Enlightened

by Joanna Chambers

  The marquess said nothing, and Murdo turned back to David. “When I was sixteen, I told my father I wanted to stay at Kilbeigh. Manage the estate for my brother Harris, who was to inherit the title. That way Harris could stay in London and take his seat in the Lords. I thought that would satisfy my father’s desire for one of his sons to follow in his political footsteps. I knew Harris would be perfectly happy, so long as his allowance was being paid.”

  “Harris isn’t like you. He hasn’t the wit for politics,” the marquess interrupted, but Murdo ignored him.

  “My father surprised me,” he told David. “He was encouraging. He said that he would arrange for me spend some time with Mr. Mure, the senior land agent at Kilbeigh, to see if I liked the work. I was sent to Kilbeigh on my own, in the family carriage. I felt like a man for the first time in my life.”

  David wanted to tell him to stop. He knew something was coming that was awful, and part of him didn’t want to hear it—except that he knew Murdo needed to say it, and he needed David to be his witness.

  Murdo smiled at him, and his gaze was unbearably sad. “One day, after I’d been home a few days, Mr. Mure told me we were going out early. I was to be saddled and ready for seven o’clock the next day. I remember getting dressed that morning, wondering what the day would bring. As soon as I got down to the stables, I knew—” He broke off.

  “What?” David said, prompting him. “What did you know?”

  “I knew that something was wrong,” Murdo continued, swallowing. “There were redcoats in the stable yard, and a clerk from the sheriff’s office. He had legal papers. Once we were on our way, I asked Mr. Mure what was going on, and he told me that it was an eviction. I didn’t know what to expect. Certainly not the burning down of an entire village.”

  Oh God, no.

  David’s heart wrenched as he remembered another conversation, in another drawing room, months ago. David had spoken of the clearance of the highlanders from their ancestral lands. Had accused Murdo of exactly this.

  “You’re a highlander, aren’t you? The son of the laird himself. Did your father evict any of his tenants from their homelands to make room for sheep? Burn down any houses?”

  Murdo had begged him to stop.

  “I’m so sorry—” David whispered now.

  “That day cured me of any wish to manage Kilbeigh,” Murdo said now. “As my father knew it would. But then, you’ve always been such a student of human nature, haven’t you, Father?” He turned back to the marquess now, who sat in the winged armchair, looking remote and defiant. “You always know just the thing to do, to persuade, to cajole...”

  “It would have been such a waste,” the marquess said, his voice clipped. “You had so much potential, even then.”

  “I loved Kilbeigh,” Murdo said. “I was happy there.”

  The marquess shrugged. “Happiness comes and goes,” he said. “The ability to shape the future direction of this kingdom, though—that is something that few men can boast a part in. That is what I offered you.”

  “And I have thrown it away.”

  “Yes, you have.” The marquess rubbed his hands over his face in a gesture of supreme weariness. “You have thrown it away,” he repeated, and this time it sounded like he was coming to understand that it could not be undone.

  “This evening, you publicly disowned me,” Murdo said. “That is not something you will go back on.”

  “No, it is not,” the marquess admitted. “All the way over here, I tried to think of a way out of this, but there is none. There is nothing I can do to save you from your own foolishness. There were so many witnesses. It will be an immense scandal. I have to disassociate the rest of the family from you entirely.”

  “I understand,” Murdo said. “I will not embarrass you by showing my face around Town. I’m going back to Scotland after this, and I don’t intend to come back.”

  “Good,” the marquess replied, but his face belied the word on his lips. He looked devastated. And David realised, in that moment, that in his own way, the marquess loved his son.

  Murdo took a deep breath. “I don’t ask much in return. Only—”

  “Only?” A brief glimmer, of hope perhaps, lit the marquess’s gaze. That if Murdo wanted something of him, after all...

  “Only—that you leave us alone.”

  Us.

  The glimmer of hope in the marquess’s gaze faded and died.

  “Murdo,” he said, and there was a wealth of pain and regret in the word. “You achieved something tonight I’d never have thought you capable of. You rendered yourself entirely useless to me. I can’t do anything with you.”

  “I know.”

  The marquess closed his eyes for a long moment. When he opened them again, he said, “Do you remember confronting me about the eviction, all those years ago?”

  Murdo nodded, slowly.

  “You said you were going to get back at me one day. And I said that was foolish, that revenge only for revenge’s sake served no purpose. It is a waste of energy you could use more productively elsewhere.”

  “I remember it well,” Murdo said. “You said that revenge is only meaningful if it furthers some other objective. Otherwise it is merely the bite of a dog. You said that any fool can wield a whip; the trick is in bringing the horse over the line.”

  “Quite so,” the marquess said and smiled faintly, a ghost of remembered pride. He rose from his chair and crossed the room to stand an arm’s length from his son.

  “You have put yourself out of the race, Murdo,” he said. “I don’t flog dead horses. In fact, I don’t grant them another moment of my attention.”

  For a long moment, the two men gazed at one another.

  “Thank you,” Murdo said.

  The marquess’s expression grew hard then, and bitter. “Don’t thank me,” he bit out. “One day you’re going to look at your life, and you’re going to realise he wasn’t worth all this sacrifice.”

