“It must require an army of servants,” Rosalind commented. “It’s a wonder his lordship hasn’t married yet. Although God help the woman who takes on the daunting task of running that household.”
“Some women would enjoy it.” Juliet’s own domestic heart certainly leaped at the thought. The challenge of it all, the accomplishment! “Wouldn’t it be positively thrilling to be the one ensuring that it runs smoothly? Turning it into a home?”
Rosalind raised an eyebrow. “Oh yes, thrilling is precisely the word I would have chosen.” Then she turned pensive. “The man is unmarried, as I recall. Wasn’t he in London when you and Helena first began attending parties? I remember talk of the newly ascended baron, though we never met him. I didn’t make the connection until now.”
“I remember that as well.” Juliet brightened. “Might he have been in town to help his wayward ward? That was right after Morgan fled from Sussex.”
“We’ll know soon enough,” Griff remarked as they drew up in front of an imposing stone entrance. Their coachman climbed down and scurried to open the carriage door and lower the steps.
A footman ran out to attend them, his face marked by surprise. Charnwood Hall clearly had few visitors. If the sudden brutal blast of cold air from the opening carriage door was any indication of Shropshire weather at this time of year, she could understand why nobody visited here in winter.
As they descended, they heard shots being fired behind the house, and Juliet wondered if that might explain the lack of visitors as well.
“Is that your master shooting?” Griff asked the footman.
“Yes, sir,” the young man answered. “He always tests his pistol designs on the west lawn this time of day.”
“Come on then,” Griff told Juliet and Rosalind as he started off along a gravel path that skirted the house.
“But sir,” the footman called out, scurrying after them, “Mr. Simpkins should announce you!”
“No need!” Griff retorted as he continued on.
The footman hesitated, then ran back to the house, no doubt to fetch the butler.
Juliet hurried to keep up with her long-legged brother-in-law and sister. “Griff, are you sure this is a good idea—popping up on him like this?” Another alarming gunshot split the air.
“I want the element of surprise,” he answered.
“You want to get your head shot off,” Rosalind muttered at his side, though she didn’t attempt to stop him.
“He won’t shoot me in broad daylight before witnesses. That wouldn’t be gentlemanly.”
His acid tone gave Juliet pause. She wished Griff wouldn’t take so much upon himself. She’d never forgive herself if he were hurt. But once Griff set his course, he didn’t waver.
As they rounded the corner of the massive building, they spotted two men standing in the middle of the lawn, facing away from them. A servant in rich livery waited nearby with a large silver tray. Both men held pistols, but at the moment only one was shooting at the painted wood target set up some yards away.
The blond one who wasn’t shooting was clearly the baron himself. No one but a gentleman of rank would wear such foppish attire: highly polished top boots and spurs, puce cossack trousers, a tight-fitting jonquil tailcoat pinched at the waist, and a costly top hat.
But it was the other man—a younger, dark-haired fellow wearing a plain black greatcoat and no hat—who made Juliet’s heart stammer, then pound. He loaded his pistol, aimed, and then shot at the target.
“Good show!” the older man called out. “That was nearly a bull’s eye this time.”
“’Nearly’ isn’t good enough,” the shooter replied. “This lock needs adjustment.”
The voice was painfully familiar, humming through her memory, urging her to quicken her steps.
As a wisp of smoke faded into the chill air, the shooter examined the pistol, then set it on a small table holding ammunition. As he moved toward the tray, apparently to obtain another pistol, the servant spotted them and called out, “Your lordship, someone’s approaching.”
Both men turned at once. When Juliet saw the shooter’s face, her heart stopped. There before her was her nemesis. She’d never mistake that iron-black hair, those devilish lips, that bold, square jaw. “Morgan,” she whispered.
His gaze widened in surprise and then swept her face. She could have sworn that recognition shone in the eyes that had always been impenetrably black.
Unfortunately, Griff heard her exclamation. Striding ahead of her, he growled, “That’s him, the younger one?”
“Yes,” she replied without thinking.
