30. A Promising Start

                                    

                                              
            
                          
Breakfast. So significant for a healthy life. The most important meal of the day, they said. 
                          
Or maybe the most deadly?

                          
The Marquess Ambrose stepped into the room, accompanied by utter silence. He was a tall man – nearly as tall as his son – and might, long ago, have been as perfectly beautiful. But long years had eaten furrows into his face, and his waistcoat bulged over an impressive paunch. Still, his eyes...
                          
His eyes were exactly the same as those of Mr Ambrose.
                          
The same ice.
                          
The same darkness.
                          
The same iron will.
                          
All innocents duck.  Let the battle of the titans begin.
                          
Adaira seemed to share my thoughts. Beside me, she took a tentative step back.
                          
'Pardon my delay in joining you, my dear guests,' the Marquess said in a voice as warm and welcoming as an arctic blizzard. 'Important matters kept me detained. However, now that I have been able to join you, let me personally welcome you to Battlewood Hall. Consider my house yours for the duration of your stay. Breakfast will be served in a moment. Please be patient while I greet a...very special guest.' His gaze returned from his guests to Mr Ambrose. 'Someone I haven't seen in a very, very long time.'
                          
No one dared object as the Marquess stepped towards Mr Ambrose, lowering his head about half an inch.
                          
'Son.'
                          
Mr Ambrose lowered his head as well – no more than a quarter of an inch, at most.
                          
'Father.'
                          
Silence.
                          
And more silence.
                          
It stretched out like an insurmountable precipice between the two great men, becoming wider, deeper and more deadly with every passing second – while Lord Dalgliesh stood a little way away, watching. The corners of his mouth were twitching.
                          
'William!' Trying to force a brave smile onto her lips, Lady Samantha stepped right into the middle of the deadly crevice, gazing up at her husband. 'You're here! It was most inconsiderate of you to remain absent and leave it to me to greet all our guests.'
                          
'My apologies, my dear.' The Marquess didn't sound particularly apologetic. He didn't even glance at her. His eyes were still riveted to those of his son, fighting a silent battle of wills. 'As I said – I had some important matters to attend to over the last few days. Besides...' His eyes bored into Mr Ambrose with renewed force. 'I had hoped that certain guests of mine would not object to climbing a few insignificant stairs to see me again after so many years.'
                          
'That is the problem with hopes one has of relatives,' Mr Ambrose shot back, his eyes narrowing infinitesimally. 'They are so often disappointed.'
                          
'Marquess! Such a pleasure to see you again, after such a long time.'
                          
Two pairs of sea-coloured eyes broke contact and flicked to the speaker who had dared to interrupt. Lord Dalgliesh didn't flinch under the double onslaught of ice. He didn't even shiver. One brilliant, shark-like smile deflected everything.
                          
'Lord Dalgliesh.' The Marquess inclined his head. It did not escape my notice that he bowed significantly lower than he had for his own son. My hand suddenly itched to reach out and slap the old man across the face. But since I was not suicidal, I refrained. It would have been madness enough to get involved before, when there were only two people wanting to kill each other. But now? By the looks of it, there were three people, each of which wanted to kill the two others – the only reason all were still alive being that no one could decide on whom to murder first.