by Aston, Alexa
He glanced up and saw Private Bagwell, his valet-to-be, hurrying toward him. Obviously, the prosthetic leg he’d been fitted with in London seemed to be working well.
“You’re moving about quick as always, Bagwell.”
The former soldier threw his arms about Andrew. “Oh, we all thought you were dead.” Then he sprang away. “Forgive me, Your Grace.”
“No, a hug feels quite right between old comrades.”
Bagwell’s eyes narrowed. “I knew that slimy, no-good bastard was a bald-faced liar.”
“I assume you mean my half-brother.”
“That’s the one. He told us you were dead.”
“He thought I was—because he shot me.”
“What?”
“Come along, Bagwell,” Andrew urged. “You’ll want to be a part of this.”
They went to the drawing room as Pimmeline emerged. The butler, ever stoic, showed little emotion beyond his eyes slightly widening.
“It is very good to see you, Your Grace,” he said evenly. “Your aunt and some of your London friends are inside. They will be delighted you have returned to Windowmere.”
“Thank you, Pimmeline,” Andrew said.
“He didn’t even bat an eye,” Bagwell proclaimed in amazement.
“It seems you have a lot to live up to,” he said, suppressing a smile as they entered the room.
His eyes went straight to Aunt Helen. He saw her seated next to George, with Weston sitting nearby and Jon across from her. A man he was unfamiliar with stood apart from the others.
She caught sight of him before the others and rose, as if in a dream. “Is that truly you, Andrew?” she asked as gasps filled the room.
He hurried to her and embraced her. “It is, Aunt Helen. I have come home.”
She pulled away and looked him in the eyes. “Where the devil have you been? Francis brought home a body and told us you’d drowned.”
“Francis is a bloody liar. He shot me and left me for dead.”
He led her to her seat and she collapsed. One by one, he greeted his three friends with tight hugs.
“I knew you couldn’t be dead,” George said. “If Boney’s men couldn’t kill you, nothing could.”
“It would be just like that weasel to shoot you,” Weston said, anger sparking in his eyes.
“Where have you been all this time?” Jon asked.
“Sit everyone.”
As quickly as he could, Andrew recapped the events of the last few weeks, skipping over Phoebe’s role. Later, there would be time to tell them the entire truth.
“If ever there were a bastard, it’s Francis Graham,” George proclaimed.
“Where is my half-brother?” Andrew asked.
Jon shook his head. “He said he had business in Exeter. Left all the funeral guests after we came back from burying you. Or whatever poor soul now lies in the grave meant for you.”
“Business, my ass,” Weston proclaimed. “He and that spineless friend of his are probably whoring away.”
“Parks!” he exclaimed. “I thought I knew him. He rode by just as I arrived. I’m sure he’ll warn Francis that I’ve returned from the dead.”
“I might be of help, Your Grace.” The stranger stepped forward. “I was summoned by Mr. Graham to investigate your disappearance and accompanied him and the body back to Windowmere. I am Brock, a Bow Street Runner.”
“I could certainly use your help, Mr. Brock, in tracking down the scoundrel.”
“Brock is the best of the Bow Street Runners,” declared Weston. “I’ve used him on a few occasions myself.”
“I don’t think it wise for you to wait for the magistrates and their men, Your Grace,” Brock said. “If Mr. Parks rode off to warn Mr. Graham of your arrival, time is of the essence.”
“Then we should head to Exeter immediately,” Andrew said.
“Must you go, Andrew?” his aunt asked anxiously. “You just got home. If Francis tried to kill you once, he might attempt to do so again.”
“I want to see the look on his face when we confront him, Aunt Helen. Besides, I couldn’t be in better company than these men.”
“We will protect His Grace with our lives,” Bagwell proclaimed.
The group of men left the house just as a carriage pulled up. He recognized it as Sir William’s. The magistrate and three others exited and introductions were quickly made.
