There was not a sound in the room; at the other end, Deverell stood transfixed.
“As matters stand,” Edith continued, “the authorities have been lenient over your involvement. They’ve given you a chance—one I hope you see for what it is. Listen to me, Malcolm, for I’ve seen your kind before and few others ever have. You need to control the products of your intellect. You will always see opportunity and possibility where others see none, but too often your schemes will ride roughshod over the rights and indeed the lives of others. Unlike your father, you will see that—but like him, you won’t really care. You will very likely not indulge in such schemes yourself—you have no pressing reason to—but you will be tempted, as you were with Lowther, to let others try them, if for no other reason than to see if they work.”
Sinclair’s stillness, complete and absolute, his attention locked on Edith, proved beyond doubt the acuity of Edith’s words.
Studying Sinclair’s face, Edith nodded. “Yes, I can see that in you, too. So consider this a warning—in all likelihood it will be the only one you’ll ever receive. Stay on the straight and narrow. You’re stronger than your father—you recognize right from wrong. Don’t let your brilliance seduce you into letting the schemes your brain devises become reality, thus harming others, albeit at arm’s length. Just because blame can never be sheeted home to you does not absolve you of it.”
Edith sat back, eyes on Sinclair’s face. After a moment, she said, “There’s nothing more I can say, for you understand me perfectly. When next temptation comes your way, let it pass by.”
A long moment passed in which neither Sinclair nor Edith moved, then she said, “Thank you for coming. Paignton will see you out.”
Sinclair rose, as did Edith.
To Deverell’s surprise, Sinclair hesitated, then bowed—gracefully, without the assumed awkwardness of youth. “Ma’am.”
He turned and started toward Deverell, who strolled to wait by the door.
Deverell watched Sinclair draw nearer, saw the softening of his face as his youthful, vague, rather diffident mask slid back into place. His stride changed, too, less confident, more hesitant.
By the time Sinclair reached him, there was no hint of the dangerous man he knew Edith had faced.
Before the door, Sinclair paused and glanced back. Edith had risen and walked to her writing desk before the window; as they watched, she picked up her diary—a slim volume clasped between engraved silver plates with a large cabuchon amethyst adorning the front cover—then sat and, opening the diary, holding back a page, she reached for her pen.
Turning, Sinclair nodded vaguely in Deverell’s direction. Without meeting his eyes, he allowed Deverell to show him out of the house.
Deverell spoke with Christian, then consulted with Dalziel, but they concluded that the official stance on Malcolm Sinclair was correct. Edith’s conjecture that the scheme was the fruit of Sinclair’s brain was hardly proof, and even she felt certain it had been Lowther, and not Sinclair, who had put it into action. Indeed, Lowther himself had confirmed Sinclair’s lackey status.
“The man may have criminal ideas,” Dalziel said, “but that’s no crime.”
“Just as long as he does nothing to convert theory into practice.” Deverell met Dalziel’s, then Christian’s, eyes. They needed no words to know what each of them was thinking.
Malcolm Sinclair would bear watching.
Paignton Hall, Devon
Three weeks later
They were married in the chapel of his castle—an ancient place encapsulated within a much more modern structure.