Griff didn’t even break step. Walking up to the man, he raised his fist and punched him in the face. As Rosalind cursed and Juliet groaned, Morgan staggered back.
But he did nothing to defend himself. Coolly he withdrew a handkerchief to wipe away the blood trickling from his mouth. He ignored Griff, who brandished his fists and demanded, “Come on, you damned blackguard, fight me! Or do you only bully women?”
“What happened to Griff’s handling the interview with ‘discretion and gentlemanly calm’?” Juliet muttered to her sister.
“Hope springs eternal,” Rosalind muttered back.
Morgan’s companion grabbed Griff’s arm. “Here now, sir, what is all this? Are you mad?”
Wrenching free, Griff pivoted to glower at the older man. “I regret to inform you, your lordship, but your ward is a scoundrel and a villain. Mr. Pryce has injured my family, and I shall see—”
“Your lordship?” the older man interrupted. “Oh no, you are confused. I am not Lord Templemore.”
“Then who is?” Rosalind burst out.
Morgan stepped forward, blood-soiled handkerchief still in hand. “I am.” As the three of them gaped at him, he flashed Griff an unreadable look. “And judging from your accusations, sir, you’ve recently run afoul of my brother, Morgan.”
“You’re Morgan,” Juliet blurted out, never so sure of anything in all her life. Then the rest of his statement arrested her. “Brother? He’s not your…that is…”
The gaze he leveled on her now was remote and aloof, showing no sign of recognition. “I beg your pardon, madam, but I’m not Morgan. I’m Sebastian Blakely, Lord Templemore. I do understand your confusion, however. You see, Morgan and I are not only brothers, but twins. Identical twins.”
Griff gaped at him. “That cannot be. I was informed that he was the baron’s…I mean, your ward.”
A pained smile crossed his lordship’s handsome features. “No doubt you were. It’s a complicated story.” He straightened to his full height. She’d forgotten how very tall he was. “But I prefer not to discuss it with complete strangers.”
The precise language, the gentlemanly demeanor, the wry smile were all Morgan’s. Yet the man was clearly master of the house, judging from the irate servants now gathering on the lawn to form a protective phalanx beside him. It was unfathomable that her Morgan could be a lord. Lords didn’t kidnap women and consort with smugglers.
Still…
Griff hesitated, then bowed stiffly. “I see that I must beg your pardon and provide introductions. My name is Griffith Knighton. This is my wife, Lady Rosalind, and my sister-in-law, Lady Juliet.” He nodded toward Lord Templemore’s companion. “I assumed from this other gentleman’s age that he was master of Charnwood. So when my sister-in-law recognized you, we both thought—”
“That I must be Morgan,” Lord Templemore finished.
“Yes. You have my deepest apologies, sir. I shouldn’t have struck you.”
“Good of you to admit it.” His gaze flicked to her, then back to Griff, as if looking at her unsettled him. “Is your sister-in-law the person my brother ‘injured’?”
“Yes,” Juliet answered for Griff, wanting Lord Templemore to look at her again. She couldn’t believe his assertions. There was too much of Morgan in him, not only in his looks, but his controlled manner, his refined speech…his arrogance. If she could only read his eyes…
But he continued to gaze steadily at Griff. “Knighton, is it? Of Knighton Trading in London?”
“Yes, that’s my business concern,” Griff responded. “We traveled all this way hoping to speak with your war—…your brother.”
The older gentleman in puce snorted. “Speak with? You have a peculiar way of starting conversations, young man.”
Griff flushed a dark red, and Juliet felt not a jot of pity to see him tug nervously at his cravat. “I’m afraid that ours is also a…complicated tale, Mr.…er…”
“Allow me to introduce you,” Lord Templemore put in civilly. “Mr. Knighton, this is my mother’s brother: Mr. Pryce.”
The familiar name made them all look to the older man. He quickly added, “Mr. Llewelyn Pryce, mind you, so don’t be aiming any fists at me.”
Rosalind gripped Griff’s elbow. “My husband won’t be aiming fists at anyone else today, I assure you. I’ll see to that.”
For once, Griff had the good sense to suffer the rebuke in silence, though not without frowning.
