by Madelyn Hill
“Ye bastard,” he said as he threw Finn a scorching look.
“Would you look at that,” Finn said as he pointed out the window. He walked to the bowed window. The view of the street showed a woman strolling along the walkway. Finn raised his hand as if to knock, and Declan shook his head. A proper lady? Doubtful since it was extremely late in the evening and she was without escort. Yet her elaborate gown and the proud tilt of her chin belied a lowly status.
Curious, they continued to watch her as she fretfully glanced over her shoulder. His keen eyesight witnessed her anxiety. Did she need help? A sleek black carriage pulled up beside her. She looked shaken as a man opened the door and dragged her inside. Declan knocked on the window to no avail. Finn ran from the room and out the front of the house. He chased after the carriage as it barreled down the road as if the hounds of hell chased it.
Declan watched him disappear and knew if his friend needed assistance, he’d let him know.
Now, now was the time to find out the mystery. Find out why his father had damned him to hell.
Chapter 25
Declan wanted to sink into Martine’s embrace. But her peaceful slumber stopped him from shucking all of his clothing and crawling in beside her.
He rubbed the back of his neck and headed back to his study. There he opened the whiskey and drank straight from the bottle. He sat at his desk, kicked up his feet onto its surface, and glared at the safe hidden behind the painting.
What would the papers reveal? Would he understand? He abruptly stood and tossed the painting aside. The safe mocked him with its secrets. He removed the trunk and set it on the desk. The crest would be revealed on the morrow. He trusted his men to discover the owner. But the mound of paper within the trunk was a tricky web of politics and ramblings he’d most likely need assistance deciphering due to their age and the players involved. He raked his fingers through his hair and wiped his sweaty brow. Grasping a letter opener, he flicked the lid open and stared inside.
Lifting one of the pieces of parchment, he quickly scanned the writing. Political ramblings. He grabbed another and another—more of the same. One glaring similarity was scrawled on all of it, the names of his father, Ettenborough, and Broderick. What did these men have in common? He pulled up a chair and began reading all of the papers. Threads began to make sense in terms of politics, but why these men? They were obviously of different opinions on the matter.
A light knocking interrupted his inspection of the letters. A quick glance at the window revealed it was nearly dawn. He’d spent the entire night reading and piecing together his past.
He allowed Finn to enter. His friend looked ragged.
“Do you prefer the inn to my home?”
His friend smiled that lazy grin he was known for. “Nay. There was an incident last night.”
Declan stilled, all humor gone. “An incident?”
Finn walked to the bar and poured a healthy serving of whiskey. “The woman. The carriage snatching her from right before your home.”
Declan furrowed his brow and waved the papers from the trunk at Finn. “You make less sense than these papers.”
His friend looked pained as he slouched in the leather chair before the desk. He balanced the whiskey on his thigh and leaned his head back. Worried over this uncharacteristic behavior, Declan walked to the front of the desk.
“Tell me, Finn.”
He rubbed his eyes. “I followed the carriage.”
“’Tisn’t unusual for whores to escape their client and then have to be chased down.”
“She wasn’t whore,” Finn growled with conviction.
Declan held up his hands in acquiesce. “Then what happened?”
“Don’t you understand?” Randolph asked as he stood before Declan, spilling his whiskey onto the carpet. “The carriage. It had the third crest.”
Declan fell back until he rested on the edge of the desk. The third crest? What did all of this mean? “You’re certain?”
He threw up his hands. “Och, do ye think I’m not?”
He shook his head as his thoughts swirled. Finally he’d know the owner of the crest. “Nay, I don’t.”
Fury contorted his friend’s face. “She didn’t want to go. I’m certain. He just grabbed her.”
Declan placed a steadying hand on Finn’s shoulder. “We’ll find her.”
“How? I chased the carriage on foot, and lost it. Then I searched all night.”
He sighed, then stiffened his spine. “’Tis time I visited Broderick. He knows the crest.”
Finn gave a curt nod. “Aye, ’tis time.”
The men left the masculine confines of the study, urged by conviction and the need for answers. They saddled their own horses after Declan waved the stable hand away. Time was of the essence, ‘twas the truth of it.
Carriages littered the path to Broderick’s home, clogging the roads with hapless women vying to be noticed by a particular suitor. Aggravated by the slow pace, he urged his horse to the walkway and bypassed the congestion.
As they arrived at Broderick’s home, a carriage pulled up. The man himself exited, obviously home from his excursion.
They left their horses with the carriage driver, his face a comical mix of confusion and indignation.
“We’ve business,” was all Declan said to the stupefied Broderick as he strode past and entered the home without any further comment.
“I say, Forrester, this is a most intolerable way to conduct business,” Broderick said as he entered the foyer. A vibrant hue of red was working its way up the stout man’s neck and onto his jowls. When he looked at Finn, fear paled his face.
Declan stopped and turned toward Broderick. “Ah. And putting an innocent man in prison? How civilized is that?”
“Not here,” came a curt response.