  Murdo didn’t say anything, just gazed steadily at his father, waiting.

  The marquess shook his head and turned away. “You are the greatest disappointment of my life,” he said.

  Then he walked out of the room without another word.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The next morning dawned blustery and cold. Grey clouds scudded around the sky as David made his way to the Lennox residence and the wind buffeted him, forcing him to grab hold of his hat several times. March was coming in like a lion this year.

  Will’s house was smaller and less grand than Murdo’s, a red-brick affair in a less salubrious, though still respectable, corner of London. David’s stomach gripped with nerves as he knocked at the door, wondering what reception he could expect.

  “Sir William said you were to be brought straight to the study, sir,” the grim-faced butler told him. “If you’d care to follow me.”

  He escorted David down a narrow hallway, stopping in front of one of the doors to lightly knock.

  “Enter,” came the voice from within.

  It was just one word, but unmistakably, it was Will. An aristocratic inflection to it, like Murdo’s, but Will’s accent was more obviously Scottish. The voice of a country gentleman who’d played with the local children when he was a boy and been tutored at home.

  The butler opened the door, inviting David to precede him into the room with a sweeping gesture, and David crossed the threshold into a cosy study. Will had evidently been sitting behind his desk. He was already in the act of rising when David entered. They moved towards one another, coming to a mutual halt in the middle of a Turkish rug in front of the fireplace.

  “Mr. Lauriston,” he said with a careful smile.

  “Sir William.” David shook the offered hand as quickly as was decent before drawing his fingers free. Behind him, the click of the door signalled Will’s servant had withdrawn, and they were alone.

  There was a long pause, then Will said, “I see you have a cane now?”

  “It’s temporary,” David replied
shortly.

  “What happened?”

  “Nothing much. An accident. I am all but recovered.” David forced himself to look at the other man, keeping his own expression determinedly blank.

  “You certainly look well,” Will said at last, and his gaze travelled over David, up, then down. Not too obviously, but obvious enough, to men like them. Had he looked at his grenadier guard like that, David wondered, before he fucked him in front of an audience?

  “So do you,” David said blandly, giving no hint of his thoughts. He added coolly, “Marriage must agree with you.”

  Will didn’t respond to that, but his gaze, so very direct a moment ago, slid away.

  “I hear you have a daughter,” David added, all polite interest.

  “And a son now,” Will confirmed.

  “My felicitations.”

  Will nodded dismissively, apparently disinclined to discuss his children with David. “Would you like a nip of something?” he asked, gesturing at a decanter of something amber on his desk.

  At ten o’clock in the morning?

  “No, thank you,” David murmured. “But I wouldn’t mind sitting down.”

  “Oh, of course,” Will replied, glancing at the cane in David’s hand. “I should have offered before.”

  He should have, David thought. But then, Will had never been the most thoughtful of men.

  It was an idle observation, but one that pulled him up oddly short. He’d cursed Will Lennox plenty of times over the last decade, but never for anything less dramatic than breaking David’s heart. The sheer banality of this reaction—disapproving of the man’s manners, for God’s sake—struck him as somewhat anticlimactic.

  David busied himself, selecting a chair and easing himself carefully into it. The last few days and nights had taken a toll upon him, and he found himself leaning on his cane more than usual.

  When he looked up, he caught Will watching him, a fact that made him feel uncomfortable and oddly resentful.

  “So,” he said evenly, “I’ve never been involved in a matter like this before, but I understand we’re supposed to ascertain if the disagreement between our principals is capable of resolution before we make the arrangements, are we not?”

  Will gazed at him for a long moment, then he said, “It’s an unhappy situation. Lord Murdo forced Sir Alasdair to make that challenge, and everyone knows it. If the duel proceeds and Sir Alasdair is killed, it will be nothing short of murder. The only honourable way out is for Balfour to offer an apology.”

  “As to that, Lord Murdo is only prepared to offer an apology on certain conditions,” David replied smoothly. “In return, however, Kinnell will get his apology and his honour will be satisfied without any risk to his person. Since Lord Murdo is intent upon withdrawing from society after this incident, Kinnell will not be brought face-to-face with any reminder of it again.”

  “What sort of conditions?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say. Lord Murdo is only prepared to discuss them with Kinnell. I am merely instructed to convey to you that if Kinnell is willing to explore matters further, Lord Murdo will call upon him today at two o’clock this afternoon.” David paused. “If not, I will return this evening to discuss arrangements for them to meet.”

  Will raised an eyebrow, though, to his credit, he did not probe for more information. “Very well,” he said. “I’ll pass the message on and send a note to let you know his answer.”

  They stared at one another for a long, uncomfortable moment. As quick as that their business was over—it hadn’t been worth the effort of sitting down after all.

  “I’ll take my leave, then, and await hearing from you further,” David said. “I’m staying with Lord Murdo at his house on Curzon Street, if you could send word there.” He braced his hands on his thighs and levered himself up, suppressing a wince and reaching for his cane.

  Will rose too. “I must say, I find it very curious,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Lord Murdo’s announcement regarding Kinnell’s wife. I didn’t think—well, to be frank, I didn’t think he favoured women.”

