“His Grace and the earl had many successful ventures together.” The older man dropped the paper and massaged the bridge of his nose. “Every investment proposal had to be cleared through the late duke, as the controlling partner, so he was the ultimate decision maker. I always suspected Lord Rockhaven resented it.”
Declan’s forehead furrowed. “Why do you say that?”
Sanders tilted his head, his eyes unfocused. “Well, the duchess refused to allow your brother to do business with Lord Rockhaven for many years after your father’s death. Legally, she had no say in the affairs of the partnership, but your brother held her in the highest esteem and would not go against her wishes.” He looked up at Declan. “The earl had capital funds locked up in the partnership and, from my understanding, was quite upset.”
“I’m assuming her reasoning stems from the disastrous shipping venture and its horrible consequences.”
“I was not privy to her reasons, but your explanation seems most likely.”
Declan’s mother had never been fond of the earl, and in the days after his father’s death, her words about him were particularly filled with vitriol.
With a shake of his head, Declan realized Sanders had continued to speak.
“… So it wasn’t until after her death that His Grace finally consented to Lord Rockhaven’s proposals.”
“I understood the family coffers were emptied paying back the victims, and everything but the entailed property was seized. Without active ventures generating a profit, wouldn’t the dukedom have been on the brink of ruination?”
“Yes, Your Grace.” Sanders lowered his chin to his chest. “The settlements crippled the dukedom and with the partnership inactive, it was your mother who saw your brother through those first few years. I’m not convinced the estate would be as prosperous as it is today if it wasn’t for her. The late duchess poured her own funds into the changes and renovations your brother made to the different estates. Renovations that have proven wildly successful, as I’m sure you know.”
Declan ran a hand down his face. Finally he had a glimpse of what had occurred in those first few months of his exile. Irate investors, including the then prince regent, demanding justice, his father’s suicide, and the catastrophic grief it had plunged them into. He never knew why he was sent away, but he now suspected his mother was trying to shield him from the uproar. She’d also done everything in her limited power as the ostracized Duchess of Darington to protect his and Albert’s inheritance. She’d shepherded a young seventeen-year-old duke into his responsibilities with the love and encouragement Declan could remember her lavishing on him.
“The dukedom also prospered because your brother invested when he could on his own, ensuring his wealth wasn’t tied solely in the partnership or the estates,” Sanders said.
“Where did he invest them?”
A small smile curved the older man’s mouth. “He invested them, through a third party, in West Indies Interest.”
Declan hadn’t known. Several smaller investors owned a 30 percent share of the business, but he didn’t know them by name. The thought that his brother had believed enough in his business acumen to invest his funds with his company gratified him.
“So while the dukedom eventually flourished under Albert, the partnership floundered?”
“For many years it did, Your Grace.”
Declan held up the worn partnership agreement. “This still confirms that I, as the current Duke of Darington, hold the controlling stake, correct?”
“It does, Your Grace.”
“In the year since Albert died and I returned, did the Earl of Rockhaven assume complete control over the partnership?” Declan asked, his words slow and precise.
Sanders delivered a quick nod, a scowl darkening his face. “He did. Despite my protests to await your return. The earl argued you were probably dead.”
He couldn’t fault Rockhaven for thinking such. Yet something about the earl’s attitude bothered him. “Do you know the current status of the earl’s finances?” Albert had been wise to diversify his investments, but Declan wondered if Rockhaven had done as well.
The older man grimaced. “Unfortunately, I do not know. But I can research it, if you’d like.”
“That’s quite all right. I’m sure you have enough Darington matters to keep you busy. But I do have one last question for you.” He drummed a finger on his desk. “Do you have any knowledge of the Vicomte de Viguerie?”
Sanders’s eyes grew large. “I’m sorry, Your Grace, but I do not.”
He wasn’t surprised by Sanders’s denial. In the long years since their father’s death, Albert had tried unsuccessfully to track down information to prove their father’s innocence. He’d confided in Declan the numbers used as evidence of the late duke’s corruption seemed off and suspected they had been substituted for the legitimate ledgers in an effort to frame him. Albert had not been able to prove it. He’d even hired private investigators to find the vicomte to bring the man to justice, with no success.
The solicitor departed an hour later, having reviewed several key pieces of business with him and agreeing to help him find a secretary.
The Darington-Rockhaven partnership was still active. If the majority of the earl’s funds were tied up in the partnership, what did that mean for the man’s coffers?
A desperate man was capable of desperate things. Rockhaven’s connection to the Vicomte de Viguerie had all but shoved the pistol into his father’s hands. Mayhap the earl had found himself forced into another terrible position. He pitied the earl for such a predicament.
Alethea’s face, softened with desire, came to mind. He wondered what she would make of his sympathetic thoughts for her father.
Declan grabbed his hat and cane and headed to the front door, his thudding footsteps echoing through the marble-floored foyer. He placed the letter he’d just dashed off in the salver by the door, the name Guillermo Torres written in large letters across the folded parchment. Clues would be found with Torres’s capable hands.
