by Merry Farmer
“And I trust Stephen and Max enough to leave my girls in their care when business has taken us elsewhere,” Blake added, his expression turning more serious. “Which is why we’ve asked you to meet us here tonight.”
“I’m aware of the situation,” John said as Niall gestured for the three of them to move to the far end of the room while the girls resumed their card game. They could likely still hear what the adults were saying, but they didn’t seem to care. “I’ve been given to understand that Ian Archibald has run off with Lady Selby and the current Marquess of Stanley, your son.”
“He has,” Blake said, letting out a shaky breath. John thought highly of Blake for being so obviously concerned about a child, his child. Not every duke cared as much. “We’re terrified that they’ll go to Annamarie’s family in New York and that we won’t be able to get Alan back because of it.” He glanced to Niall.
John smiled at the way the two men so obviously cared for each other. He would have given everything he had for a partnership like that. He thought he’d had something close twice before, but real love felt desperately out of reach.
There wasn’t time for his own heartbreaks and longings, though. He took in a breath and clasped his hands behind his back, thinking hard about the problem in front of him. “So your primary concern is finding Ian, Lady Selby, and your son before they can leave England.”
“Correct,” Blake and Niall answered together.
John found it sweet. “And you have no idea where they are?”
“None at all,” Blake sighed.
“And what about—”
He was interrupted by an almighty crash as one of the actors stumbled into the dressing room with an armful of decorated parasols that had been used as props in the show. He dropped several with a gasp of, “Oh! Sorry.”
“Mr. Piper, Mr. Piper!” Blake’s girls seemed overjoyed at the interruption and leapt out of their chairs to scramble for the parasols Martin Piper had dropped.
“Can we play with the parasols?” Blake’s younger daughter asked, glancing adoringly up at Martin.
“Well, er, um, that is, they’re for the play.” Martin sent an apologetic look to Niall. “I was just going to store them in here, since Jewel wants his room cleared of props.”
“Of course, he does.” Niall rolled his eyes. “Put them wherever you’d like.”
“Yes, sir.” Martin attempted a comical salute, dropping more parasols in the process. The girls giggled as though it were a game and jumped around, picking them up. “Once a property master, always a property master, eh?” the cheery man told Niall.
John watched Martin for a moment, shaking his head, before facing Blake and Niall again. “Back to business. I’ve been given to understand that there’s some sort of Egyptian artifact at play in this whole thing as well?”
“A medallion,” Blake said with a nod. “Remember the prize I won at graduation? Professor Carroll’s medallion?”
“Vaguely.” John stroked his chin and frowned. “That’s what Ian wants?”
“Yes. And he’s adamant about it too,” Niall said.
“But why?” John shrugged.
“Either it’s a matter of pride or the medallion is worth far more than any of us suspected,” Blake said.
“Which was what Ian kept trying to claim before the exam,” Niall added.
“Whether it’s valuable or not is irrelevant as long as Ian thinks it is,” John figured. He glanced to Blake. “And you have no idea where it is?”
“None.” Blake shrugged. “The most we’ve been able to find out is the name of the theatrical troupe it was donated to, but the troupe was defunct years ago.”
“What were they called?” John asked.
“The Shakespearian Society of Yorkshire,” Niall said.
Another small crash sounded from the corner of the room where Martin was attempting to store parasols in a cabinet while the girls played with them. “I used to work for the Shakespearian Society of Yorkshire,” Martin said.
John, Niall, and Blake all stared at him.
“Were you with them when they performed Anthony and Cleopatra in Leeds four years ago?” Blake asked, stepping closer to him.
“Yes, I was in charge of—”
A sharp knock on the open dressing room door stopped Martin’s explanation cold. They all turned to find a short, devilishly handsome man with dark hair and blue eyes watching them all like a hawk. He was dressed nondescriptly, as if not to draw attention to himself, but John found him immediately arresting.
“I was told Martin Piper was in here,” the man said, taking a step into the room.
“That’s me.” Martin started toward the man, stumbling over a parasol on the floor as he did.
John stopped him from crossing the room to the unknown man by holding out a hand. “And who are you, might we ask?”
“Detective Arthur Gleason,” the man said, coming forward, hand outstretched.
Wariness pooled in John’s gut, along with a feeling like he wouldn’t mind investigating more about Gleason…in private. “And what is your business with Mr. Piper?” he asked.
Gleason narrowed his eyes at John. “Not that it’s any of your concern, but I’ve been hired to ask Mr. Piper a few questions about his previous employer.”
Judging by the sudden alarm that came to Blake and Niall’s eyes, they’d instantly reached the same conclusion John had. Gleason had to have been hired by Ian, and Ian must have figured out the medallion had been donated to the troupe Martin once worked for.
“I’ll tell you anything you want to know,” Martin said with a shrug, glancing to John as if John might try to stop him again. “But truthfully, I don’t know much.” He ended with a self-deprecating laugh.
