“I only know he wasn’t the victim of a robbery, like we’d heard.” When he stiffened, she twisted in his arms to peer up at him. “Or was he robbed?”
“A red book was taken from him as he lay dying.”
“A red book? That’s odd. Do you remember him possessing a red book?”
Declan shook his head. “Not that I’m aware of. I’m no closer to determining the significance behind it than I am determining why Albert was in Spitalfields. Or the identity of the men who killed him.”
She stared into his eyes for a long moment, the sadness in her own visible even in the moonlight streaming through the open balcony door. When she slowly pressed her lips to his, the tension that settled in his bones at the mention of Albert’s name eased like an icicle in the sun.
“If it makes you feel better, tell me nothing more.” She rubbed her nose against his. “But should you ever want my help, I’m here.”
The happiness he’d experienced with Alethea over the last several days had driven thoughts of his brother and his mysterious death from the forefront of his mind. However, he could no longer put off his search.
Chapter Twenty
March 1804
Why I must lie in a bed I did not make.
-The Diary of Lady Margaret Gordon
He wished he had taken Tamosi.
Now, trapped in the cramped carriage, Declan stretched his arms overhead and stretched his neck. With a sigh, he eased back onto the seat and pulled out a scrap of paper he’d found in Albert’s desk, from his coat pocket. Unfurling the foolscap, he reread the words, although they had been imprinted on his mind. With two simple sentences, his brother had been lured to his death.
I have the ledgers. If you want them, meet me at Jaunty Molly’s in Spitalfields on Thursday at ten o’clock.
Albert had been found by the Watch on a Thursday night in Spitalfields.
But what ledgers was the sender referencing? Declan carefully rerolled the note.
A memory of his father gripping his head as he paced in front of his desk, muttering, “The ledgers were falsified. The ledgers were falsified,” flashed.
Declan had hated the silence that had descended over the household. He’d stumbled upon his usually cheerful mother sobbing, and his brother had begun biting his nails again. But his father’s withdrawal, his frantic babblings, had unnerved Declan. Could his father have been referring to the ledgers from the shipping investment project?
Someone had offered Albert ledgers, and his brother had obviously thought them important enough to meet this mystery person in a seedy rookery tavern. The only logical explanation was that Albert believed they were the true ledgers that would exonerate their father of the crimes that had driven him to suicide.
And if his father was innocent, he didn’t have to look very far for a viable suspect.
After Albert’s death, the Earl of Rockhaven had taken control of the partnership management, assuming there was no Darington heir. He had had sole control over the financial decisions…and then Declan had returned. Instinct told him the earl was in dun territory, and, he suspected, to not very good people. And how was the vicomte involved?
The carriage jerked to a hard halt, and he barely caught himself from flying into the seat across the cab. He reached for the set of pistols stored under the squab and cocked them.
“Stand and deliver,” rang out in the clear air over the neigh of the horses and the bark of a distant dog. Declan released a silent huff of irritation. Couldn’t the highwayman be more original with his demands?
He moved stealthily, careful to not rock the conveyance, and crouched next to the door.
After a moment of listening to shuffling feet, the carriage dipping to the side as presumably John Coachman disembarked, brief bits of a whispered exchange could be heard.
“Are you certain?”
“Of course. Don’t question me again.”
Declan offered up a silent prayer his employees would remain unharmed.
The door opened slowly, and the barrel of a pistol preceded the arm that held it. The highwayman swung the weapon through the cab, not bothering to peer to the side, before he withdrew.
Throughout the short exercise, Declan had his pistol raised, waiting for his target to appear.
“Ain’t no one in there,” the highwayman called over his shoulder.
“Vhere’s your master?” a gruff, bass voice demanded, and Declan’s ear caught its guttural Slavic accent. Interesting.
“The carriage is empty, you dolts,” John Coachman’s raspy voice answered. “We be taking it back to the London townhouse. You lads bungled this mark.”
And like that, the man earned himself a healthy raise.
“I saw him enter the carriage, old man,” the Slavic voice said. “For lying to me I should shoot you.”
So this was not a random attempted robbery. He’d been scouted and followed.
“’Tis best if the duke exits before I put a bullet in yer head.”
Declan held his arm steady. The men didn’t know he was armed, or even where he was. Though they threatened to harm his coachman, and could still turn their pistols on his groom, the advantage still rested in his favor.
A shadow appeared in the doorway once again, and he didn’t hesitate to put a bullet between the man’s eyes when he swung his head in Declan’s direction.
The peal of the shot rang out into the void. When the sound died away and the smoke cleared he threw himself through the door, and rolled on the ground, coming to a halt with his pistol pointed at the man gripping John Coachman, a pistol pointed at his grayed head.
“Duke, yer most gracious to join us,” the towering, gruff-voiced man said. “So sure was I you’d allow yer coachman to die needlessly vhile you hid in the carriage.”
A sense of irony teased his mind as he stared into the brown eyes of the man from Tattersall’s. “No one will be dying needlessly this day.” He slid his gaze to the fresh corpse, which lay across the opening to the carriage. “Except for that man.”