Juliet thought it politic to step in, especially since she couldn’t catch Lord Templemore’s eye. “But we do need to speak to your lordship about a matter concerning Morgan Pryce. If you wouldn’t mind, we’d appreciate it if you’d hear us out.”
Lord Templemore refused to acknowledge her in any way. Instead, he cast Rosalind and Griff a considering glance. “Very well. Though I believe this conversation should take place in more…ah…private surroundings.”
“Yes,” Griff agreed at once.
“If you’ll follow me…” Lord Templemore said and gestured toward the house.
They all trooped off toward Charnwood Hall. Seething with indignation at how blatantly his lordship ignored her, Juliet fell back to observe him from behind. His attire was as sober as Morgan’s had been: a suit of drab and a plain silk waistcoat with a cravat tied in a simple knot. He walked with Morgan’s self-assured gait. And when his uncle spoke, he cocked his head to listen exactly as Morgan had done with her a dozen times or more. But perhaps identical twins would share such mannerisms. She didn’t know.
Once they reached the side door leading into the house, he stood by to let them all enter first. She passed close enough to smell him. Lord help her if he didn’t smell exactly like Morgan—of saltpeter blended with iron and smoke, the smell of Hephaestus, the God of Fire.
Then they passed into a great hall, and she dragged in a sharp breath.
The God of Fire had a substantial arsenal, didn’t he? Hung in menacing row after row on one long wall were swords, daggers, halberds, and a variety of firearms—muskets and blunderbusses and wicked-looking dueling pistols. The servants must be in a perpetual terror whenever they dusted them. She certainly would be.
Had he designed all those pistols? It wouldn’t surprise her—she could see him as Hephaestus, laboring over his implements of fire in a hidden forge beneath the earth. No wonder he—or his twin, if he was to be believed—had thought it amusing to associate with smugglers. “Planning to start a war soon, Lord Templemore?” she asked as he led them down the gauntlet.
He stared straight ahead. “They are daunting, aren’t they? They’re not all mine, however. My grandfather acquired the bulk of them years ago. He collected weapons—they were his passion.”
“And pistols in particular are yours,” Griff remarked.
Lord Templemore cast him a cryptic look. “I take it you’ve heard of my hobby.”
“More than a hobby, from what I understand.”
He shrugged. “My grandfather piqued my interest in guns when I was young. Then my father gave me a Manton flintlock when I came of age, which cemented my lifelong fascination.”
“Manton, eh?” Griff said. “I’ve been going to his former employee, James Purdey. Purdey has invented a new vent plug—”
“Yes, I’ve heard of it,” Lord Templemore broke in. “Forsyth says…”
When they went on to discuss firearms and their relative merits, Juliet’s mind remained caught by two words. Manton flintlock. Two years ago, Morgan had commented on someone’s having “two Manton flintlocks” when he was helping her escape the smugglers. How many men would note the make of a weapon when surrounded by danger? And would both twins know so much about guns?
Rosalind fell back to walk alongside her. “Men are such boys—prattling on about their favorite pistols and gunsmiths as if they spend their days fighting battles in the streets. Griff rarely shoots a gun, and then only at partridges. Yet from all his talk you’d think he was a soldier.”
When Juliet said nothing, Rosalind shot her a concerned glance. “What’s wrong, dear heart? Are you disappointed we haven’t yet found Morgan?”
“I think we have found him.” Juliet fixed her eyes on his lordship’s broad back.
Rosalind’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Surely you can’t still believe…” She trailed off as Lord Templemore stopped outside a room and turned to address them.
“We’ll have our discussion in my study. Uncle Lew, why don’t you go see that the servant brings us some tea?”
His uncle looked at him askance. “Oh no, my boy, you’re mad if you think I shall miss this entertaining discussion. Why not just ring for tea?”
Lord Templemore arched an eyebrow and said sarcastically, “An excellent idea. I wonder why I didn’t think of it.” Then he ushered them into his study.
