by Jaimey Grant
A carriage was stopped before the earl’s residence, a pair of demonic black horses stamping and pawing the ground in their unhappiness with their lot in life. A man in black leapt down, his saturnine features as bland as ever.
“That won’t be necessary, Witless.”
Gideon breathed a sigh of relief, for once giving little heed to the despised appellation that Derringer always employed.
“Hart, where is she?”
The duke turned, offering his hand to someone who still sat in the carriage behind him. “She is safe, Holt,” he said, almost kindly.
Lady Malvina stepped down, her face tear-stained and blotchy. Gideon stepped forward, lifting her into his arms.
Looking over her head at the duke, he asked, “It is true, then?”
Derringer nodded. “It is.”
They moved to enter the house, the duke following.
“Deverell?”
Derringer’s snort spoke volumes. “I do hope you told Sidmouth of his crimes?”
“I did not, in so many words.”
Reaching out, Derringer stopped his friend just outside the drawing room door. “You did not?”
“No. Why?”
“Why didn’t you?” the duke countered. “Did you not have the proof of his treachery? What stopped you?”
“Fear for Malvina and Wolf.”
Derringer gave him a long, probing look before firmly ushering them into the drawing room, quite as if he was the master, not Lord Holt.
Malvina was deposited on the settee, her husband gently brushing the hair back from her brow, murmuring some low words for her ears alone. He turned to ring for Maddy and was only mildly surprised to see her immediately behind him.
“Please tend to your mistress,” he said. “His grace and I will be in the study.”
A few minutes later, the gentlemen were deep in discussion.
Gideon held his head in his hands, deeply distressed and blaming himself. “I thought the boy was just out sowing his wild oats. I never believed Deverell would do something like this.”
“We don’t even know yet what he’s done,” Derringer pointed out unhelpfully.
Moving to a table in the corner, he filled two tumblers with brandy and took one back to his friend.
“Do you want me to find Deverell?”
Gideon looked at Derringer. “Of course I do. I want him dead for what he’s done.”
“Treason?”
Gideon swore fluently. “It is not my right, is it?”
The duke shrugged. He had little use for the monarchy, such as it was, and made no secret of that fact. “You did not hand over your proof yet. One could say that you do not have it at this moment and did away with a murderer before you discovered the proof you needed.”
“It won’t answer,” Gideon said reluctantly. He rose to his feet and proceeded to refill his glass. Tossing back the contents, he added, “I have already been instructed to investigate him. If he suddenly dies at my hand, it would cause too many questions.”
“Fatal mishap?”
The earl shook his head. “Too coincidental, Hart.”
The duke set aside his glass. “It is settled then.”
“What is?”
Derringer’s features creased into a smile that his friends knew meant trouble. “What is what, my dear sir?”
The feeling that assailed Gideon was relief mixed with frustration. As much as everything in him screamed out for Deverell to feel justice at his own hand, he knew it was much better for everyone if Lord Heartless took care of everything.
A visit to the Home Office the following day did little to solve Gideon’s family troubles. There had been no sign of Lord Delwyn Deverell in all the time the Holts had been resident in London. It was decidedly odd, to say the least.
And yet, he had been there. It was unlikely that he could elude everyone, but it seemed to be exactly what he had managed.
He had had to endure a blistering scold from Lord Sidmouth, ultimately resulting in Lord Holt’s resigning his position with the Home Office. The two gentlemen had agreed it was probably for the best, with the earl newly married.
The news he’d received just before leaving had almost made the visit worthwhile. But not quite.
Gideon returned home, disheartened. For the first time since he’d married, he did not want to see Malvina. He did not want to see her face again, see that expression that cut so deep it was indescribable.
And it was all his fault. If he had taken Deverell’s evil tendencies more seriously, he could have prevented this tragedy.
It was inconceivable that Deverell could be so lost to humanity. He had been a quiet boy, never drawing attention to himself, enduring Derringer’s overly cruel teasing with a calm that was extraordinary in one so young.
Gideon frowned, entering his study. Deverell had been an odd child. He had never seemed to care about anything, was always indifferent. He had watched but rarely participated; been a follower but rarely a doer.
Why had he associated with Derringer’s crowd in the first place?
Shaking his head at the futility of trying to determine why a killer and traitor would do the things he did, Gideon sat down at his desk. Sitting on top, in plain view, was a folded sheet of vellum.
The handwriting was a familiar memory from his school days.
He reached out to take it, his hand almost moving of its own accord. His mind screamed for him to stop, to avoid the news he was sure was contained within.
He swore. It was not what he had expected, neither was it good.
Derringer would arrive within hours.
Gideon met him at the door.
“Did you find him?”
“I did. He will not be killing anymore young men.” A hint of satisfaction brightened Derringer’s black eyes.
