by Cheryl Holt
“Why?”
“My father was an adventurer who sailed the Nile several times.”
“An adventurer…” Mr. Scott murmured the word and added another of his completely incongruous comments. “That explains it.”
“Bryce wants to follow in my father’s footsteps. Perhaps the journey will toughen him, and when he returns he’ll be bent on retribution.”
Mr. Scott took a deep breath and held it, as if swallowing down remarks he couldn’t or shouldn’t speak aloud.
“There were twins?” he asked. “You’re positive?”
“Yes, Matthew and Michael. Two dark-haired scalawags—from what Bryce tells me. I don’t recollect, but they called me Sissy.”
“Sissy…”
“Apparently they were so close, they had their own secret language.”
He blanched with a sort of bewildered surprise, and again he looked on the verge of a profound statement, but he simply nodded. “I’ll contact you when I have news of Maggie.”
“Do you know how to locate me?”
“Yes, I’m acquainted with your husband. You introduced us.”
She scowled. “He doesn’t gamble at your establishment, does he?”
“He doesn’t.”
Mr. Scott smiled a smile so like Bryce’s that she was stunned by it. He was so familiar to her, their connection so riveting.
“Mr. Scott, have you any information about your past or your parents?”
“No, none.”
“You don’t suppose—”
“I have to be going, and you should go too. Let me walk you to your carriage.”
It seemed wrong to leave. They’d likely never have another quiet interlude where they could chat without a dozen people hovering and listening in. The notion left her very sad, but she rose to her feet, gathering up the items that had been in her reticule.
“That’s an interesting carving,” he said as she stuffed the ivory statuette inside with everything else.
“It was my mother’s.”
He peered at her and appeared to say, I know.
But again he didn’t speak his thoughts aloud. He was the most infuriatingly taciturn fellow!
“What about the front door?” she asked. “Did you kick it in?”
“Yes, I’ll send someone to repair it.”
“How will you start hunting for Maggie?”
“My men will scour the neighborhood. We’ll find out what happened. Don’t worry.”
He seemed so competent, and his calm attitude made her feel better, made her feel that—if anyone could learn Maggie’s situation—Mr. Scott certainly could.
She went to the door, and he followed her out. Instantly they were surrounded by street urchins. They were in awe of him as if he was a deity, and in their world maybe he was.
* * * *
Michael was sure of it now. There was no question, could be no doubt.
Evangeline Drake, Lady Run, was his sister, although he didn’t recall having a sister, and he most definitely didn’t recall having a female named Evangeline in his life.
As he urged her through the crowd of milling children, he pondered Fate, how the universe worked in strange ways. They’d crossed paths because Lord Stone had a gambling problem, because Michael had become engaged to Felicia. If he hadn’t, would he have ever met Lady Run?
He was the brother for whom she was searching. He hadn’t admitted it though. His head was spinning over the news she’d imparted. She’d given him a dozen openings to blurt it out, but he hadn’t. He’d been afraid she wouldn’t believe him, and if she hadn’t he’d have been incredibly distressed.
He’d tell her. Eventually. He’d show her his birth certificate and the other papers that had been shoved in his coat during the fire at the coaching inn.
A fire! A damned fire that had left him alone in the street like the neediest orphan, and his father in line to inherit an earldom! It clarified so much about the terrifying nightmares he always had, why the smell of smoke alarmed him, why he always felt as if he’d lost something important.
He wasn’t mad! He wanted to shake his fist at the heavens and celebrate. His family hadn’t simply dumped him on the side of the road and forgotten him. He’d been loved and cherished. He’d belonged somewhere vital and special.
Matthew…
It all made sense, his visions of the little boy who was exactly the same, the one who had been so close that it had seemed Michael was missing a piece of his body. Often he’d awaken in the dark, certain a cruel devil had sawed off his leg. Frantically he’d reach down and pat under the covers to guarantee it was still there.
Yet it hadn’t been a limb. It had been a twin brother.
