Torres leaned farther back in his chair, his look of casual relaxation in perfect harmony with the subtle elegance of the room. The man had never told Declan about his family, or the life he’d lead before he came to work for him six years past. However, he wouldn’t be surprised to learn Torres was a member of the nobility. Perhaps an Andalusian prince who rendezvoused as an investigator.
“I’ve learned the Earl of Rockhaven has dangerous friends,” he stated. “Much as you suspected, His Lordship is in quite the scrape, although it took significant digging to unearth the particulars. And truth be told, I don’t have all the puzzle pieces in my possession just yet.” Declan crossed his arms behind his head and waited for the man to continue. “It appears the earl has been the victim of a series of bad investments. Most recently, a ship carrying various oils and spices from China capsized off the coast of Portugal, and my sources tell me the accident cost Lord Rockhaven a substantial sum.”
“I remember that accident. The Clementine, correct?”
The man raised his almost empty glass to him in a toast. “Good memory. Aside from The Clementine, I also found his name tied to a slew of other investments which ultimately failed. Collieries in the midlands, vodka imports, the fur trade in America. I’m at a loss as to why a nobleman, surrounded by solicitors and advisors, would continue to find himself the victim of such investment disasters.”
“I didn’t see any of those on the partnership books.”
“You wouldn’t have, because it appears the earl has been speculating on his own.”
“Perhaps after he and Albert made a profit together he thought to branch out on his own.”
The Spaniard scoffed. “Apparently, he needs sharper eyes to advise him. If speculating was judged by how much money you lost, Rockhaven would be a great success.”
Declan chuckled, rolling his eyes at the man. “Tell me, has he gutted his daughter’s dowry and bled his son’s inheritance dry?”
“No. The late countess left each of her children a large settlement.”
Declan frowned. “I’m surprised she was so generous with her children. She was certainly never generous with her affections or praise.”
Torres lifted his shoulders, the gesture insouciant. “The countess probably didn’t have a choice. Her father no doubt employed an army of solicitors to draw up the marriage settlements in just such a way that tied up the funds until Lady Alethea married and Lord Firthwell reached his majority.”
Yes, Declan thought with relief, the marriage settlements were most definitely ironclad. He’d only met Alethea’s grandfather, the Marquess of Huntly, on one occasion when he’d been merely a boy, but the great bull of a man had left a lasting impression in his mind. The Scottish marquess would not have left any loophole for his son-in-law to divert funds from his grandchildren.
“There was another piece of information I thought you should know. Lord Rockhaven appears to owe the biggest portion of his debt to the Vicomte de Viguerie.”
Declan’s vision went red. “But the earl claimed not to have spoken with the vicomte for many years. I knew he wasn’t telling the truth.”
The Spaniard snorted. “I have it on good authority Rockhaven and the vicomte met within the last few months when the Frenchman was traveling from Paris back to St. Petersburg.”
A roar sounded in Declan’s ears. “St. Petersburg?”
“Yes. The vicomte fled to Russia after the revolution and has lived there ever since.” Torres quirked his mouth. “I’m surprised you didn’t know that.”
“The vicomte was never a friend of my father’s and from what I can gather, Albert had been unable to discover much information on him.”
Torres leaned back in his chair, raising a hand to study his drink. “I can understand why. I’m struggling to learn about the man and his business dealings as well.”
“But learning he has ties to Russia just made this situation that much more interesting,” Declan said, stroking his chin.
“How so?”
Declan explained how the groom from Tattersall’s told him the men who killed Albert were possibly Russian. Next, he touched on how the highwayman who accosted him on the road from Darington Manor had a decidedly Russian accent.
“So you see, the earl had to have some hand in Albert’s death. Or, at the least, he knew it was going to happen and did nothing to prevent it. After all, it cleared the way for him to have sole control over the partnership.” Declan spread his arms wide. “My solicitor said Rockhaven thought I was dead.”