“Don’t tell him anything,” John cautioned Martin.
“I beg your pardon.” Gleason glared at John. “What gives you the right to interfere with a private investigation?”
“I suspect the man who hired you is a criminal himself, guilty of kidnapping,” John said.
“Do you now?” Gleason smirked at John. The gesture was as aggravating as it was arousing. But before John could do a damn thing about it, Gleason nodded to Martin. “Perhaps we could speak privately.”
“Um….” Martin glanced to Niall, broke into an apologetic look, then started forward. “Alright?”
“Careful what you say,” John murmured as Martin passed.
Gleason sent John one more grin—as if he’d won a hand at cards against him—then left with Martin. In an instant, John was determined to win the game, whatever the game was.
“He’s working for Ian, I know it,” Niall said once they were alone.
“He has to be,” Blake agreed. “Who else would be looking for the medallion?”
“We can ask Martin all about it as soon as Gleason is done with him,” John said, shifting into business. “In the meantime, we need to find Ian.”
“But how?” Blake shoved a hand through his unruly hair. “They could be anywhere. It’s been weeks, and he hasn’t so much as tried to contact us yet.”
John frowned in thought and rubbed his chin. An idea came to him quickly.
“Edward Archibald is Ian’s older brother,” he said.
“Edward Archibald the MP?” Blake asked.
Niall’s expression lit with inspiration as well. “He’s a member of The Brotherhood as well as a Member of Parliament.”
“He might know where his brother is hiding,” John said, nodding to let Niall know he was on the right track.
“But would he be willing to divulge his brother’s whereabouts?” Blake asked.
“I don’t think they’re close,” John said. “I was friendly with Edward at university, and I seem to recall there was no love lost between the two of them.”
“Then would he even know where his brother is?” Niall asked with a frown.
John let out a breath and dropped his shoulders. “At the moment, it’s the best lead we have. We need to make contact w
ith Edward Archibald, and we need to corner Martin as soon as we can so he can tell us what he knows about the medallion, if anything. We have to find that medallion before Det. Gleason does.”
Blake glanced anxiously across the room at his daughters, who were still playing with parasols. John stepped forward and clapped a hand on his shoulder.
“Don’t worry, Blake. We’ll find them,” he said. “I give you my word, I won’t rest until your son is back in your arms. I’ll leave no stone unturned, and I’ll enlist every bit of help from The Brotherhood that I can.”
And if Detective Arthur Gleason got in his way, John would give the handsome devil a run for his money. He was looking forward to it.
I hope you’ve enjoyed Niall and Blake’s story! I loved every minute of writing it, but I actually have to give credit for the story idea to my good friend, Laura Stapleton. It all started with a conversation about…well, I won’t want to implicate either of us or who we were talking about, but Laura said the magic words, “What if…”, and here we are.
As for my other inspiration for this book and its characters…. So there’s a song that I first heard in the 90s, “Cristofori’s Dream” by David Lanz. Not only is that where I got the idea for Niall’s surname, it’s also the song that I imagine Blake playing at various points in the book. I cannot urge you enough to pop over to YouTube or Spotify to look it up and play it for yourself! It’s such a beautiful piece of music, and it totally captures the spirit of Niall and Blake’s relationship.
But what about Alan? This might be a happily ever after for Niall and Blake, but Blake’s son is still missing. Never fear, though! John Dandie is on the case, and he has help. Find out if Edward Archibald knows where his brother is…and if Martin Piper knows what happened to the medallion…and what sort of mayhem and craziness happens when a stodgy MP who is desperately careful about concealing who he is ends up joining forces with an affable, clumsy, adorable actor in Just a Little Madness, coming in January! Keep clicking to get started reading Chapter One!
And as for John Dandie…. Sparks will certainly fly between him and Detective Arthur Gleason. In fact, those sparks might be around for several books as the two of them work against each other…and possibly together…to find both the medallion and Ian, Annamarie, and Alan! There’s much more of The Brotherhood to look forward to!
But before that, you’re going to get a chance to catch up with all of the couples from The Brotherhood series so far in the next book, Just a Little Christmas! This novella is my little gift to you. It’s light-hearted, fun, and sure to put a smile on your face and leave you fanning yourself.
AUTHOR’S NOTE: I just have to share this with you too…. Forms of address are complex and controversial, especially among Romance writers, and I really hate them. It’s one reason why I try to avoid writing about the higher ranks of the nobility completely. My personal belief is that, while there were rules in place, behind closed doors and in the privacy of one’s own home and among one’s friends, no one gave a you know what. Yes, Blake, as a duke, would have been referred to publically as “your grace”. But among his friends? At home? That’s a whole other kettle of fish. However, I did have one head-scratcher as I wrote this. How would Xavier, Blake’s valet, address him? On the one hand, Xavier is a servant. On the other, he’s Blake’s closest friend.