He allowed Lockley to help him into his coat, and he headed into the fading light of evening, his destination White’s. Hoping to distract himself from the suppositions Sanders just laid at his feet, Declan thought to turn his attention to another search. Surely within the paneled walls of the club he might glean some more information about Albert.
Mild salutations and handshakes greeted him when he walked through the door. After exchanging small talk with several members, he asked if there was anyone present who’d been friendly with his brother. Most gentlemen apologized, reiterating that Albert had not been terribly social and was not seen at the club often. Declan was not surprised but frustration set his teeth on edge.
That is, until an older gentleman tapped him on the shoulder and recommended he speak with the dark-haired gentleman sitting by himself in the corner. Declan cautiously approached the table, striving for a friendly tone when he said, “Good evening. May I join you?”
Glancing up, the man locked eyes with him. He slowly stood, surprising Declan with his tall, powerful frame. He was definitely not a dandy about town. The man considered him with a cocked head, a furrow wrinkling his forehead.
“You look like him.” The man narrowed his eyes. “It’s in the mulish set to your jaw and that brow that knows just how to convey an air of disdain that all dukes must possess.”
Declan blinked. “I’m afraid you have me at a loss. Have we met before?”
“Excuse me, I’ve forgotten my manners. I have so few of them anyway.” The man held out a hand. “Amstead. And you’re Darington, are you not?”
“I am.” Declan extended his hand, his attention snagging on the man’s name. “Wait, are you the Marquess of Amstead? I won a pretty penny on one of your horses at the Gold Cup.”
A smile creased Lord Amstead’s face. “I’m happy to hear it. I was pleased with our showing at Ascot.” He paused. “I’m assuming you want to talk about Albert.”
“Were you fr
iends?”
“Albert was a reticent man. After the scandal that followed your father’s death, I never blamed him. But I was as close to being his friend as anyone could claim. Even shared a room at Eton.” He gestured to the chair across from him.
“Did you see him in the days leading up to his death?” Declan asked as he sat.
“I did, actually. About two days prior. He was excited, or as excited as Albert could be.”
Declan’s chest tightened. Albert had never been an expressive person. “Did he tell you why?”
A confused look contorted the man’s face. “What did he tell you when he asked you to come home?”
“Nothing.” Irritation with his brother crept into his tone. “He just asked me to return with all haste.”
“That’s all?”
“Yes,” Declan bit out. “When I arrived, I was greeted with news of his death.”
The marquess’s colorful curses spread through the air. They weren’t much different from the ones Declan had spat upon learning the news.
Lord Amstead turned to him, his eyes sharp and wary. “Albert asked you to come home because he’d discovered something.”
A thread of unease pulled taut in Declan’s chest. “And what was that?”
Amstead hesitated. “He’d been promised proof that would exonerate your father.”
Proof of his father’s innocence? Was it really possible evidence existed that supported what they’d long claimed but had never been able to prove? The possibility stole his ability to speak for several seconds.
Lord Amstead summoned a footman, who brought them two tumblers of liquor. Declan downed it in one large gulp. The smooth burn of whisky shocked his senses and unlocked his tongue.
“Did Albert tell you what the proof was?”
“No. I doubt he meant to tell me as much as he did.”
Leaning forward to brace his elbows on the table, Declan asked, “He didn’t tell you anything else?”
Amstead shook his head. “When I continued to press him, he changed the subject.”
Disappointment settled heavily in his bones.
“I would have thought he’d left you a note to explain. He was a consummate planner and would have had contingency plans in place should things go awry.”
Thinking of the thorough and descriptive will he’d left behind, the carefully calculated and notated ledgers and records, the perfectly ordered files, there was little doubt Albert was meticulous in all things.
Even so, there had been no note.
Chapter Sixteen
June 1816
He thinks I don’t notice how my every move is watched.
-The Diary of Lady Margaret Gordon
“I thought you enjoyed your lessons at Little Windmill House?”
Alethea blinked, unsure what Flora meant. She’d been woolgathering about Declan. “Of course I do. Was I scowling?”
“Not scowling so much as wishing fire and brimstone on the world.”
A snort of laughter slipped from her mouth, and Alethea raised a hand to smother others. “I apologize.”
“If I’d spent an evening at Vauxhall and enjoyed all the excitement of the pleasure gardens, I’d wake up with a smile that stretched ear to ear.” Flora stopped, uncaring that she blocked morning traffic on the busy sidewalk.
“It was exciting.” Alethea frowned, struggling to remember the details of her evening entertainment. Every memory of her night at Vauxhall centered around a man whose possessive embrace, masterful lips, and skilled hands roamed her body as if it were a treasured artifact. Even thinking Declan’s name brought a flush to her face and an erratic beat to her heart.
Flora’s humph of annoyance jerked her from her daydreams. Blinking, she said, “Did you say something?”
“I asked what exciting events occurred.”
Darting her gaze quickly up and down the block, she turned to her maid, who stood several feet away. “Sarah, please go on ahead and let Mrs. Stevens know Lady Flora and I will be there shortly.”
Sarah nodded gratefully, and after a quick curtsy, hurried to the narrow townhouse with the blue door.