“Returning to England was supposed to bring you peace, or so you claimed,” Torres murmured, rising and filling his glass with more whisky. He turned with the decanter in one hand and topped off Declan’s glass. “Nonetheless, since you’ve set foot on these blasted shores you’ve discovered your brother is dead, you’re the new duke, and someone is trying to kill you…quite possibly the very men who are responsible for your brother’s murder. Plus, you’re in love with the daughter of the man at the center of this drama. It’s more gripping than any saga I’ve seen acted on stage.” He took a sip and flashed Declan a sympathetic smile. “Pity it’s your life.”
“I’m not in love with her,” he grumbled, each word sticking to his tongue like treacle, although none of them tasted as sweet. But he didn’t want to think of his blossoming feelings for Alethea when his suspicions of her father were so damning. Declan waved his hand dismissively. “How I feel for Lady Alethea is irrelevant.”
Torres paused, his snifter hovering in front of his mouth. A scowl of disbelief twisted his features. “You’re in love with the daughter of the man who brought death and scandal to your doorstep. Twice. How is that not relevant?”
The truth of the man’s words stunned him. Declan brought his glass to his lips, and the whisky seared down his throat. Rather than warming him and bringing clarity, it seemed to solidify into shards of glass in his gut. If the earl had orchestrated Albert’s death, would he be able to separate Alethea from her father’s crimes? Or would the two always be intertwined? Could he ruin the earl knowing he could possibly destroy any feelings she’d developed for him?
Memories of his father’s haggard face, as Declan remembered it before his death, taunted him. The sight of his mother kneeling next to her bed, her face pillowed in his father’s dressing gown, her shoulders shaking with suppressed sobs. A vision of Albert at their father’s funeral, his eyes both distraught and incensed, the dukedom thrust on his narrow shoulders at just seventeen.
So much had been taken from him, and the mounting evidence that suggested a connection between the earl, the vicomte, and Albert was impossible to ignore. Declan wasn’t sure he had the fortitude to offer absolution to the earl for his crimes in exchange for the hand of his daughter, however much he cared for her.
“There’s one additional item I wished to bring to your attention,” Torres said softly, as if he knew he was interrupting the tumult of Declan’s thoughts. “I’ve heard talk…nothing specific, exactly, but there have been whispers of some great scandal Rockhaven has managed to keep hidden.”
“Could it be the hold Viguerie has over the earl?” Declan asked, interest and hope kicking his heart into a swifter pace.
“More so than the man’s debts? I hope not,” Torres said, setting down his glass and rising to his feet. He paced to the fireplace and propped his elbow on the mantle, his brows drawn low over his eyes. “From what I’ve managed to pry from people around the earl’s estate, the family is involved in some manner.”
Declan cursed.
Torres smirked. “Precisely.”
Declan considered the next path to take. “I want you to go to Scotland. Lady Rockhaven was from Aberdeenshire, and Lady Alethea returned from a three-year stay there not long ago. It seems only right to see what you can scare up.”
“Are you sure?”
Declan knew the man was giving him an opportunity to let sleeping dogs—and secrets—lie. He gritted his teeth. “Let me know what you learn.”
“Very well,” Torres said, crossing the room to pick up his glass and drink the last bit of spirits remaining. “I’ll be in touch.” Pausing on the threshold, the man spun around. “I forgot to deliver this to you. Based on the handwriting, I thought you would be interested in reading it without delay.”
Declan crossed to the door and glanced down at the letter Torres thrust into his hand. Lady Flora’s impatient script decorated the parchment. “But you waited until you had consumed two glasses of my best whisky before you surrendered it.”
“I didn’t want to compete for your attention,” the man said with an unapologetic grin. He stepped into the hallway, pausing to spear Declan with a look over his shoulder. “Because if our roles were reversed, Your Grace, I would ignore you in a heartbeat for a beautiful woman.”