“This is a criminal matter. Let us handle things,” Sir William suggested. “There are four of us. Mr. Brock, as a Bow Street Runner, is also welcome to come along with us.”
“And have us miss out on all the fun?” Weston asked. “Not a chance, Sir William.”
“But Your Grace—”
“You have four dukes here, Rankin,” George pointed out. “You’re not in any position to say no to us.”
Sir William looked disgruntled but said, “Very well. We shall head into Exeter. If Graham is drinking and wenching as you claim, we’ll find him.”
“Remember, though, that his friend left half an hour ago and will also be hunting for him to warn him of my appearance at Windowmere,” Andrew said. “I think it best if we split up and cover more ground.”
The men briefly discussed how to divide up the town, with the four dukes, the runner, and Bagwell combing the east side of town and the two magistrates and two deputies the west side. The carriage with Sir William and company took off as the others went to the stables. All but Bagwell had horses saddled. The valet would follow in the carriage so they would have a place to keep Francis and transport him back to Cornwall immediately. Andrew had suggested the plan, knowing his man wanted to be a part of things and knowing he couldn’t ride a horse with his false leg.
They set out, hitting up a few taverns and whorehouses, describing Francis to the proprietors. At the fourth stop, the madam in charge knew exactly who they meant.
“Yes, His Grace is here,” she confirmed.
“Mr. Graham is not His Grace,” Andrew said. “I am.”
She lowered her eyes demurely, despite her decades. “Of course, Your Grace. Allow me to show you and your friends upstairs. I know exactly where Mr. Graham is being entertained.”
With that, she cut through the gaming parlor, whores wearing next-to-nothing sitting on the laps of gentlemen as they tossed dice and held cards. They followed the madam up the stairs and down a corridor with thick carpeting.
She stopped in front of a door. “This is the room.” Sighing, she said, “I expect he won’t be paying again, will he?”
“He never does,” Andrew confirmed, drawing out banknotes from his pocket and handing them over. “This should more than cover his expenses.”
The woman gave him an enigmatic smile. “Thank you, Your Grace. You—and your friends—are welcomed back anytime.” With her skirts sweeping, she left the men.
“I say we crash through the door,” Jon said. “Don’t give him time to think.”
“That sounds reasonable,” Mr. Brock said—and kicked in the door.
A scream erupted. Bedclothes flew. A whore pushed a man from the bed. He fell to the ground, stark naked, and glanced up at them.
It was Francis’ friend.
“Hello, Parks,” Andrew said, strolling up to the man. “You do remember me, don’t you? The Duke of Windham?”
“Yes, Your Grace,” the man mumbled, his head dropping so he wouldn’t have to look Andrew in the eyes.
“Where is he? My half-brother? We were told he was in here.” Andrew paused a beat and then reached out, grabbing a fistful of Parks’ hair and jerking the man’s head up so their gazes met. “I asked where that weasel of a bastard is, Parks.”
He tightened his grip and Parks yelped. Instead of letting go, Andrew yanked Parks to his feet and slammed him against the wall twice, hoping it would knock some sense into the fool.
He stepped back as Parks slid down the wall, looking slightly dazed.
And afraid.
“Shall we try it again?” Andrew asked. “Tell me w
here Francis is. Now. Else my friends and I will dice you finer than mincemeat.”
Fear filled the younger man’s eyes. “Francis saved me a time or two. I owed him,” he began. “I wanted to return the favor, that’s all.”
“Not good enough, Parks,” Andrew ground out.
“Let us at him,” Jon said, his tone deadly. “When we are through with him, no one will want to look at him. Not even his own mother.”
Parks whimpered, his mouth quivering.
George added, “And after we beat him beyond recognition, we must hand him over to Sir William. The magistrate will charge him as an accomplice.” George squatted before Parks. “Not only because you aided Francis’ escape just now—but for the attempted murder of a duke of the realm.”