Michael stared into the void where his mind occasionally led him, and he saw Matthew standing in a thick forest, attired in his red soldier’s coat. For once, Michael let the truth settle in. His brother.
Matthew evidently perceived Michael rattling around in his head, and he frowned, noting Michael’s arrival and wondering who the hell Michael was—just as Michael had ceaselessly wondered.
I’m coming for you, Michael told him. I’ll find you—if it takes the rest of my life…
He tried to picture that night at the coaching inn. Where had Matthew been? Had they been together? Were they separated in the chaos? If so, who had separated them? Where had Matthew gone? What had happened to him? What had happened to Michael?
He’d never been able to recollect. In his next clear memory, he’d been living at old Mr. Scott’s orphanage.
He shook himself out of his trance. In his sister’s presence he’d already drifted off numerous times. Very likely she thought he was insane. He was escorting her to her carriage, a footman waiting to open the door, when a boy pushed out of the crowd.
“Mr. Scott?”
“Tim, isn’t it?” Tim was the boy who had originally brought Maggie to Michael’s office. Michael explained to his sister, “He works for me.”
Luckily she didn’t ask in what capacity. She simply smiled. “Hello, Tim.”
“Make your bows to Lady Run, Tim,” Michael said.
“Milady.”
Tim surprised her by bowing courteously, displaying perfect manners as if he’d been raised at an expensive boarding school. But then he was being trained how to dress, act, and talk so he could walk around rich men and pick their pockets without their suspecting he didn’t belong in their midst.
Tim turned to Michael. “Beggin’ your pardon, Mr. Scott, but you needed information about Miss Wells.”
“Yes, what have you heard?”
“That brigand, Blaylock, was here.”
“Blaylock? On our street? You’re sure?”
“I saw him with my own two eyes. He claimed he was a tax collector and Miss Wells owed money for taxes.”
“What was Miss Wells’s response?”
“She couldn’t pay, so he bound her hands and forced her to leave with him.”
His sister scowled. “She was arrested for not paying her taxes?”
“No,” Michael replied, “it was a scam perpetrated by a con artist, though why he’d pick on Maggie I can’t begin to guess.”
Tim looked worried. “Should I have stopped him, Mr. Scott? He had four men with him. I didn’t think I could help her.”
“You did fine, Tim, to watch and tell me what occurred. I wouldn’t have wanted you to be hurt.”
“What can all this mean?” Lady Run inquired. “Maggie doesn’t have much but this decrepit old building. Why torment her?”
“I haven’t a clue, but believe me, Blaylock will be sorry.”
Tim interrupted to say, “There was another carriage.”
“What?”
“Down the block, there was a carriage with a pretty blond woman in it. She kept peeking out the curtain at Miss Wells.”
Michael frowned. “Did you recognize her?”
“No, but there was a fancy crest on the side—a falcon, with a gold braid wound in its feathers.�
��
Michael was so stunned he nearly fell over. “A falcon with gold braid,” he repeated. “You’re positive?”
“Yes, and her outriders were wearing red livery with gold braid.”
“Do you know who it is?” his sister asked.
“Oh, yes,” Michael said.
“Is it good news or bad?”
He shrugged. “It depends whose perspective you’re considering.”
“You’re an interesting man, Mr. Scott.”
“You’re the only one who’s ever thought so, Lady Run. Now let’s get you out of here so I can find Maggie.”
“You know where she is?”
“No, but I know who does.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Michael reined in and dismounted in front of Lord Stone’s town house. A stable boy rushed up to take his horse to the mews, but Michael waved him away.
“I won’t be here long,” he explained.
He assumed Lady Felicia was still in London, but if she’d had any genuine understanding of his temper and power she’d have skittered away to hide.
Farrow had filled her head with nonsense about Maggie, and Michael would deal with Farrow later. As to Felicia, though she’d nagged and complained about Maggie, it had never occurred to him that Felicia might harm her.