“Let’s sit.” She gestured with her chin to a bench between two oak trees near the street.
Alethea relieved Flora’s curiosity as she told her how Declan kissed her under the lights of the fireworks at Vauxhall.
Flora leaned back, her eyes far away. “My goodness, if I am to remain your friend I should begin carrying smelling salts. How deliciously scandalous.”
“I confess it was.”
“What will you do?”
“What can I do? He’s made it clear he intends to leave England as soon as his business is settled,” Alethea parried. “And even if he decided to stay and spoke with my father, I’m not certain he would give his consent.”
“But you could be a duchess! The man is daft, I tell you.” Flora snatched her hand and squeezed it. “You’ll let me know if Darington comes to call?”
“Of course,” Alethea assured her.
“As much as I adore,” Flora said, sarcasm emphasizing the word, “discussing your love life, we’ll be late for our lessons if we don’t hurry.”
“I know,” Alethea said, rising to her feet. “How many children will you have at the park today?”
“Six.” Flora led the way to the house with the blue door. “You?”
“Three,” Alethea said as she climbed the front steps and knocked on the door.
Soon after, Flora left with her gaggle of students for their riding lessons in St. James’s Park, and Alethea gathered her trio of eager children about her in the music room to learn French conjugations.
An hour later, Alethea stretched her arms overhead. Her students had made admirable progress and satisfaction rushed to her limbs.
She summoned Sarah, and together they set off for the park. The pleasant weather had not abated during their time indoors. If it stayed this pleasant into the later afternoon, maybe she’d take a ride in the park during the fashionable hour. She might even see Declan, and the idea put a spring in her step.
Heavy footsteps on the lane drew her attention. She glanced behind them, but aside from the gentleman who had bustled past them seconds before, the path was empty. She faced forward again, offering Sarah a half smile when the maid looked at her in question.
The pair walked the length of a block when the footsteps sounded again. She looped her arm through Sarah’s and increased their pace, an uncomfortable sensation in her chest. As they approached a side street, she whipped her head around and was again greeted with a bare walk.
“Is everything well, my lady?” Sarah asked, confusion punctuating her words.
Alethea wrinkled her brow. “Did you not hear those footsteps?”
The woman’s brown eyes grew large and she slowly shook her head. “I didn’t, my lady.” She looked over her shoulder. “Perhaps you were hearing our footsteps echoing off the buildings?”
“Mayhap,” Alethea agreed, although the lump in her throat challenged that notion.
She was sure of what she’d heard. Someone was following them.
They crossed the street, picking their way through pedestrians that loitered around the produce stand on the corner. People chatted loudly, haggling over prices, sharing gossip and the latest news. Alethea took comfort from the crowd, and some of the tension left her shoulders.
St. James’s Park stretched out before them, and Flora and her group of students had already left. With a sigh of disappointment, she turned toward home.
“My lady,” Sarah whispered several blocks later, her grip on Alethea’s arm becoming uncomfortably tight. “I hear them.”
She paused, her every sense honed to the walk behind them. Her heart thundered in her throat. And she heard them, too, their tread heavy.
Alethea’s gaze darted about. The narrow street they were on was deserted, but the distant chatter of people at the market stand captured her attention.
Without a second thought, sh
e yanked Sarah forward, increasing their pace. The maid emitted a small squeak, but immediately bit it off and did her best to keep up with Alethea’s long strides.
“Just follow me. We’re going to head back to the produce stand. We need to be around other people,” she whispered.
“I know a shortcut from there to the house.” The little maid gripped her hand, her face resolute. “I’ll show you. I’ll have us back in a lick.”
The women walked quickly, the sound of their rapid steps echoing off the silent street. Alethea had never considered the neighborhood surrounding Little Windmill House as dangerous, but in that moment, with her heart thundering in her ears, she had never been more vulnerable.
“They’re getting closer,” Sarah whispered frantically, and Alethea clutched the woman’s hand harder. “We won’t make it to the stand.”
When they reached the end of the lane, they sauntered around the side of the building, and Sarah suddenly pulled her into an alleyway. They tucked themselves into a small doorway, which was barely large enough to fit both their bodies.
The air was filled with their heavy panting until the sound of approaching footsteps cut them off. The maid pressed her hand to her mouth and Alethea closed her eyes while she willed her breath under control. With slow care, she peered around the edge of the doorframe.
A figure came to a stop at the head of the alley, and even from her hiding spot, she recognized him. Her tongue rooted to the top of her mouth as fear congealed in her throat.
The man stared down the alleyway for a long, agonizing moment, before he walked away, his steps reverberating into a silence that pulsed with apprehension.
The women remained in place for a handful of minutes, fearful of moving before the man was truly gone. Eventually, Sarah offered her a wobbly smile and with a collective gulp of air, they darted in the opposite direction.
True to her word, Sarah led Alethea back to Rockhaven House in a fraction of the time it would have if they’d taken the traditional route. With a thankful hug, Alethea sent her maid to the kitchens for a cup of tea.
To Love a Scandalous Duke (Once Upon a Scandal) Page 12