The highwayman smiled, flashing a set of yellowed teeth. “You veel come with me, or a bullet I veel put in this man’s skull.”
“I thank you for the invitation, but I find I must decline,” Declan said, his tone the epitome of politeness, as if he’d been asked by a Mayfair hostess if he’d like another piece of shortbread. All the while, his mind calculated what actions he could take to overcome the man before he hurt his coachman. “I’ve appointments to keep and don’t have time to deviate from my schedule.”
Declan darted his gaze across the scene, and noted his groom was nowhere in sight. He hoped the lad was not harmed…or already dead.
The highwayman cocked his pistol, his expression lethal. “Consider yer schedule cleared.”
He poised to leap at the thief when a loud shot echoed around them. Declan had a brief glimpse of his errant groom charging into the clearing as he threw himself onto the ground. A long moment later, he raised his head in time to see the highwayman galloping away.
He drew himself to his feet and ran to where John Coachman lay prone. “Are you harmed?”
The coachman sat up, by all appearances completely hale. “Daniel there grew a set of brass balls and drove that bastard away.” When Declan’s mouth quirked, the man cast his eyes down. “Beggin’ your pardon, Yer Grace. Finding my head still attached to me neck made me forget me manners.”
“I’m sure if I found myself in the same position, my choice of words would be much worse.”
As the coachman mumbled his thanks, Declan turned to the groom, who stood, pistol still outstretched, his gaze fixed on the cloud of dust that marked the highwayman’s escape.
“Nice work, Daniel. I think it’s safe to say you saved John Coachman’s life, if not my own.”
Daniel’s gaze darted to him, and a deep, frustrated sound slipped from his lips. “But I missed. I can’t believe I missed.”
Declan patted the young man on the back. “The important thing i
s that the fiend is gone. You and I will have another opportunity to pay him our respects.”
He turned away from Daniel and approached the body of the dead highwayman. His shot had been true.
He contemplated what lay in store for him in London, for he suspected the men who killed his brother now had him in their sights.
…
“I was wondering when you’d join me,” Alethea’s father remarked as she slipped into her seat at the breakfast table the following morning.
Her smile was guilty, well aware she was usually the one to greet him and Finlay as they wandered into the room. But guilt was quickly smothered by anger, thoughts of the earl’s marriage decree making her head pound in fury.
“I apologize, Father,” she said roughly. “I apparently lapsed into town hours.”
“Are you unwell?” He peered at her curiously.
That he didn’t consider she could still be upset with him for his high-handed, unfair treatment shocked her. She raised her coffee cup to cover her face. “I’m just weary from the trip.”
The earl appeared unconvinced. “Well, I’m glad you’re home. I missed your bright presence at the breakfast table.”
Unable to think of an appropriate response, she attempted a smile.
“What did you do to entertain yourself while at the Court?” he asked, as he picked up a scone and slathered it with butter.
Alethea considered what to tell him. She didn’t think he would appreciate her recounting of laughing and kissing Declan in the meadow or the scandalous liberties she’d permitted him in her chamber. Liberties she’d never dream of taking back.
Just the thought of Declan’s hands on her bare skin, his lips on her breasts, tugging and sucking, his mouth between her legs…well, the thought had her heart thundering in her chest and her blood roaring through her veins. With just his talented tongue and hands, he’d brought her immense pleasure. She could only imagine the ecstasy she’d experience when he joined with her in truth.
Fighting the urge to fan her face, she instead stirred her coffee. “Oh, I visited some old friends in the village. Read some books. Walked the estate. Helped Finlay when I could.”
“I’m sure he appreciated the help,” the earl said with a nod, approval evident in his gaze. “I’m surprised he’s not up. He must have taken to heart the duties I assigned him.”
Alethea bit back a snort. If Finlay was tired, it was because he’d stayed late at the tavern in the village the previous night and then visited White’s upon his return.
“What are your plans for the day?” the earl asked. “When do you resume your lessons at the foundling home?”
“Not until Tuesday,” she answered absently, her thoughts straying to when she’d see Declan again.
“Very well, very well,” Lord Rockhaven mumbled as he threw his napkin on the table. He rose to his feet and walked to the door, stopping to kiss Alethea on the forehead. “I love you, daughter. You make me proud.”
Samuels approached her several minutes later as she sat ruminating. “My lady, the post has arrived. I know you enjoy receiving it first.”
“Yes, thank you,” she murmured while the butler placed the stack before her.
She sorted the various correspondences with rote movements until she experienced a burn on her finger. Looking down, she realized she’d been cut by the edge of a small piece of folded parchment. Alethea popped her finger in her mouth and turned the letter over to ascertain if she dripped blood on it. It was addressed to her father, and the seal on the back appeared to have come from Parliament.
Knowing he’d want such correspondence as soon as possible, she climbed to her feet and went to find him in his study. The door was slightly ajar, and as she reached for the handle to enter, her father’s angry voice stayed her hand.
“It was the easiest assignment. All they had to do was stop the carriage, shoot him, and make it appear to be a robbery. Bloody fools!”
Horror glued her tongue to the roof of her mouth. Had her father just spoken of having someone killed? She was surprised her frozen limbs were capable of holding her up, and she sagged against the door for support as she strained to listen.