They followed the man up the stairs and into the study they’d just invaded the night before. Nary a trace of their investigation remained, which must be to the credit of Broderick’s staff.
“I see you have tricked me,” he directed at Finn.
His friend merely tipped his head and gave a roguish grin.
Declan had the upper hand in the matter. He knew where the papers now resided, and Broderick did not. “So, old man, tell me why I spent five years in hell at your bidding?”
Sputtering, Broderick wiped his brow with a handkerchief and felt for the chair behind him before he sat. “Not just me. Your father and—”
“Who, old man? Who belongs to the other crest?”
Shock, then weary resignation settled on Broderick’s face. “How did you learn of the crest?”
Declan shrugged and crossed his arms before his chest. “I’ve ways.”
He waved a hand. “So you know all.”
Finn moved to the window and glanced out. A moment’s distraction had Declan wondering if his friend was still worried about the abducted woman.
He tipped his head and frowned. “There are a few details we need to clear up.”
“Details mean nothing. I’ll not have you in my home. Leave before I call the magistrate.”
He leaned forward, calmly placed his hands on the hard surface of the desk, his nose a few inches from Broderick’s. The man was sweating, big beads dripped down his forehead and onto his cheeks. “Do so, old man, and you’ll never know what hit you.”
“A man has the right to privacy. And your man here,” he said while pointing a fat finger at Finn. “He worked for me.”
“Nay,” Declan replied with a humorous smile. “He works with me.”
Broderick sighed and leaned back into the chair. The silence hovered tensely. With a regal wave of his hand, he said, “Ask away. I am too old and weary to keep the charade going.”
Randolph turned back toward the room and cock
ed his brow. “To whom does the crest belong?”
He looked to Finn, his eyes pleading. “If I tell you, will you leave me be?”
The smell of fear permeated the room. “I should kill you for what you did to me,” Declan said, his voice lethally calm. “But, being the gracious man I am, I will allow you to live—if you answer my questions.”
Broderick paled, and then nodded so vigorously his jowls shook. “The crest is of the house of Wright.”
That name meant nothing to him. Why did this man tarry?
He’d come this far and would not retreat. Declan placed his hands on the arms of the chair in which Broderick sat. “Wright? Who is Wright?”
The man sighed and waved a hand before he rubbed his sweaty brow. “Let me start from the beginning.”
Cringing at the man’s rotting teeth, Declan stepped away. Anticipation made him edgy as he waited for the man to speak. “Aye, that would be wise.”
Broderick stood and began pacing across the length of the small room with his hands clenched behind his back. “Your father, Wright, Ettenborough, and myself once had an alliance in terms of our political beliefs. We were regarded as emanate political leaders.” He stopped and tugged at his chin. “Then your father began to speak blasphemy against the crown. He wanted the king dethroned!”
Finn and Declan’s gazes met. ’Twould explain the numerous political papers in the trunk.
“After several years, he became more and more vocal. We had to distance ourselves from him and that . . . well, that proved to be his undoing. As each season passed, he ranted more and more. As if trying to tempt the king and have himself thrown into prison or worse.”
The air in the room seemed to vanish. Declan removed his leather waistcoat and rolled his shirtsleeves. The timing was right, at least in his memories, as harsh as they were.
Broderick stopped pacing and stared at Declan. A chill ran up his spine at the cold look in the man’s rheumy eyes. “That was when your mother left as well.”
Did the man just say what Declan thought he did? An icy sweat trickled down his back. “Left? My mother died.”
If possible, sympathy flickered in those aged eyes. “Sorry, lad. She left your father for—”
“Nay.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to stop from leaping on the man and pummeling him to death. What crazed nonsense he spoke. “My mother is dead. I saw her buried.”
Broderick held up his hands. “Just a ruse.”
He stepped back against the wall and caught his breath.
“Och, let me get ye a brandy,” Finn said. He looked about the room. “I’ll get it from the study.”
His mother was alive. All these years and she was alive. All of the years he suffered from his father’s neglect and then prison. “Why? Where is she?”
“We all loved her,” he said wistfully, the shine of reminiscence heavy in his gaze. “From the moment I laid eyes on her, my heart was lost. She was the loveliest woman of our society. Long hair, so black it gleamed. And her eyes, well, they are the same as yours.” He allowed a feeble smile. “I loved her more than life itself. She was so lovely and intelligent.”
He inhaled as the information became firmly lodged in his brain. His mother was alive. Declan grabbed the man by his collar. “Where is she?”
He struggled out of Declan’s grasp as his jowls flapped with the effort. “You cannot go to her. I saw her suffer from being scorned and then when you went to prison, she was utterly lost. I cannot bear to see her pained once again.”
One quick grab and he had Broderick shoved against the wall. “Bollocks. I don’t give a damn what you want.”
Broderick stuttered. “She . . . she never forgot you. She longed to see you, but knew it was futile to argue with your father. He threatened you, her—”
Declan scowled. “My father, the fool.”