Declan slammed the door on the man’s departing back.
He hurried to his seat as he ripped open the missive. A smaller note fell out, and he snatched it up from the ground. He unfolded it to reveal a swirling script that was achingly familiar.
Declan,
I know I place Lady Flora in an uncomfortable position by asking her to forward this missive to you, but I need to see you. It’s important. I’m frightened.
Allie
Anxiety crept along his skin. What had happened to scare her so severely?
Declan pulled out a piece of parchment and scribbled a quick reply. He scratched Lady Flora’s direction on the front and summoned a footman. He would not leave Alethea waiting.
Chapter Twenty-Two
August 1812
Although she tries to hide her adventurous spirit under a guise of refined behavior, it shines through. She’s surely her mother’s daughter.
-The Diary of Margaret Gordon
Meet me in the mews.
The note arrived with the tray of tea Alethea had requested in her room. Her skin had tingled when she recognized his handwriting, and she dropped her head to her chest in relief. After the conversation she’d overheard, she’d been anxious to see him.
She inspected her appearance in the gilded mirror by the armoire to ensure she looked her best then stepped out into the hallway.
The house was silent.
With careful steps, she crept down the stairs and slipped down a side hall that led to the back of the home. The door leading outside stood at the end of the hall. She could hear the muffled chatter of the kitchen staff as they prepared the evening meal and hoped she didn’t draw their notice.
A door on her left abruptly opened, and a hand shot out and grasped her wrist. With a tug, she was pulled into the room. She blinked until she could make out dim shapes. With a gasp, she realized a tall man loomed in front of her. With frantic, almost desperate movements, she dragged his head down until his lips met hers.
The feeling of lightness, of rightness, invigorated the farthest reaches of her body. This was why she’d been at sixes and sevens since her return from Rockhaven Court—she wasn’t with Declan.
“How did you get in here?” she managed to ask, between fevered kisses to his cheeks. His jaw. His brow.
“That’s irrelevant,” he said softly, brushing stray hairs from her face and clasping his arm tightly around her waist. “I have a place we can go to talk, but I need you to follow my lead. Can you do that?”
“Just this once,” she replied, her smile teasing.
Declan patted her bottom, and she smothered a laugh. “Just this once.” He handed her a satchel. “Put these on.”
“What are they?” she asked, even as she loosened the drawstrings and peered inside.
“A groom’s livery. Allow me to assist you,” he said, reaching around her back and undoing the clasps that held her dress together.
“Oh,” she exclaimed, as her bodice dropped low, and she reached forward to shield herself.
When the last of the clasps had been freed, Declan took a step back and peered at her, his eyes trailing down her body. If the room weren’t so dark, he’d surely see the blush that followed the path his eyes blazed.
“Are you going to turn your back so I can change?” she asked, unnerved to find her voice breathless. She may delight in his attentions in the privacy of her chambers, but she suspected they’d never leave the room if he didn’t turn around.
The grin that slid over his wicked lips was taunting. “It had never occurred to me to do such a foolish thing.”
Although his words warmed her in places better left unsaid, she scowled. “Please.”
“Oh, very well,” he said, his tone all suffering. He propped his shoulder against the wall and gazed out the small window while she quickly divested herself of her dress, petticoats, and stays, and stepped into the livery. She adjusted the fit the best she could, although it swam on her in the waist.
He grabbed her hand and slowly cracked open the door, angling to peek through it with one eye for a long moment. Holding a finger to his mouth, he beckoned her to follow him with a jerk of his head.
They encountered no one before they stole out the door, and Declan led her to a sleek gig parked on the opposite side of the mews. He tapped her lightly on the bottom as they came abreast with the tiger’s seat at the back of the conveyance.
“This would be your place, darling.” He looked down at her with serious dark eyes, and she saw the question lurking there.
“Of course, Y’r Grace,” she said as she hopped onto the ledge, her tone oozing mockery.
