by Nichole Van
However, he was curious why Montacute wished to convince Andrew that connections and friendships mattered. What was the man’s agenda? Andrew had thought Montacute was here only to push Jane into a marriage with Wanleigh, but his current conversation was unrelated to that.
Did Montacute simply like to hear the sound of his own voice?
Or was more afoot?
“The upper echelons of ton take care of ourselves. We know where and when to offer encouragement,” Montacute commented over roast fowl. “For example, I know that your predecessor, the former earl, carried investments with a Scottish man named Mackenzie.”
Andrew froze, shock jolting him, a stupefied tingling spreading through his body like wildfire.
What had the duke just said? His comment had come out of seemingly nowhere. Surely the man couldn’t be referring to Andrew’s own business in Scotland?
Andrew set down his cutlery, staring at the duke. What was Montacute about?
“Mackenzie?” he managed to ask, face numb and stiff.
“I’ve heard talk of Mackenzie,” Wanleigh said around a mouthful of pheasant. “They call him the Scottish Vulcan, don’t they? The man owns multiple iron and gas works and is rich as a god.”
“The very same,” Montacute nodded.
Andrew’s brain scrambled to catch up. Why had the conversation taken this turn?
Montacute knew the old earl had invested with Mackenzie.
Did he know that Andrew was Mackenzie?
So far the conversation would indicate he did not, but . . .
Andrew chanced a glance down the table at Jane. She met his gaze with wide eyes, her fingers freezing their worrying of his bracelet.
Are you truly that wealthy? He could feel the question in her.
He shot her a tight smile and turned back to Montacute, giving her all the confirmation she needed.
Montacute continued, perhaps mistaking Andrew’s silence for awe. “Thus far no one has been able to lure Mackenzie from Scotland. I hope to encourage the man to make an appearance in London.”
Montacute truly believed this? This was news to Andrew.
What was Montacute up to? Was he playing more cat-and-mouse games?
Did the duke know that Andrew was Mackenzie and was trying to . . . what? Manipulate him to some end?
Or did Montacute have another aim here?
How to tread this conversation?
“I’ve heard of Mackenzie,” Andrew said after a moment’s pause, rapidly deciding how much to divulge. “But I did not realize it was commonly known that the Earldom of Hadley had formed a business partnership with the man. I only learned of the connection yesterday. I was unaware that you were in such close confidence with the old earl, Montacute.”
Montacute smiled, a chilling expression. “The old earl kept his finances private, as I am sure you are aware.” The duke’s tone implied that Hadley had few financial options in the first place.
But Montacute, did not in fact, answer Andrew’s implied question. How had he known about the old earl’s investment in Andrew’s enterprises?
Was Montacute involved with Madsen? And if so, why?
Andrew’s mind spun with possible theories.
He pressed his point. “So the old earl shared with you the details of his relationship with Mackenzie?”
It was a direct question this time. A simple yes-or-no answer.
Wanleigh let out a bark of laughter, jumping into the conversation. “We all know the former earl was a tad senseless the last years of his life. Thankfully Peter stepped up to lend a hand, didn’t you, lad? Set investments with Mackenzie aright.” Wanleigh winked at Peter, turning towards him. “Though you do tend to talk when you are deep in your cups, Peter.”
Andrew raised his eyebrows, turning his eyes to his heir, who had reached for his wine glass again, expression pale.
Peter?
Andrew knew that Peter had helped the steward a wee bit during the last years of his father’s life. But Peter had known about the old earl’s investments with Mackenzie?
More to the point, had Peter known that Andrew Mackenzie and Andrew Langston were one and the same? Someone with access to the old earl’s papers at Rosehearth might have deduced the connection. The more Andrew pondered it, the more likely it seemed that Peter could have known.
And if Peter had known, why not mention it to Andrew? Why hide the information? Unless, of course, Peter had something to hide.
And how much had Peter told Montacute?