A startled look flashed on Broderick’s face. “He was a genius. He just did not work well in society and his radical ideas made him fodder for gossip. But she pleaded with him to stop and he couldn’t. He forced her to leave and then lied to you. And when you talked about her, he couldn’t bear it.”
Disgusted, Declan glared at Broderick. God, how? Why? He still didn’t understand how his father could cause so much turmoil in their lives over politics. “Aye, a genius. Weel, he had me put in prison long before you ever did. Once my mother died—left, he refused to speak to me. He loathed me.”
Broderick sat once again and his shoulders slumped. “You’re the image of your mother. You reminded him of what he’d thrown away. He did not want you punished for what he did, but you need to understand. He was very ill.”
“Och,” Declan said as he threw his hands up. “That explains it then.” The pit of his stomach twisted. He swallowed the rising bile.
Finn re-entered the small chamber and handed Declan a whiskey. “Drink up, lad. Ye’ve earned it.”
The whiskey burned down his throat, paving a fiery path to his roiling stomach. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Thank you.”
“Now, what did I miss?” Randolph’s jovial tone did nothing to alleviate the tension as thick as London’s fog.
Declan scoffed, the sour taste of disloyalty filled his mouth. “My father’s a genius and not to blame for my horrid life.”
Finn cocked a brow. “Right. Is that all then?”
Declan gave his friend a withering look as he swirled the rest of his brandy. “Nay, Broderick has more to tell.”
“What? Oh, yes, more to tell.” He leaned into the chair and crossed his legs at the ankles. He looked relaxed, but sweat dotted his brow and his eyes darted furtively between Declan and the door. “Your mother had little choice but to rely on us. We knew the hell she lived in, especially since her political leanings were so different than your father’s. And she feared they would both be arrested and then where would you be?”
Where indeed? “Go on.”
“She always told us your father made her leave. I always felt he did it to stop the gossip and to save your mother from the shame. And at times, I thought she left of her own accord.”
“This makes no sense to me, to be sure.” Declan strode to the window and opened it. He stuck his head out and inhaled. Better.
“I know. It is hard for me to even speak of it. I longed to marry her and your father won her heart. My own wife, bless her soul, suffered grievously. She knew,” he said softly. “She knew I loved your mother and married her as a second choice.”
Damn, he didn’t give a damn how Broderick or his wife felt. He rubbed his chest, trying to alleviate the pain, the ache somewhere in the area of his heart. All rational thought fled his mind as he tried to sort out what he had learned so far. Still, nothing made sense.
“And where did she go?”
“Many times she cried on my shoulder that your father would not allow her to see you.” He cringed. “That did not bode well with my wife either. I longed to see your father suffer because of it.” He pounded on the desk and spittle formed in the corners of his mouth. “It’s his fault my wife fell into despair, melancholy, without an ounce of joy in her life. I watched her wither away to nothing. The pain,” he choked back a sob, his eyes wide and manic, “the pain I saw in her eyes every day was torturous.” Broderick stood and pointed at Declan, his chest puffed up with bravado. “Your father caused too much pain in my life—I wanted you to pay. I was going to ruin you and he was going to help me.” He nodded toward Finn. “Apparently, I’ve been played the fool.” He quickly sat, deflated, impotent.
Declan laughed, and ‘twas bitter and full of years of pain. “You’re insane to think my father was the only one to blame. You are all to blame. And I’ve already paid, old man.”
“Now see here, Forrester.”
He ignored Broderick’s outburst. �
��Why did he deny her? He loathed me.”
Broderick sat as if deflated of all air. “There had been threats to put him in prison. He promised to stop his ranting. They were supposed to leave him alone, but his illness, it plagued him and made him—made him continue to rage against the crown.”
Declan turned from the window and watched Broderick open the top drawer in his desk. He retrieved a portrait and looked at it lovingly. “Here is your mother today.”
He accepted the painting. As he looked down, he nearly dropped it. He traced her profile with a shaky finger. Aye, she was lovely and his memories of her returned in vibrant color. Before, he had faded images of her smile, soft laughter, gentle touch. He tucked the small painting in the pocket of his shirt.
“When you were taken, we had no choice. The political statements your father had spoken for so many years had come back to haunt him. Never, never during that time did the threats cease. And your father was going to be tried for treason.” Broderick shrugged. “And then he was so ill, he’d never be able to recover from a trial, much less prison. So they agreed you would suit after a large amount of money exchanged hands. If they took you in your father’s stead, he’d stop his political ranting.” He gave a casual wave of his fingers. “As you know, the exchange of money can allow for many to turn a blind eye.”
“Aye, money.” He was dumbfounded. He patted his pocket, uncertain where his emotions lay in respect to his mother. But relief she still lived overwhelmed any anger he felt toward her. “Why the mock trial? Was the judge truly a judge?”
“Nay,” Broderick said with a raspy voice. Weariness flooded his features as he wiped his brow. “Your mother begged us to intervene. We never told her you’d be tried until after you were already in prison.” He lifted his shoulders and sighed. “The only solution was to take you in his stead. And, we never thought you’d survive to find out the truth.”