“What of Wolf?”
It was not a pleasant thing that Gideon saw reflected in the duke’s face. It was an expression of hopeless despair. It was a failure that Derringer couldn’t right, one that involved the death of a child, a child that he had secretly admired even while he pitied him.
“I do not know what to say, Holt. I have too many reports of a large young man of Wolf’s description meeting his untimely demise at the hands of robbers in the rookeries.”
Gideon swallowed hard. “What of his body?”
“Gone,” the duke replied succinctly. “Two men whose word I trust saw him tossed into the Thames.”
“What?”
The gentlemen turned to see Lady Holt, her face a mask of horror and dashed hope. Derringer’s response was to curse roundly and storm out, brushing roughly by her as he fled the room.
Gideon’s reaction was a little less dramatic but no less heartfelt.
He crossed the room to stand before her, framing her stricken face with his hands. Leaning forward until their heads touched, he whispered, “I am so sorry, my love.”
It was some months before Malvina was able to accept her son’s death. Gideon watched her closely, terrified for her and unsure how to help her. He didn’t know the pain of losing a child though he mourned the loss of hers. Wolf had been irritating, hotheaded, and generally uncontrollable, but he’d loved his mother and tried to protect her as best he could. Gideon could hardly fault him for that.
London palled so they packed up and returned to Moorview Park. Malvina and the Dowager avoided each other, which seemed to work for all involved.
It was a week after their arrival that Gideon realized just how clever a decision it was. In his desire to remove her from the prying eyes and whispering tongues of Society, he’d actually struck upon the perfect solution for her grief.
Samantha.
They held each other up. The girl had formed an attachment to Wolf that no one had anticipated. She grieved but her grief allowed her to accept the outcome and comfort the new countess, her sister-in-law.
Gideon stood in the library, a brandy in one hand. He occasionally lifted the glass to his lips, even occasionally tas
ted the fine amber liquid that touched his tongue. But for the most part, his mind refused to settle, and so preoccupied was he that not only didn’t he taste his drink, he also didn’t hear the door open behind him.
“Giddy?”
He turned at the soft tone, the usual heartache snaking through him. “Sammy.” Soft blue wool draped her body, smudges of dirt on the bodice and skirt. She’d no doubt been in the stables, and not realized she carried some of the dirt in with her.
It was time she married, he mused. His friend Trent would make her a good husband, but Gideon wasn’t sure if either one of them still approved the match. Samantha was but a child when the betrothal was arranged. But she would turn eighteen later in the year and should be thinking about a family of her own rather than tending to his.
She grimaced at the pet name but Gideon couldn’t be sorry. He adored his sister and would never forgive himself for his part in her disfigurement. She would always be ‘Sammy’ to him, reminding him of a time when she was perfect.
“I hate that name, Giddy,” she remarked, moving forward to slide a finger over the brandy decanter. If he didn’t know better, he’d think she wanted a drink.
He shrugged and stepped to her side, setting his empty glass on the table and pulling the stopper from the decanter. “As I hate that name?” He sloshed three fingers into his glass, then, after a slight hesitation, he sloshed little more than a mouthful into another glass and handed it to his sister.
She stared at it, then glanced at him. A tear slipped down her cheek as she accepted the offering. She tossed it back as she’d seen her brother do, coughing at the burn in her throat.
Gideon thumped her on the back, smiling. “Harsh, no?”
Her laugh bubbled up between gasps and coughs. “Horrid stuff, Giddy! How can you stand it?”
He shrugged one shoulder, a tinge of darkness settling over his features. “It grows on one.” Thus saying, he downed his drink and set the glass on the table.
A shudder racked her small frame. “I do not think so.” She carefully set her glass down, then grasped the table edge as the spirits went straight to her head. “Oh my,” she whispered.
Gideon helped her to a chair. “Have you eaten anything today?” At Samantha’s brief head shake, he mused, “Perhaps that mouthful was a bit too much for you, love.” She nodded, then shook her head as if she could shake away the dizziness. He sat beside her and clasped her hand, for once not allowing himself to look away from her scarred features, the scars he caused.
“Giddy, I have his horse.”
He almost didn’t catch her low whisper. Then, with a sinking in his middle, he asked, “Whose horse?”
Though he’d been home for nearly a month, he’d neglected his stables. Even when he spent time there, he barely noticed new additions, as it was Samantha’s domain. He had his animals and she had hers. Besides that, horses now reminded him of Wolf and his own ineffectually brief time as a stepfather. He fought the desire to curse a blue streak.
“Wolf’s Grendel.”
Of course his sister would still get the boy a horse. She’d probably had the beast for months, just waiting for Wolf’s return. Tears tightened Gideon’s throat even as he barked a laugh. “Grendel? You named Beowulf’s horse Grendel?”