“Hold on, lad,” he said as he ordered his horse onward.
Alethea wrapped her fingers around the wooden ledge and tried not to emit a squeal as the conveyance jerked forward. The dusty road disappeared beneath her dangling feet, and she worked hard not to allow her lips to stretch into a grin. Her father would be appalled to see her riding in such a fashion.
Just as he promised, Declan stopped the gig behind a narrow building just east of the docks. The mews were small, but large enough to house his solitary horse. When he unhooked the animal and guided him into a stall to enjoy hay and fresh water, Alethea leaped down from her ledge and looked around. The neighborhood was in close proximity to the harbor, lending it an unsavory atmosphere. The simple limestone building in front of her, though, with its swept steps and tidy walk, looked respectable.
“These are offices for West Indies Interest,” Declan explained, as he grasped her hand and led her up the stairs. He produced a key from his pocket and ushered her into a small but elegant foyer. With wide eyes, she took in the glittering chandelier over her head, which drew her attention even in its unlit state. She came to a halt in front of a vividly painted expanse of green crops that stretched to the horizon, where a burnt orange and yellow sun hovered, in its last desperate blaze of brilliance before it extinguished for the night.
“That’s sugarcane,” he said from behind her.
“It’s breathtaking. Is that really how it looks?”
He stared at the painting for a long, searching moment. “My mother thought so.”
“Your mother?” There, in the corner, was the artist’s signature: Emmeline Sinclair. Her chest expanded. “She painted it.”
“She painted all of them.” Declan gestured to the other paintings, pride visible in his stance. “They were a tribute to her homeland, she said. She always longed for St. Lucia.”
Alethea cast her gaze to the stretch of painted sugarcane, the detail so realistic she’d swear she could smell the sweetness in the air. “I long for it, too, and I’ve never been.”
She returned her gaze to him and found him regarding her with an indecipherable look. He slowly reached a hand up and ran it tenderly, the path achingly slow, from her temple and down her cheek. “One day I will take you there. I promise.”
She didn’t know how long they stood there, an indescribable feeling of oneness deepening between them, but Declan abruptly snapped his eyes away and shook his head.
“There’s no one here at present. A ship just arrived in port, and they’ll be gone for several hours s
till.”
Her heart rate spiked. “What should we do until they return?”
He looked back at her as he led her up the staircase, a teasing grin brightening his face. “I can think of several things. Albeit they’re wicked things, but they’re oh so enjoyable.”
She grasped for the fallen reins of her resolve and straightened her spine. “I’m sure you can, but I must speak with you about something first.”
The stairs opened onto a large foyer, various doors leading off one central hall. He escorted her to a room at the end and closed the door.
“Is this your office?”
“It is. I haven’t been here in at least a sennight, and never before that, but the staff knows to keep a space ready for me.”
She glanced back at him, and any words she intended to utter died a slow death on her tongue. Her eyes, though, could feast on him for an eternity.
He’d removed his coat and hung it on a rack behind the door. His simple but exquisitely tailored blue waistcoat added a subtle flash of flair to his conservative ensemble, and in expertly polished Hessians, he looked like an elegant, urbane London gentleman.
But his eyes told a different story. They traveled over her, in her ridiculous groom’s clothes and hat, with an intensity that threatened to singe said clothes right off her body. Not that she would complain.
As she attempted to stand nonchalantly under his powerful gaze, she willed herself not to melt.
He stalked slowly to where she stood and grasped her hand, leading her to a small settee she hadn’t noticed on the far wall.
“Someone hired men to shoot me on my return to London.”
…
“What on earth do you mean?” Alethea exclaimed, incredulity heightening the color on her cheeks.
Declan recounted what had occurred on the road back to London, finding it hard to meet her eyes as he did so. Instead, he played with her crimson curls, coiling and uncoiling them around his fingers.
To Love a Scandalous Duke (Once Upon a Scandal) Page 17
