A pressure in her chest eased. Apparently, she wasn’t at all keen on seeing her father; she would prefer to be safely ensconced in her old bedchamber by the time her parents returned.
“What about Zachary—is he home?”
Hanson’s cheerful mood withdrew like a clam into its shell. Impossibly, he carried himself straighter than before. “He is home, yes.”
“Where is he?”
“Hmm. I believe in the library, ma’am.”
He was walking conspicuously slowly beside her as if to force her own pace to a crawl.
Her pulse sped up. “What is it, Hanson?”
The butler looked pained: “There is a possibility that Master Zachary is not in a condition to receive callers.”
“No—has he taken ill?”
“Ill is not quite the word—”
“And callers, Hanson? I’m his sister!” She rushed along the corridor leading to the library, not caring that she lost Hanson on the way.
She swung open the heavy door. “Zachary?”
Silence.
She took a turn along the dark, dusty bookshelves lining the walls and mindlessly looked behind the couches and armchairs around the cold fireplace. “Zach?”
“Hattie Pom?” An unsteady figure had appeared in the arched doorway to the adjacent study.
“Zach.” She hurried toward him and took his hand.
He looked down and blinked slowly at their clasped fingers, then dragged his gaze up to her face, his expression dumbfounded, as though he wasn’t certain she was real. His eyes were unsightly, bleary and bloodshot. “Why are you here, darling?”
She recoiled from his whisky breath. There was a vast liquor cabinet in the library study, and by the smell of it, her brother had drunk it all. “Blimey, Zach—it’s barely noon.”
He squinted. “I guarantee you, it ish six o’clock somewhere at the moment.”
This was unlike him—Zach usually indulged in moderation and handled his drink well.
“What is it?” she prodded. “Are you in trouble?”
He untangled his hand from hers and grabbed her shoulder to hold her away from him. “Lemme look at you.” He squinted harder. “Well, you seem whole and hale.”
A shyness came over her, and she thought how awkward it was to be seen by her brother after a wedding night even if it hadn’t taken place. Zachary appeared to have little apprehension of things; he was using her shoulders as a crutch. She wrinkled her nose. “What has happened to you?”
“‘Away, and mock the time with fairest show,’” he drawled, “‘false face must hide what the false heart doth know.’”
She shook her head. “Macbeth, brother?”
“Clever little goose.”
“Come now, be good,” she tried. “I may need your help: do you believe Papa would object to me staying here for the night—Ouch.”
The hand on her shoulder had tightened like a vise. Zachary’s eyes had narrowed to dangerous slits. “Fleeing him already,” he said. “What has the bastard done to you?”
“Nothing—Zach, you are hurting me.”
“Ah well,” he said, and dropped his hand. “Either way. I’m of no use here. It’s of no use.”
She was rubbing her shoulder. “I don’t like you much when you are in your cups.”
“Neither do I.” He turned back toward the study, swaying like a spinning top just before it toppled. “A good thing you never pay attention to business,” he said. “Always with your lovely head in the clouds …”
She slipped a supportive arm around his slim waist as he was taking course toward the Chesterfield below the window. The crumpled pillow on the seat said he had been resting there before her arrival.
“I do pay attention,” she said. “I know more than you might think.”
He slumped down on the sofa. “Do you? You read the business section, then?” He gave an ugly laugh, and the fine hairs on her nape stood.
“Very well,” she said. Was there a blanket? He was in dire need of sleeping off his debauchery.
“Poor Pom Pom,” he mumbled. “It said it right there, black on white, that the Greenfields are now the majority owners of Plasencia-Astorga.”
The world became very quiet. Except one voice was loud and clear: Zachary’s, when he had told her at the dinner weeks ago that the Greenfields wanted Lucian’s share in the railway company. When she spoke, she sounded as drunk as he. “What are you saying?”