“Rockhaven, you should know better than to carry out such foolish plans. I told you the man would be armed. When will you listen?”
“Do you want your money or not?” was her father’s gruff question.
“Oui. And I expect to receive it.”
Her father released a growl that seemed to shake the door under her cheek. “Well then don’t criticize how I get it.”
A very Gallic sigh filled the air. “I thought you were already prepared to pay your debt.”
“I was. But I need a cushion now that Darington’s returned.”
“Connington must be desperate for an heir.”
“My Allie is worth every penny he’s paying.”
Stuffing her fist in her mouth to keep from crying out, Alethea clenched her eyes shut. She knew there had to be a reason her father had agreed to a marriage between her and Lord Connington. She just hadn’t expected to learn he’d sold her to repay a debt.
Bile crept up her throat, but she managed to push it down.
“My, my, and here I thought you were fond of your children.” A tsking sound met Alethea’s ears and she fancied she could see the man wagging a finger at her father. “Instead, you’re selling your beloved daughter to a relic of an earl and if your son is lucky, you’ll have recouped a portion of his inheritance.”
“Sod off, Viguerie.”
“I’ve been more than kind in my dealings with you. I still balance the chair you stand on while the noose around your neck gets tighter and tighter. Don’t give me a reason to kick the chair away.”
Voices approached from the opposite end of the hall, and Alethea grabbed her skirts and dashed away as quietly as possible. Once within the confines of her chamber, she collapsed onto her bed, burying her face in her pillow.
She yearned to cry, to release the pain of betrayal that burned like a hot coal in her chest. But tears would not come. Instead, as the minutes and then the hours ticked by, her heartache melted into something so tangible she could taste it and feel it bubbling under her skin. Anger. And her anger refused to allow her to continue as a compliant actor in this tragedy any longer.
Chapter Twenty-One
January 1817
He obviously believes me stupid as well as blind. One day, he’ll learn I’ve been watching, and recording, his misdeeds for years.
-The Diary of Margaret Gordon
“Edwards, must you make that face every time you take my fencing clothes away?” Declan grumbled, before dipping his head beneath the steaming bathwater his competent, if squeamish, valet prepared for him.
“I don’t know to which face you’re referring, Your Grace. If I am making any face, it’s one of relief to find you’ve arrived home safely.”
Declan stopped himself from rolling his eyes. “You heard about the highwaymen, did you?”
“I know everything that affects you, Your Grace.” Edwards somehow managed to infuse the words with more ducal disdain than Declan could ever muster. “John Coachman shared the tale during staff breakfast. Everyone was quite impressed with your heroics.”
“Heroics?” Declan snorted and reached for a bar of soap. The rich bay rum scent reminded him of the island, and for a moment he was overwhelmed with a wave of homesickness. But England was home and always had been, even if it didn’t always feel as such.
Shaking his head of his wayward thoughts, he regarded Edwards. “Did he not tell of how Daniel drove the remaining fiend away?”
The valet nodded his head briefly, seeming to forget the offensive clothes he held in his arms. “Indeed, he did. But you were the one who killed the first villain, and John Coachman was convinced you were preparing to put a bullet in the other man’s head before Daniel chased him away. Right kind of the lad.”
“I thought so, too, which is why I gave him a raise.” When t
he man wrinkled his nose, Declan exhaled in vexation. “I know, it’s uncouth to speak of finances. But you forget, Edwards, that before I was thrust into this role, I was just a businessman.”
“Balderdash,” the valet exclaimed. A second passed before the man’s eyes opened wide. “Forgive me, Your Grace, for my rudeness. I merely meant to point out that you were never just a businessman. You’ve always been the son of duke. You may consider yourself just a businessman, but all your servants here know who you really are.”
With those words, Edwards departed, taking Declan’s soiled clothes with him.
And Declan was left with a sense he’d been scolded but complimented equally.
Emerging from his chamber a short time later, Declan headed to his study, hoping to find a letter from Torres. The incident on the road from Herefordshire made him more determined than ever to discover everything there was to know about Albert and any Russian connection he may have had. He went to his snug workspace beneath the windows, his hands quickly sorting through the post.
“Is this what you sought?” a low-pitched, strongly accented voice asked from behind him.
The corner of Declan’s mouth lifted before he slowly swiveled to face the speaker. “I don’t want to know how you gained entry without alerting a single footman.”
Guillermo Torres lowered his hand, a small square of parchment enclosed within, and raised a black brow. His mouth spread into a wide grin. “They’re in need of some training. It shouldn’t be this easy to slip into a duke’s home.”
Declan crossed to the sideboard and poured two glasses. He offered one to Torres before sinking into his own seat. “I was wondering when you’d arrive.”
The other man took a deep drink, closing his eyes and tilting his head. “You’ve always stocked the best liquor. I would have come sooner had I known you had whisky this good. But I had nothing of note to share before.”
Taking his own long sip to steel himself, Declan set his glass down on the table before spearing the man with an intent look. “And what information of note have you learned?”
To Love a Scandalous Duke (Once Upon a Scandal) Page 16