Given how quickly Jane turned to her brother, her thoughts were similar to Andrew’s.
Peter did not meet either of their eyes and chose instead to take another swallow of wine.
“Careful, lad,” Wanleigh continued. “You might end up disguised sooner rather than later.”
“Indeed.” Montacute gave a rigid smile. “We shall discuss this later over our port, as I am sure the ladies have already tired of our business conversation.”
Andrew’s mind spun through the remainder of the meal.
Peter continued to avoid his gaze, face pale and withdrawn.
Overall, his heir’s actions spoke loudly to some lingering guilt.
Jane’s words from the previous day resurfaced. The old earl was insensible.
The more Andrew pondered it, the more snippets of conversation and pieces of the puzzle slid into place.
Was Peter the person who had commanded Madsen to engineer Andrew’s accidental death? Not the old earl? If so, Peter would have been young, only sixteen or seventeen at the time.
Or had Peter told Montacute about Andrew’s business dealings and the duke had been the one to arrange things with Madsen? And to what end? Why would Montacute wish Andrew’s death?
And how odd to be slicing roast beef and wondering which of his dinner companions had ordered his murder?
When Lady Hadley finally motioned for the ladies to retire and leave the men to their port, he was fairly bursting with questions.
And yet, Andrew remained silent.
Montacute struck him as the kind of man who would use every iota of information for his own personal gain.
Jane shot him a concerned look as she followed her mother out of the room. Andrew could only imagine how she longed to stay. It was ridiculous that women were excluded from discussions of business.
And with Montacute bringing Andrew’s businesses into the mix, what did that mean for Jane herself?
How had everything suddenly become so utterly intertwined?
After the door clicked behind the ladies and the footmen had left the room, Montacute poured himself a small glass of port before sliding the bottle towards Andrew and sitting back in his chair. “So, you know about the former earl’s investments with Mackenzie, then?”
If Montacute knew Andrew was Mackenzie, he was remaining mum on that score. What had Peter told him?
“Aye,” Andrew replied, keeping a tense eye on Peter. “But now I’m left wondering why ye care tae bring it up, Duke?”
Montacute shrugged. “If you had enough education in these matters, it would be obvious enough, but as you don’t, I shall spell it out for you. You are without funds, Hadley. You have little to no ready cash and everything is mortgaged to the hilt. Your lands and properties are in disrepair. You need money.”
Andrew drummed his fingers on the tabletop. “So you say,” he said.
Obviously, the fact that he had paid off all the earldom’s debts had not become common knowledge. And the longer this conversation continued, the more Andrew suspected that Peter had not told Montacute the truth of Andrew’s finances.
The duke raised his eyebrows at Andrew’s tone.
“I come offering you salvation, Hadley.” Only a simpleton would miss the steel in Montacute’s voice. “Wanleigh and I are ready to give you a handsome offer for Mackenzie’s shares. Consider it a gift.”
“Ye want me tae sell Mackenzie’s shares to ye?”
“Precisely.”
Sell the last r
emaining shares of his business that an outside party owned? And to Montacute no less?
Over my dead body, was Andrew’s instant response.
He’d sooner climb into a bed lined with snakes than do business with the likes of Montacute. The duke would take and manipulate and exploit anything he saw as his to his own ends.
Never.
Besides, Andrew needed to help Jane escape this man’s clutches, not tether them both to him.
Montacute didn’t misunderstand Andrew’s silence.
“You are weighing the pros and cons of selling to me, I can see. Possibly contemplating seeing what others will offer you.”
Andrew decided to nibble a wee bit on the bait Montacute dangled. “I ken that Mackenzie has supposedly sold out of all of his shared business interests. The shares I hold might be the only ones still outstanding.” How odd to be talking about himself in the third person. “If so, that would make them even more valuable.”
Montacute snorted. “Tell me, Hadley,” the duke said, languid hauteur in his tone, “how goes your suit with the Committee on Privilege? Finding it difficult to take your seat in Lords, are you?”