It was as sumptuous as the rest of his house, of course. And rampantly masculine, too, all glossy dark woods and brass fittings and solid furniture. Sober austerity seemed the order of the day, with one exception—a tall painting of Bacchus leading his revelries that graced one wall. But poor Bacchus faced a wall bearing half a king’s library adorned in gilt and leather. How fitting that a man who showed two faces to the world should have a study that did the same.
Rosalind was admiring the expensive damask curtains and Griff—a wealthy man in his own right—was appraising the massive mahogany desk, but all Juliet felt was despair. They’d come to snare the black sheep of a noble family, not the scion. So why was it the scion she suspected?
He’d undoubtedly shown them in here on purpose. The man was no fool—how better to intimidate his visitors than to flex the muscles of his wealth and power before them? First the guns and now this.
Well, she wouldn’t be swayed this time. She’d hold true to the facts, and those said that Morgan was a scoundrel, no matter how pretty his estate. And she knew Lord Templemore was Morgan, despite his claims about an identical twin. Let him shove his money and influence in their faces all he wanted—it wouldn’t prevent her from unmasking the wretch and stopping his attempts to ruin her future.
She and Rosalind took seats on the two chairs near the desk that Lord Templemore sat down behind. Griff stood beside them while the uncle leaned against a bookcase.
“I’m surprised we’ve never met in London,” Griff told Lord Templemore. “I heard you aren’t often in society, but—”
“Not in society at all, you mean,” Mr. Pryce interjected. “My nephew has an aversion to the entertainments of town. He always has.”
“With good reason,” Lord Templemore retorted. He met Griff’s curious gaze, and his expression turned bland. “As you undoubtedly know, my father partook more freely of society than was good for the family name. I didn’t think it wise to have two Blakelys wreaking havoc in London. And since I’ve ascended to the title, I’ve had little time to waste in frivolous town pursuits.”
Either that…or he wanted to avoid being recognized by people who knew of his involvement in less “frivolous” pursuits. Juliet’s eyes narrowed. “You were in London only a few months after your ascendance to the title, as I recall.”
At long last he looked at her, and fire flickered in the shadowy depths of his black gaze. Dear me, she felt distinctly like a virgin who’d poked a sleeping, smoking dragon.
“I was indeed in London,” he said. “Since you attach significance to that fact, you’d best tell me w
hy. And while you’re at it, you might explain the purpose of your search for my brother, Lady…” He paused. “Juliet, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” Drat him, he knew very well what her name was. And she’d make him reveal his real self if it killed her. “With all due respect, unless you’re Morgan Pryce, our search is none of your concern. Just tell us where to find him, and we’ll leave.”
Griff and Rosalind were agape at her forthright demand, but Lord Templemore’s gaze remained locked with hers, flinty, unwavering. “I’m afraid I can’t do that.”
“You needn’t worry that there will be a repetition of today’s—”
“Juliet,” Griff interrupted, “we’d planned from the first to divulge the entire story to his lordship, so that he’d see we had cause for our pursuit.”
“Yes, but why lay out our private affairs to a stranger? His lordship has already deduced that a lady is involved. All that’s left is for him to be a gentleman and tell us where Morgan is.”
“I’d gladly tell you if I knew,” Lord Templemore said tightly, “but I don’t. Not precisely. However, I’ve been led to believe he lies at the bottom of the Atlantic.”
Her heart gave a horrible lurch. “Wh-what do you mean?”
He kept his gaze steady on her. “Morgan was serving aboard a merchant ship when it was wrecked off the coast of Haiti. We believe him to be dead.”
Chapter 2
She is wondrously like the immortal goddesses to look upon.
Homer’s Iliad, embroidered on a pillowcase by Juliet Laverick
“T hat’s impossible!”
Sebastian barely restrained his groan at hearing Juliet’s adamant disbelief. Bad enough that Knighton had come, but to have brought her…
“Why impossible, Lady Juliet?” his uncle drawled.
Sebastian shot him a warning glance. Uncle Lew must go along with Sebastian’s claims or all was lost. Surely the man would have the presence of mind to hold his tongue and let Sebastian deal with this in his own way.
After the Abduction Page 2