“No!” cried Parks. “I had nothing to do with that. Nothing at all. You can’t—”
George slammed his fist into Parks’ nose. Blood shot everywhere. “I can do anything I like, you sniveling fool. I am a duke. We all are dukes. And you are a pathetic loser who chose the wrong side. You will hang, along with Graham. And burn in Hell with him.”
Parks burst into sobs.
The whore cleared her throat. “This bloke came in while I was servicing the other one, Your Graces.” She sniffed. “He told the man I was with that the duke had returned and was out for blood. That he better leave the country else he’d hang from the gibbet.” She crossed her arms and glared at her former bed companion.
“Where would he go from here?” Weston demanded.
“Bristol,” the whore said. “I heard them mention Bristol.”
Andrew nodded. “He could make his way there to catch a boat and go just about anywhere.” Disappointment filled him. “The magistrates can’t do anything if he leaves England. They have no authority beyond our borders.”
“I’ll head for Bristol,” Brock said. “If you’ll allow me the mount.”
“Of course.” Andrew emptied his pockets and handed over what money he had to the runner. “Bring him back to Windowmere if you find him. If you don’t, report to me anyway. I have another job for you once this one is completed.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” Brock left the room.
“Thank you for your help,” Weston told the whore, reaching into his pocket and withdrawing several banknotes.
“Anytime, luv,” she replied, eyeing Weston with interest.
“What do we do with this one?” Jon asked, indicating the sobbing Parks.
“Leave the little coward. He isn’t worth our time.” He looked at Francis’ friend. “Don’t come back to Windowmere. And you better hope I never lay eyes on you in London.”
Andrew left the room, followed by his friends. They went to the center of town, where they’d arranged to meet up with Sir William. Once the magistrate and his men arrived, they explained how Francis had been warned and fled Exeter.
“You’re right about our jurisdiction, Your Grace,” Sir William said. “If Graham makes it to a boat and it pushes out to sea, it’s out of our hands. Of course, if he returns, then we can see that justice is done. For now, we can take your sworn statement so that it is on record. Just in case Francis Graham is ever foolish enough to enter England again.”
He rode with his friends to the local magistrate’s offices and his statement was recorded and signed. Once finished, they returned to their horses.
“I feel as if you’re the lost sheep of the Bible, Andrew,” George proclaimed. “You were lost and now found. Alive and not dead. I think this calls for a celebration.”
“Hear, hear!” echoed Jon and Weston.
Andrew returned with them to Windowmere, feeling at loose ends. His aunt had a large dinner awaiting them and they dined in style before retiring to the library after dinner.
Weston said, “We will be respectful of your aunt and wait and do our true carousing once we return to London. Once we hear from Brock, that is.”
He shook his head. “I don’t see much of that in my future, gentlemen. I have met the woman who will be my duchess.”
“Who? When is the wedding?” George asked, his face betraying the thought that a wife for Andrew seemed impossible.
He sighed. “It seems I’ve misplaced her. I must return to Falmouth to search for clues as to her whereabouts.”
“Misplaced her?” Weston asked. “Oh, I sense a story here. And that calls for a brandy.”
Weston went to the decanter and poured snifters for the four of them, passing the drinks to his friends.
“Tell us, Andrew,” Jon encouraged.
He cleared his throat. “Her name is Phoebe Smith. She is a widow—and the reason I am alive today.”
Andrew explained how Phoebe had found him barely alive after he had washed up on the beach.
“She took me home, a complete stranger, and tended to my wounds. Dug the ball from my shoulder and stitched me up.” He chuckled. “She thinks that I’m a smuggler.”
“A what?” George exclaimed. “Why, you are the least likely man to ever do anything lawless, much less smuggle goods. Now Weston, on the other hand, would be my prime candidate for the role if you ask me.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment, George,” Weston said. “But truly, Andrew—she thinks you are a criminal—and you still wish to make her your duchess?”
“She doesn’t know you’re a duke,” Jon said.
“No,” he admitted. “I wanted her to want Andrew, the man. Not Andrew, the duke.” He paused. “Phoebe is everything to me. I must find her and make her mine.”