Montacute swirled his port in his glass, eyeing Andrew over the rim. Candlelight flickered in the duke’s eyes.
Ah.
Puzzle pieces slotted into place.
“You’ve been blocking my Writ of Summons, have ye? I’m assuming ye were behind me being black-balled from White’s, as well, aye?”
Montacute offered a bland smile in reply. “Friends, Hadley, help friends. I am asking a favor of you. Sell me Mackenzie’s shares—”
“At a fraction of their value?”
“At a price I name,” the duke replied, as if somehow that were different. “It will be . . . enough. And in return, I will see that the Committee on Privilege and Chancery straighten out this small mess they have made with your Writ of Summons.”
Andrew’s jaw ticked. “Because you and I are . . . friends?”
He desperately wanted to laugh. The duke was an arrogant eejit.
The man had deliberately blocked Andrew’s acceptance into the House of Lords and was now using that fact to blackmail him into selling valuable business shares at a fraction of their value. More money to line Montacute’s already wealthy pockets.
It was diabolically cruel and unsporting and exactly the kind of behavior Andrew anticipated from a man like Montacute.
Montacute misunderstood Andrew’s hesitation. “Allow me to put this in plainer terms, ones that even an uneducated Highlander can understand: You are outmaneuvered, Hadley. You are a green novice in a field of masters. Withdraw while you still have opportunities. Take my offer—a sum for Mackenzie’s business shares and your seat in Lords. Use the money to improve your estates. Marry the daughter of a wealthy cit and line your pockets further. Face the truth now—you will never be good ton. But if you make careful choices, you can at least remove the stench of your lowly Scottish beginnings. Your children will reap the benefits of your prudent behavior.”
Unbelievable.
Montacute was truly a snake.
Andrew would never agree to such terms, obviously.
But one thing had become clear—Montacute did not know Andrew was Mackenzie. If so, he would know that Andrew didn’t need funds.
In fact, Montacute had nothing Andrew needed.
The Committee on Privilege had to approve his Writ of Summons eventually. Montacute could make noise and be difficult, but he couldn’t block it forever. Andrew would wait him out.
As for the business shares . . .
He nearly snorted.
The bigger question was how to untangle himself from Montacute without creating a powerful enemy in the process. Montacute had the ear of the Prince Regent. He could make Andrew’s life difficult if he chose.
And Andrew was desperate for Jane’s freedom. Something Montacute, thankfully, did not know.
Montacute mistook Andrew’s silence for acquiescence.
“In time, you will learn the importance of allies and trust within the ton,” he said. “For example, I know that I will soon welcome Wanleigh as my brother-in-law.”
The duke’s abrupt change in topic dowsed Andrew in cold water. “Pardon?”
He shot a glance at the aging marquess downing his port in eager gulps. Montacute followed his gaze.
“Lady Jane will be the most fortunate of women. Do you not agree, Wanleigh?”
Wanleigh smiled. It made Andrew’s stomach crawl.
“Of course,” Wanleigh said. “Naturally, I shall consider it my duty to ensure her happiness. She will make me a decorous, reserved wife.”
Andrew met Montacute’s eyes. The warning there was unmistakable.
My sister is not for you. Do not think otherwise.
“We shall all celebrate Lady Jane’s happiness, will we not, Hadley?”
Andrew couldn’t force an answer past his lips. His heart galloped and bucked, flooding his veins with forceful energy.
A decorous, reserved wife? Jane? Clearly neither man knew the woman at all.
No. He would do whatever he could to prevent that fate.
Andrew would be patient. Montacute thought he was the cat to Andrew’s mouse. The man was in for a rude awakening.
But for now, Andrew had another problem.
He let his eyes drift down the table to Peter.
Montacute hadn’t known about the connection between Andrew Mackenzie and Andrew Langston. Therefore, he likely hadn’t ordered Andrew’s death.
But Peter, on the other hand . . .