And to use that cretin, James Blaylock! It boggled the mind. On two separate occasions, Michael had suspected her of secretly conferring with Blaylock. How long had their mischief been percolating? Why hadn’t Michael put a stop to it?
He approached the door just as it was being opened from the inside, and when he saw who was exiting, he muttered, “Speak of the devil.”
James Blaylock!
Blaylock had his back to the driveway, so the fool wasn’t watching his surroundings—when he definitely should have been. As he turned to walk out, Michael rushed up and hit him so hard that he flew into the doorframe.
He grabbed for the wood to steady himself, but Michael hit him again, even harder, and he collapsed to his knees. Blood gushed from his nose and mouth.
The butler peeked out, looking alarmed, and Michael snapped, “Get inside. This is none of your business.”
On realizing it was Michael inflicting the damage, the butler couldn’t decide the best course. Michael was Felicia’s fiancé, but Blaylock had just been a guest. In such a seedy scenario, what was the appropriate reaction?
Without a word, the butler closed the door and spun the key in the lock.
Michael was left alone with a dazed and battered Blaylock who—very stupidly—tried to rise again. Michael kicked him in the ribs, probably breaking a few, and Blaylock gave up the fight, slumping down with a woof of air exploding from his lungs.
Michael reached down, found a knife in Blaylock’s coat, and stuffed it in the waistband of his own trousers. Then he gripped Blaylock by his shirt, lifting him up so they were nose to nose.
“Michael Scott?” Blaylock mumbled, barely able to focus. “Where the hell did you come from? You’re supposed to be out of town.”
“The interesting thing about a person leaving is that he eventually returns.”
“You’ve always had a smart mouth.”
“You must remember our last meeting, Blaylock. I told you I’d kill you if I saw your sorry face in my neighborhood again.”
“I remember, asshole.”
“Did you think I wasn’t serious? Did you think I’d forget?”
“Prick.”
Blaylock spat at Michael, blood peppering Michael’s shirt.
“You meddled in my affairs,” Michael seethed, “and you’ve ruined a perfectly good shirt in the process.”
“Bastard.”
“I’m not a bastard,” Michael said. “I have it on excellent authority that my parents were married. So don’t insult my mother.”
He hit Blaylock again, merely because he felt like it, and he demanded, “Where is Maggie Wells?”
“Maggie who?” Blaylock snidely said.
“I’m going to ask you once more, and if you pretend you don’t know her you’re about to draw your last breath.”
“You wouldn’t murder me on Lord Stone’s doorstep.”
“Wouldn’t I? Are you willing to take that chance?”
Michael retrieved the knife he’d found in Blaylock’s coat and stuck the tip into Blaylock’s cheek, right under his eye.
“You’re as crazy as everyone says you are,” Blaylock complained.
“I’ve never denied it. Now where is she?”
Blaylock was mulishly silent, and Michael dug the tip in a little deeper as Blaylock moaned and acted as if he wasn’t terrified.
Ultimately he admitted, “Newgate Prison.”
“She’s in prison,” Michael repeated. “At Newgate.”
“Yes.”
“Under what name?”
“Her own,” Blaylock answered. “What would you suppose?”
But he glanced away, giving clear evidence he was lying, and Michael was better at reading a facial expression than any man alive. It was the main reason he’d grown so rich.
“If you tell me the truth,” he casually said, “I won’t start breaking your fingers.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“You’re really an idiot, Blaylock. On the one hand you claim I’m crazy, but on the other you claim I won’t behave in a crazy way.”
He seized Blaylock’s wrist, pressed it to the ground, and stomped on his index finger. There was a loud crack as the bone shattered, and Blaylock howled with misery.
“Under what name is she being held?” Michael calmly asked again, after Blaylock had stopped his bellowing.
“Margaret Wesley.”
Michael studied his eyes then—satisfied with the reply—let go of Blaylock’s shirt, and the man curled into a ball, his maimed appendage clutched to his chest.