“So, what is this about misplacing her?” Weston asked.
Andrew explained about Letty and how Phoebe had raced off to London to tend to her sister.
“Unfortunately, I do not know Letty’s last name or even the area in London where she lives. From Phoebe’s note to me, she planned to remain with Letty and not return to the cottage. I will start in Falmouth, with the leasing agent for the cottage, and then go from there. That is, once this business with Francis is cleared up.”
“You know you have our support,” George said. “We can help you locate Phoebe, either here or in London.”
“That’s right,” Jon said. “Four of us looking is better than one.”
“We will do whatever you ask of us, Andrew,” Weston added.
Andrew’s throat tightened with emotion. “Thank you. I am grateful to have your friendship and support.”
Weston raised his snifter. “To finding Phoebe,” he said and the others echoed his words.
Andrew prayed the situation with Francis would be resolved quickly so that the search for Phoebe could begin.
Chapter Sixteen
Phoebe wrung her hands, anxious to be so close to Hearthstone Manor and still not there yet. From what Ernest had told her at their last stop, they should arrive in the next hour.
She needed to focus now on Letty. Her sister had to be her priority. Phoebe had spent far too much of this journey thinking about Andrew and their time together. It angered her that she had lied to herself. She’d thought giving herself to Andrew and taking a piece of him would be enough. All that had changed, though. She’d foolishly given her heart to him. A criminal whom she would never see again. She worried that the man who’d shot him would find out Andrew hadn’t died and return to ensure he did kill him this time. Images of him shot, bleeding, dying were too much to bear.
“Get a hold of yourself, Phoebe,” she murmured aloud.
She stared out the window at the passing countryside. Oxfordshire was very scenic this time of year. She had enjoyed living with Burton and Letty after she’d been widowed and watching the change in Letty. Her sister had blossomed after her marriage, becoming prettier and more confident. Phoebe prayed she would find Letty alive when she arrived at Hearthstone Manor though she knew it was possible that she would arrive to find her sister gone. Her heart refused to believe that, though. The many hours of fervent prayers in this carriage must count for something. At least she hoped they did.
The scenery b
ecame familiar and she knew they were only minutes from reaching their destination. She composed herself, knowing that no matter what circumstances had occurred, she would need to be strong. She had survived what had come before and would do so again. Losing Nathan and her unborn child had been the greatest tragedy of her life. She steeled herself, resolving to contain her emotions once she arrived.
They drove up the lane and the manor came into sight. The carriage pulled up next to the house and the door opened immediately. Moments later, her brother-in-law opened the door to the carriage and stuck his head inside the vehicle.
“Thank God you’ve come, Phoebe.” He took her hand and assisted her from the coach. “The doctor is here. He’ll want to speak to you.”
“How is Letty?”
“She’s improved a bit since I sent for you. Thank you for coming.”
“Of course, I came.” She embraced him. “I know this has been difficult for you, Burton.”
Tears swam in his eyes. “I love her, Phoebe. More than I ever dreamed possible.”
She touched his cheek. “Together, we will see she returns to us.”
The viscount led her inside, where the housekeeper and butler greeted her. She was to be given her former bedchamber and saw her trunk already headed up the stairs, carried by a footman.
“Would you care to wash first and then speak with Dr. King?” Burton asked.
“No. I want to see him immediately,” she replied. “Where is he?”
“I had the doctor wait in the drawing room, Lady Borwick,” the butler said.
“Let us go to him at once,” she told her brother-in-law.
As they walked, she asked, “I don’t know Dr. King. There was no need of his services when I was here. What do you think of him?”
“He is in his mid-thirties. Very capable. Not one to act rashly.”
“That’s good to know.”
The physician rose when they entered the drawing room. Burton made the introductions.
Phoebe said, “Speak frankly, Dr. King. I want to know everything that has been done for my sister and her prognosis.”
“Lady Burton is still feverish,” he said. “Fortunately, the spotting has stopped on its own.”
