“Then why are you hiding a letter in your lap?”
Her brown eyes shifted. “I’m not.”
“I saw you put it there,” he said impatiently, truly not in the mood for games. “Good God, it’s not a love letter is it?”
“Stephen Douglas! How dare you even suggest such a—”
“Fine. Then you won’t mind showing me.”
His mother’s expression turned mulish. “No.”
“I’m not going to ask you again, Mama.”
“I’m glad to hear it. This conversation is growing exceedingly dull and my breakfast is getting cold.”
Stephen finished a mouthful of eggs and slowly placed his fork down on the table. “Mother. The letter. Now.”
“All right, all right,” she snapped, practically throwing it at him.
Turning it over, he saw Kimbolton’s unique symbol and frowned. Wait. He’d never gotten around to reading the previous letter. What on earth had happened to it?
His lips tightening, Stephen slid a sharp knife under the purple wax seal, unfolded the crisp parchment and began to read.
Brother Westleigh,
We hope this letter finds you well. Although you have not responded to any of our previous missives, it is still our fervent hope you will attend a Society meeting at eleven o’clock today, 635 Piccadilly, and continue on your revered late brother’s great and valuable philanthropic work.
Respectfully,
Brother Kimbolton
Rage surged through Stephen’s veins, so scorching and powerful it almost blinded him. She’d done things in the past that had tested his patience to the limit, but this went far, far beyond that. Slowly, he raised his head and pinned her with a dagger glare. “Exactly how many letters have you intercepted, Mother?”
Jane lifted her chin, but it quivered. “It’s for your own good. Andrew never liked Gregory being involved in that strange group, and I don’t want you getting m-mixed up in it either.”
“How. Many. Letters?”
“Oh for heaven’s sake, now you’re starting to sound like Sir Malevolent. Seven. The first one arrived about six months after your father and Gregory passed. I burned it. I b-burned the others, too. There is something not right about those people!”
Stephen picked up the silver salt shaker, gripping it with such strength his knuckles whitened. It was either the salt or her throat. “That is for me to decide, don’t you think?”
“No!” she burst out. “Andrew said—”
“Father?” Stephen snarled, his temper exploding. “Father is dead! And despite your constant parroting of his gospel, Father was not always right!”
“I know, but—”
“Mother. It is long past time you recognized that I am not a child. I am the earl. I am in charge. You must not do these sorts of things anymore. Do you understand?”
“I understand you see everything in black and white. But life is gray, Stephen. People are gray. They lie and swindle, all the while smiling and calling you friend…”
The salt shaker shattered in his palm.
“…all right, all right,” she finished hastily. “Perhaps…perhaps I should go to Westleigh Park for a bit. Country air is so good for the constitution. I’ll leave next—”
“Tomorrow.”
Jane scowled, a disdainful empress, but she inclined her head. “As you wish.”
“I do. Best go and pack your trunks, Mother. I’ll send a rider telling them to expect you, but I’m off to Piccadilly.”
“Stephen…”
“Long journey. Don’t forget your embroidery.”
“I’ll sew all your sleeves together!” she snapped, and in a swish of skirts, stalked from the room.
Stephen clenched his fists, but forced himself to take several deep breaths and relax. She really had gone too far this time. Burning his letters, making decisions on his behalf, stealing a part of Gregory away from him, not because of any factual evidence, but because of some goddamned bloody feeling.
Picking up his fork, he attacked the cooling plate of food in front of him, shoveling it into his mouth in a way he hadn’t done since the nursery and washing it down with two cups of steaming tea. Damned infernal woman. On top of everything else he would no doubt end up with indigestion now, but trying to achieve anything on an empty stomach was an exercise in futility.
And besides, according to his pocket watch, he had just forty minutes to make it to the Piccadilly meeting.
***
The ray of sunlight beaming straight onto her face was one thing, but did it have to be combined with an insistent knock at the door? And why wasn’t her husband barking at the would-be intruder and telling them to come back when it was actually time to get up?