As if confirming his guilt, his heir continued to avoid Andrew’s gaze, choosing instead to sink lower and lower into his chair.
As if that would spare him questioning. Andrew’s chest heaved, his breathing tight.
Too many revelations. Too many questions.
He counted Peter a friend . . . or, at least, he had.
What did Peter know?
And, more to the point, what had Peter done with that knowledge?
27
Jane sat with her mother and Lady Whitcomb in the drawing room, neatly stitching flowers. The ladies discussed Paris fashions and the latest gossip surrounding a local squire.
Jane wanted to stab herself with her embroidery needle. If she never heard a conversation about bonnet trims again, it would be too soon.
No, she needed to know what the men were discussing in the dining room.
Wasn’t this a woman’s lot in life? Her world could be tumbling down around her, but a proper lady would sit and calmly stitch poppies and butterflies despite the chaos.
Embroidery, in moments like this, was not nearly violent enough for Jane’s taste. Clearly, a sadistic man had dreamed up the pastime.
Her emotions were a see-saw.
First, there was frustration.
What did Montacute know? Was there more to his coming than simply forcing Jane’s compliance?
Second, there was panic.
And what had Peter done? She knew her brother. He had some finger in the old earl’s business dealings.
Third, there was elation.
Andrew was this Scottish Vulcan? Wealthy as a god? Truly?
Jane wanted to feel outraged over his reticence. He had decidedly downplayed his wealth.
But instead, the knowledge simply led to . . . relief. Utter, blessed relief.
Andrew truly didn’t need her dowry.
It also explained how he was able to instantly address all the needs of the floundering earldom. It showed his diligence as a landlord that he assumed responsibility for his lands and his people.
His bracelet dangled from her wrist, a solid promise.
They would fight Montacute together.
And then they would choose each other. Of that, Jane was sure.
The men lingered over their port so long, Jane began to worry she wouldn’t see Peter or Andrew at all.
Finally, the men’s voices sounded in the entrance hall, crossing from the dini
ng room to the drawing room.
Jane turned her head toward the door.
Peter was the first one through, swaying slightly on his feet, obviously a trifle disguised. Montacute followed and then Whitcomb. Wanleigh entered last and met her gaze with a smug, possessive look that set Jane’s skin to crawling.
But no Andrew. Where was he?
“Hadley had some urgent estate business to attend to,” Wanleigh explained.
Montacute smiled. It was his self-satisfied smile that always sent chills skittering down Jane’s spine. “He can give his properties all the attention in the world, but without ready funds . . .”
Wanleigh laughed.
Peter stared at the door, clearly longing for escape, too. Her brother’s reaction spoke loudly to some guilt.
Oh, Peter. What did you do?
Jane gritted her teeth, barely avoiding flinching. If she had to listen to another minute of this, she would resort to violence.
She had an embroidery needle, after all.
“Jane, dear, are you quite all right?” Lady Whitcomb asked, having noted Jane’s wince.
Hallelujah. Salvation, at least.
“I am afraid I have developed quite the headache, Lady Whitcomb.” Jane pressed a trembling hand to her forehead. “Perhaps it would be best if I withdraw for the evening.”
Her mother murmured a few words, voice strained. Peter raised his eyebrow a fraction, expression stating he knew full well that she wasn’t ill. Montacute’s gaze promised a lengthy scold for daring to escape the drawing room and Wanleigh’s attentions.
Jane all but ran from the room.
She intended to retire to her bedchamber, truly she did. But as she walked down the corridor to her chamber, she noted a faint light coming from underneath Peter’s door.
Oh!
Who was in Peter’s room at this hour?
Another dreadful thought occurred:
Was this the ‘estate business’ then that had sent Andrew rushing off?
Jane pushed open her brother’s door. As a son of the house, Peter had a suite of rooms, including a small sitting room and dressing room which adjoined the main bedchamber.
The light came from Peter’s sitting room, a rectangular strip stretching across his bedroom.