  David met Will’s familiar green gaze but said nothing.

  “And you’re staying with him...” Will added, letting his words trail off meaningfully.

  Although he’d expected this, David found he still balked at the other man’s intrusiveness.

  “After my accident, I accepted a position at Lord Murdo’s estate in Perthshire to deal with some legal matters for him,” David said mildly. “It suited me while I was recuperating.”

  “Come on, Davy,” Will said, drawing closer. His eyes danced with amusement and barely concealed sexual interest. “It can’t be a coincidence. I know you, remember?” He stretched out his hand and touched David’s forearm, stroking his palm upwards. “I know what you are. And if you’ve spent any time with Murdo Balfour, you won’t be the same shy boy I once knew.”

  David felt sick, watching him, seeing the flirtatious look in his gaze and the promise in that stroking hand.

  “You’ve certainly changed,” David got out from behind numb lips. “You used to be quite shy yourself.”

  “Ah, well, that was back when I was petrified of my own shadow. I’ve changed since then. Marriage can be curiously liberating.”

  “Does your wife think so?”

  Will’s lips tightened, but he shrugged, feigning unconcern. “Her opinion hardly matters.”

  And wasn’t that telling? Perhaps it was no wonder he and Kinnell were friends.

  David stepped back, and Will’s arm fell down, useless between them.

  “I have to go,” David said. “I have other matters to attend to today.” That was a lie, but David didn’t care. Suddenly, he couldn’t wait to leave.

  “That’s a shame,” Will replied warmly, seeming undeterred by David’s blatant lack of interest. “Once this duel is dealt with, perhaps we could meet up? Not here, of course, but there’s a hotel I know that’s discreet and reliable...”

  David felt ill at the thought. “I don’t think so.”

  Will’s face flushed at David’s rejection. “Is this because of what happened before?” he said, “With your father? For God’s sake, Davy, we were sixteen. What did you expect?”

  I expected you not to lie about your own part in that kiss.

  I expected you not to leave me to face the consequences of what happened alone.

  Once upon a time, he’d wanted to say that to Will, and more besides. He’d wanted to demand answers. And maybe, stupidly, he’d hoped for an explanation that he could become reconciled to, that could allow him to love Will again.

  Not now.

  Now he just wanted to forget he’d ever known him. And refusing to answer his question felt like a little bit of revenge for all those pleading letters he’d sent years before, none of which had ever prompted a single response.

  “As I said,” David repeated, “I really must go.”

  “It won’t last, you know,” Will said. “Murdo Balfour might fancy you now, but his interest will fade. He’s had more men than I’ve had hot suppers, and one day he’ll get married, just like me. Our sort always do.”

  For a moment, David stared at him, at this long-lost love of his.

  He was a stranger. A blandly handsome man of means, surrounded by his Turkish rugs and leather-bound books. A man with riches and a well-bred wife and two children already in the nursery.

  Perhaps he had everything he wanted.

  David thought of the old Will, then—of the beautiful boy whose green eyes used to dance with humour and affection as he and David played like otters in the swimming hole at home.

  Silently, in his heart, he bid that boy farewell.

  Will stepped forward. “Davy—”

  But David was already turning away.

  “Good-bye, Will,” he said. And when he walked out the door, he left his old memories behind.

  EUAN INSISTED ON GOING with them to Kinnell’s townhouse, though he agreed to sta
y in the carriage.

  “But if this plan of yours fails,” he said as the carriage came to a halt at its destination, “and that bastard ends up putting a bullet in you out on Hampstead Heath, I won’t rest until I’ve stuck a knife in his guts and ended his miserable existence.”

  “Not going to happen,” Murdo replied without hesitation. “He’ll jump at the chance to get out of this, and if he doesn’t, he’ll be the one to die on the heath, I can assure you of that.”

  His confidence seemed to ease Euan’s tension, if only a little. The other man nodded his agreement and let them climb out of the carriage without any further protest.

  The butler who answered the door was plainly expecting them. He showed them into a large, well-appointed study. It was big enough for both a huge desk and a round meeting table ringed with six chairs.

  “Sir Alasdair will be with you directly,” the butler said.

  Once he had gone and closed the door behind himself, Murdo turned to David, elevating a brow. “Five guineas says he’ll make us wait.”

  Despite everything—despite David’s gut-deep worry about the prospect of Murdo facing Kinnell holding a loaded gun—Murdo himself seemed unconcerned. Amused even. His attitude infuriated and reassured David in equal measure.

  Murdo was right about one thing. Kinnell did keep them waiting. It was almost twenty minutes before the man appeared. He was tidily turned out but did not look well. His face was grey with fatigue, drawn with worry. He couldn’t have looked more different from Murdo if he’d tried.

  During the wait, Murdo had sat himself down at the table with a book from one of the shelves that lined the room. He looked up at Kinnell’s appearance in the doorway, but did not rise from his chair. In fact, he leaned back and propped his boots up on the table.

  “Ah, Sir Alasdair! You grace us with your presence at last,” he said. “But where is your second? Sir William, isn’t it?”