“Stephen,” she mumbled, without opening her eyes. “Unless they come bearing five kinds of cake, make them go away.”
Silence.
Caroline sighed. Men. The blasted lump was probably still fast asleep. Intending to let him know of her loving displeasure, she flung an arm sideways and met cool empty bed.
She snapped open her eyes and rolled over, wincing as just about every muscle in her body protested the movement. But Stephen was nowhere to be seen. And judging by the tucked in sheet on the other side of the bed and the pillow lacking any kind of indentation, she had slept alone.
Acute disappointment crashed through her. So, this was the morning after the night before, where reality intruded and you felt hungry, thirsty and more than a little bruised and battered. Not to mention sticky. Lifting up the sheet she quickly peeked downwards, grimacing at the sight of dried blood and other fluids decorating her inner thighs.
Sitting up, she shifted position and looked at the sheet underneath her. Wonderful. A lovely bloodstain there too. The upper maids collecting the linen would be able to confirm for everyone she had indeed been a virgin. Then they could tell their friends and their friends’ friends and soon all of London would know. What fun.
Scowling, Caroline punched her pillow until the knock sounded again. “Yes?” she snapped.
“Lady Westleigh? It’s Penny, ma’am. May I come through?”
“Very well,” she replied hollowly, unable to muster even basic manners.
Penny bustled in, her arms laden with thick towels and round, pale yellow soaps. “I’ve organized a hot bath there in your dressing room, ma’am, the footmen have just carried it up. Is there anything in particular you would like for breakfast? Tea? Chocolate?”
“I prefer chocolate. And I am quite hungry. Coddled eggs, bacon and toast I think.”
“Of course. I’ll let Cook know,” Penny said briskly.
Another maid darted into the room. “Penny, should I change the sheets?”
“No. I’ll take care of her ladyship’s linen today.”
“You are a gem,” said Caroline, wrapping herself in a thin robe and ambling through to the copper tub to test the temperature, which was blissfully hot. Discarding the robe, she eased her body into the steaming water and sighed. Perfect.
“Well, the less who know your business, the better. There are still a few new girls who haven’t quite learned to mind their tongues. Would you like your hair washed?”
“Yes, thank you.”
Soon Caroline was nearly purring as the hot water soothed her aches and the maid expertly lathered her scalp with a lemon-scented concoction. Perhaps today might not be so bad after all.
“Just tilt your head a little backwards, Lady Westleigh,” said Penny, rinsing away the soap with a jug of fresh water.
“So, what is scheduled for today?”
“Anything you like, really, but meeting the staff would probably be a good idea. It’s a pity Lord Westleigh has gone out.”
Caroline jerked, sending a small wave of water over the side of the tub. “Gone out?”
“Yes
, my lady. I believe he had a meeting to attend.”
“Oh, yes, of course,” she replied, laughing to hide her hurt. So, Stephen had fled the house as well as her bed. “I remember now.”
“Then again, perhaps today wouldn’t be the best of days.”
“Indeed?”
“Well, actually, Lady Westleigh, the house is in rather an uproar.”
She stared uncomprehendingly at Penny, pausing before climbing out of the tub to be dried and dressed in a fresh linen chemise. “Why?”
“His lordship and the dowager had a bit of a set-to over breakfast, and the dowager is now retiring to Westleigh Park. Tomorrow.”
“I see,” said Caroline grimly, wondering what else her husband could possibly do to break her heart. Sending away her beloved Jane, the only ally in the house? “Thank you for telling me, Penny.”
A half hour later, dressed in an elegant peach-striped day dress and her hair in a loose coil at the nape of her neck, Caroline knocked on her mother-in-law’s door. “Jane? It’s Caroline. Can I come in?”