“Whose idea was it? Yours or Felicia’s?”
Blaylock responded without hesitation. “She begged me to help her make Miss Wells disappear. The ruse was mine, but Lady Felicia was happy with everything I suggested.”
“She watched from her carriage?”
“Yes.”
“You never wondered if I’d mind if you harmed Miss Wells?”
“Why would you have minded? She was naught but a—”
He never finished his derogatory comment. Michael kicked him in the balls, and Blaylock turned a horrid shade of puce and vomited the contents of this stomach.
Michael stood and straightened. “You were correct about one detail.”
“What was it?” Blaylock had to force out the words.
“I won’t kill you on Lord Stone’s stoop, but you’d best keep peeking over your shoulder. Next time I see you, you’re dead.”
He looked to the corner of the house, and the stable boy and two footmen were observing the altercation with a sort of appalled fascination.
Michael motioned to them. “Take Mr. Blaylock to the mews and let him rest a bit. When you feel he can stay on his horse, put him on it and get him off the property. Be sure he’s gone before I’m ready to leave myself. I’d hate to have to murder him in Lord Stone’s barn.”
Michael went to the front door, which was still locked. Apparently it was a day for wrecking doors. He gave the wood a hard kick. Then another. The latch fell away, and Michael stormed inside.
The butler and several housemaids were huddled in the hall, but Michael ignored them. Felicia was up on the stairs, just starting down, and when she saw Michael entering like a deranged maniac, she paused for a brief second then squealed with alarm and ran up the steps.
Michael flew up after her and grabbed her by the arm.
“Where is Lord Stone?” he shouted to the butler, and the butler pointed at the hall behind him.
Michael dragged Felicia down as she hissed and fought and tried not to accompany him, but he was too strong and too angry.
Michael marched past the butler and the housemaids as a squirming, pleading Felicia sai
d to them, “Help me. Get my mother. Please!”
Yet none of the servants moved. They were all too stunned by Michael’s behavior.
He continued down the hall, finding Lord Stone in the library at the end. He was over in a corner, seated on a chair by the window, and enjoying a quiet brandy.
“What is the meaning of this?” He rose, attempting to appear grand and imperious, but failing in the effort.
Michael was taller than Lord Stone, younger and tougher and much more physically fit. He towered over the older man who was disheveled and scruffy and smelled as if he was intoxicated even though it was just after two in the afternoon.
“Tell him what you did,” Michael fumed at Felicia.
She had the temerity to claim, “I did nothing. Mr. Scott is insane.”
Michael tossed her to her father, but Lord Stone refused to catch her. She staggered by, latching on to his chair, or she would have toppled to the floor.
“Your daughter has interfered in my personal affairs,” he advised Lord Stone, “and deliberately harmed my close friend, Magdalena Wells.”
Lord Stone scowled. “Felicia couldn’t have. She isn’t smart enough to figure out how.”
Felicia had the gall to say, “Miss Wells is his mistress!”
Lord Stone glared at his daughter and rolled his eyes. “Why would you feel it’s your business to complain about him having a mistress?”
“I told him to send her away,” she said, “and he wouldn’t. So I sent her away.”
“Bloody hell.” Lord Stone grumbled. “What were you thinking? His private relationships are none of your concern.”
“Precisely,” Michael agreed, “so I’m crying off. I won’t have this wretched, immature girl as my wife.”
“Well, I hardly want you,” Felicia spat, but he and Lord Stone ignored her.
Lord Stone cut to the chase. “You’re crying off? But…where does that leave me?”
“Your daughter has had Miss Wells arrested.”
“She deserved it!” Felicia seethed.
“Shut up, Felicia!” Lord Stone hissed. “Let the man talk.”
“Oh, I hate you both!” she hurled, and she stomped out.
Michael didn’t bother watching her go. His attention was locked on Lord Stone.
“Miss Wells is incarcerated in Newgate.”