So I went to the hive mind and asked the question in a Facebook author group I’m part of. And as I should have expected, the answers ran the gamut from “He would absolutely call Blake ‘your grace’” to “Body servants called their masters by much less formal names, like ‘sir’”. After much discussion (with authors sharing links to online resources left and right and getting into fistfights on the subject that would have been funny if I hadn’t been in the middle of them) it all came down to one VERY important point: A duke is called whatever a duke wants to be called by the people closest to him. Because he’s a freakin’ duke. Good point! That’s why I chose to have Xavier refer to Blake as “sir”. In my mind, Blake would have preferred for Xavier to just address him as “Blake”, but given his personality, Xavier would never dare. Calling Blake “sir” is about as informal as Xavier is willing to go. (P.S. You’ll get to know Xavier much, much better soon, as he’s one of the heroes of Just a Little Mischief, coming this spring!)
Now, all that being said, as part of this long and ponderous discussion, my bestie, Caroline Lee, actually had the best answer to the question “What would Xavier call Blake?” It was such a good answer that I’m sharing it with you in its entirety:
“So there you go, Merry. His valet can call him whatever the Duke says he can call him.
Please, please, have the Duke drunkenly declare "you can call me Ducky McCheeseface for all I care, Xavier" and then the valet calls him Sir Ducky for years...”
Xavier would be appalled.
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AND NOW, GET STARTED ON JUST A LITTLE MADNESS…
London – January, 1891
The theater was one of the only places in London that a man like Edward Archibald could truly hide. Of course, it was rather like hiding in plain sight, because everyone with even a shred of sense knew that the world of the theater was and always had been full of inverts, women of loose morals, and every other sort of unconventional personality to be found under the sun. Society was willing to overlook certain aspects of the character of theatrical types as long as they were entertaining and put on a good show, which playwright Niall Cristofori and star of the stage Everett Jewel always did. Almost no one batted an eyelash over the personal lives of those two men and their ilk, the lucky bastards. Members of Parliament weren’t so lucky, as Edward most certainly knew.
Edward rose along with the rest of the audience to applaud the end of Love’s Last Lesson from his seat near the back of a box in the second balcony. He’d seen the show six times since it opened in the fall and considered that night’s performance one of the best. The rest of the crowd thought so as well, as attested by their enthusiastic applause. They clapped particularly loudly for up and coming comedic actor Martin Piper when Jewel shoved the man forward to take a second bow.
Edward tried his best to ignore the thrill in his chest and the way his breath caught in his throat at Martin Piper’s affable, smiling face and strong, lean form. He absolutely refused to acknowledge the way his trousers suddenly didn’t seem to fit properly as the man blew kisses to his adoring public, landing one relatively near him, before giving way so Jewel could take his bow. Jewel’s prowess on the stage and magnetic appeal were a given, but Edward had been taken with Piper from the very first time he’d seen the play. His gaze stayed on the man once he resumed his place with the ensemble as Jewel preened and bowed. Piper made Edward laugh, and precious little made him laugh anymore.
Before the applause had fully died down, Edward scooted his way to the exit at the back of the box. He was not an actor. He was the very opposite of the theatrical luminaries who could get away with murder as long as they were charming and entertaining. He was a back-bencher in the House of Commons. His job was to represent his constituency in York by staying as quiet as possible, n
ever drawing untoward attention to himself, never, ever landing in the papers as part of a scandal, and shouting out “Aye” when his party told him to. Which was why he found sitting in the dark at the back of a crowded theater, not a soul in the world aware of his existence, merely looking on as other, better people than him shone like diamonds, to be the most enjoyable thing he could possibly imagine. And it didn’t hurt that the male chorus for Cristofori’s show was made up of some of the finest specimens of masculinity he’d ever—
“Archibald, is that you?”
A familiar voice startled Edward out of his indulgent thoughts, driving home the fact that his trousers still didn’t fit right after an evening of feasting on the sight of Martin Piper and his like.
“Lord Chesterfield.” Edward jerked to a stop in the middle of his flight through the lobby and turned to his fellow parliamentarian with an uneasy smile. God, the man could probably see the state of his lower regions as if he were standing up like a sequoia. A man like Chesterfield would know exactly what he was thinking and exactly who he was thinking it about. The whole world could see right through him, and he would be damned for it. He cleared his throat. “What a pleasant surprise.”
“Likewise.” Chesterfield approached him with a broad smile and extended a hand. He had to drop the arm of the attractive lady—who was years too young for him and who was most certainly not his daughter—to do so. “Smashing show, didn’t you think?”
“Yes, it was rather droll,” Edward replied with as bland a look as possible. He smiled and nodded to the woman with Chesterfield, debating whether he should appear to find her alluring so as to avert any suspicion his thoughts might cause.
“I never thought I’d see such a doggedly conservative man like you haunting a place like this,” Chesterfield went on with a laugh. He turned to his companion and said, “Archibald never steps a foot out of line. He’s the most boring and flaccid member Parliament has.” He followed his comment with a raucous laugh.