After a long pause, the door swung open. “Hello, darling,” said Jane, carrying an armful of boxes. “It’s so good to see you, however I’m afraid you’ve caught me at a bad time. I’ve been feeling poorly of late, so have decided to forgo the Season and retreat to the country. But who knew I had so many belongings! No wonder Stephen gets cross when I go shopping. I could already clothe half of London.”
Caroline folded her arms. “Rubbish.”
“Er…what?”
“Everything you just said. Rubbish. You’re no more poorly than I am. What did you and Stephen fight about?”
Jane’s fingers flexed around a hatbox. “Penny.”
“Yes, Penny. She is worried about you and so am I. But don’t try and tell me you’re being banished for a large modiste’s bill, because Stephen would never send you away for something so petty.”
Jane visibly crumpled and stared at the floor. “I’ve never seen him so angry, Caroline. He crushed the salt shaker in his own hand.”
Frowning, Caroline perched on the end of the bed. “What did you do?”
“I stole some letters and burned them. For his own good.”
“Letters from whom? A woman?”
“No. A group, a secret society that Gregory belonged to against his father’s wishes. Stephen went to Piccadilly today…”
“Which group?” interrupted Caroline, her stomach unaccountably twisting. “What’s wrong with them?”
Jane lifted her head, and her expression chilled Caroline to the bone.
“Before he passed, Andrew tried investigating but came up with nothing. He got his friends in the cabinet involved, but even they discovered only unsubstantiated rumors.”
“Such as?”
“Late night sex rituals. Young, respectable village girls being lured onto slave ships. And…”
“And what?!”
“Deaths,” Jane whispered. “Previously healthy men suddenly found stone dead. Oh Caroline, Stephen won’t listen to a word against his late brother. What if he gets caught in something terrible?”
Caroline reached out and took Jane’s hands in hers. “No. No. I won’t let that happen. I’ll speak to him…warn him…something.”
If those men thought they could hurt Stephen, they had much to learn.
Chapter Twelve
Piccadilly.
Such a bright and interesting part of London, but more to the point, a busy and rather ideal location for Stephen Forsyth to be introduced to a whole new world of pain.
The Society knew pain, the full spectrum of it. How to inflict it slowly, to ensure every man, woman and child forever looked over their shoulder for the monster residing in that shadowy place between dreams and reality. How to inflict it rapidly, to punish those who dared rebel or double-cross them. Death, usually, for the dead tell no tales.
Hopefully the earl would enjoy the Society meeting, drinking brandy, smoking cheroots and discussing what could be achieved under the very noses of the authorities.
Oh, those authorities. The watch, the government, Marine Police Force, magistrates, even Bow Street Runners. Some young, earnest and stupid. Others battle-hardened but overworked and under-resourced. All utterly incapable of catching killers, as he well knew. It was an unusual feeling, walking the streets, attending balls, watching a cockfight or boxing match while others lay in the cold, hard ground. But glorious all the same.
In a few hours Stephen Forsyth would leave the meeting and return to the open, bustling streets. Then he would learn his next lesson on the very precariousness of life.
No more rescues. No more good fortune.
Today his luck would run out.
Chapter Thirteen
“Westleigh! So glad you could make it. Very, very glad! We haven’t officially met before, but I’m Kimbolton. Third baron of. Nowhere near your lofty heights, but one step at a time to world domination, eh?”
Stephen smiled politely and shook the black-haired man’s hand. He was perhaps five or six years older, expensively if sedately dressed in gray trousers, white shirt and black waistcoat, and vaguely familiar. Suddenly the memory crashed through his brain and his grip firmed, as to a friend.
“You were there,” he said haltingly. “At Nexham’s. You stayed with Gregory and loaned me your horse.”
Kimbolton flinched, but his blue gaze remained almost disconcertingly direct. “Yes. It is a day etched in my mind as it is no doubt etched in yours. I was, and continue to be distraught at what happened, wondering if he might have survived if I’d done more—”
“No. They told me even the best doctors couldn’t have saved him.”
“Perhaps. But we always hoped beyond words you would join us so we could grieve together. Only those who truly loved your brother, and your father for that matter, will ever understand the wrench of such a loss.”
Anger rose. Something else his mother had taken away with her meddling. “I apologize for my lack of response. There was a communication issue within my household which has since been rectified. It won’t happen again.”
“I understand. Annoyances are inflicted on the best of us, are they not? But come up and meet everyone. We’re not a large group, prefer to keep things exclusive, but we achieve great, great things.”
Nodding, Stephen followed Kimbolton down a long, furnished hallway and up a polished wood staircase.
“Do you meet often?”
The baron waved a dismissive hand. “Only when needed. We have excellent staff who take care of the tedious day to day details of our various business interests.”
“Oh? What kind of business interests? I have a fondness for investigating new ventures and investing capital in them if the books and figures add up.”
“Indeed, you are a man of many talents, Westleigh. We have been impressed with your significant advancement of an already profitable earldom.”
Stephen raised an eyebrow. “Keeping an eye on me?”
Kimbolton didn’t so much as blink. “Naturally. Brother Hallmere, Gregory I mean, was such an integral part of our group. We felt it our duty to step in should assistance ever be required. But really, we should have remembered Gregory’s praises of your talents. A cool and clever head, he said, just needing something to be engaged by. My word he was eager to work with you. Nearly drove us all lunatic with his ‘my brother’ this and ‘my brother’ that.”
Pain surged, taking Stephen’s breath away like a vicious jab to the solar plexus. This conversation would have him bawling like a baby soon.
He coughed. “Yes. Well. I like to believe he’d approve of what I have done.”
“Of course! A splendid effort, unlike so many second sons who unexpectedly inherit, then proceed to drive their properties into the ground or mortgage them to the hilt to pay off frightful gambling debts.”
/> “I abhor gambling,” said Stephen with distaste. “Far too many variables at play.”
“How right you are.”
Another hallway, wider this time, then into a lavishly appointed drawing room where three men lounged on high-backed chairs and long cushioned chaises. The room was an ode to creature comforts; pale green silk-hung walls, oversized velvet cushions, silver trays of sweet and savory food and dozens of painted landscapes, but the overall effect was rather too feminine for his liking.
“Gentlemen!” Kimbolton announced to the room. “Look who has finally come to join us. Introduce yourselves, if you please.”
“Sir John Smythe, at your service,” drawled the first man, a blond-haired, blue-eyed dandy in green trousers and pale yellow shirt with lacy sleeves. His movements were languid, his tone that lazy, condescending one Prinny and Brummell had made so annoyingly popular.
Stephen loathed him at once.
In stark contrast, next to Smythe sat a young man with copper hair, green eyes and wearing an old fashioned set of black breeches and waistcoat.
“Lord Avery Wynn-Thorne,” the man said briskly with a short but polite nod.
Stephen inclined his head. Ah. Heir to the Scottish Marquess of Dunbraedy.
“Can we hurry this along?” interrupted a broad shouldered, brown-haired man with rather cold gray eyes, his full scarlet regimentals jarring amongst the rest. “I have somewhere to be.”
Wynn-Thorne sighed loudly. “Forgive our resident grumpy bastard, Westleigh. His name is Major Lionel Rochland, of the Northamptonshire Rochlands and he’s most honored to finally make your acquaintance. Unlike him I at least have some social graces. How is your dear mother?”
“Mama is quite well, thank you,” Stephen replied, remembering to keep his voice even. “Props up the merchant economy in true patriotic fashion.”
Kimbolton smiled. “Mothers also happen to the best of us. If I didn’t have so many younger brothers I know mine wouldn’t cease haranguing me about finding a wife…talking about marriage, I heard a dreadful whisper this morning that you have fallen victim to the parson’s mousetrap. Say it isn’t so!”
To Love a Hellion (The London Lords Book 1) Page 15