Samantha smiled but her tears seeped from the corners of her eyes. “He’s an ugly, spotted beast that Hollings found,” she explained, referring to their stable master. “He was looking at a hunter I’d heard was up for auction and when he saw Grendel he thought of Wolf and recalled your orders to get him a horse. I thought—I thought Wolf would like him. I changed his name to the one name I thought suited horse and master. I thought—” Her hands tightened on her brother’s, her lip trembling. “Oh, Giddy, I was so vexed with him. I thought he was a horrid boy and deserved to be punished. But I never—”
Gideon released her hands to draw her into his arms, tucking her head beneath his chin. “He would have loved Grendel, Sammy.” Gideon sighed. “He admired you. I think he was a little in love with you.”
That particular revelation sent her into choking sobs. Gideon held her, stroking her hair, wondering where his wife was and if Samantha did this while in her company. He suspected the girl held it all in, out of consideration for Malvina, saving her tears for the privacy of her own chamber. Had no one held her? He’d not thought about it, never considered Samantha might not have anyone to hold her up the way she tended to hold up everyone else. He knew Malvina would have, had she been less wrapped in her own grief.
As if summoned, Malvina entered, a wide smile lighting her pale features. It was the first smile he’d seen on her face since Wolf’s disappearance. And though far less than six months had passed, she’d set aside her mourning attire, choosing a white muslin gown edged with Pomona green silk. Gracing her throat was the pearl pendant he’d bestowed upon her just after he met her, matching gems—a gift he’d had commissioned just after their marriage—sparkling at her ears.
Samantha composed herself, easing out of her brother’s arms and turning to face Malvina. Gideon rose to his feet, his sister following suit. Her face brightened considerably. “You are looking well.”
Malvina’s eyes remained fixed on her husband, though she did greet the young woman at his side. Then, “Gideon, I must speak with you.”
Samantha excused herself. As she passed by Malvina, she impulsively hugged her. “I am pleased you are feeling better.” She left, closing the door behind her.
Gideon eyed his wife, not entirely sure what to expect. Over the course of several weeks he’d been treated in turns to rage, silence, tears, and indifference. Her rage had even spilled over onto Derringer, driving that man into hiding.
This radiant creature before him was one he’d never seen in the short time he’d known her.
She placed her hands over her belly, her lips parting as she gazed at him. “It’s happened, my love. There will be a child—Ooo!”
He’d crossed the room and scooped her up before she’d finished speaking. Kissing her soundly, he returned her to her feet, unable to hold back his joyous grin.
“When?”
“September.” Joy, contentment, and peace settled over her features, tinged with a weary sadness. “I only wish Wolf was here to share this. I know he’d love to have a brother or sister.”
Gideon wasn’t sure if it was the baby that caused Malvina’s acceptance of Wolf’s death or if she’d just lost hope. She’d maintained from the start that he was alive, even after Derringer’s claim to the contrary.
As if reading his mind, she said, “I think he’s alive, Gideon. I will never accept his...death.”
Gideon nodded. “I understand, my love. I’m not sure I believe he’s gone either.” It was a lie. Gideon knew, deep down, that Wolf was gone. But if it helped Malvina to believe otherwise, he’d accept that.
“I have news,” he revealed, “something I should have told you months ago.” He took her hand and led her to the settee he’d just occupied with his sister. “Seems Brackney wasn’t a traitor. His name is cleared, as is that of Wolf.”
“Not a traitor?” Malvina repeated, brow furrowed. “But what of the journal Deverell said he possessed?”
“Deverell lied,” Gideon stated, stifling the fury he felt at the mere thought of that bounder. The man was dead and gone, but Gideon still hated the mere memory of him. “There was never a journal because Brackney knew better than to keep such a thing.”
Malvina nodded. “So those hold-ups”—her voice trembled on the words—“were nothing more than a means to fund Deverell’s escape?” She knew that. It was still horrifying to think of That Man using her simply to help his own escape from a well-deserved fate.
“So it would seem.”
“And what of my part, Gideon? Shall I pay for my crimes?”
“Sidmouth has no interest beyond those who employed Deverell. Even Deverell is but a means of finding the ringleaders. I’ve convinced him that you and Wolf were but unfortunate
pawns. And I’ve made some recompense to the family of the boy who died.”
Malvina swallowed tears. “I would like to apologize to the family for my part in their son’s death.”
Gideon squeezed her hand. “I have done so. They were most understanding.”
Malvina shrugged away from him, rising to her feet. “How can that be so?” In her agitation, she paced to the small table where the brandy decanter sat. Wrapping her fingers around the container’s neck, she lifted it, pulling the stopper out. “How can any parent forgive such a crime against their child?” She splashed the smallest amount into one of the provided glasses, set the decanter aside, and lifted the glass, staring into the pale amber liquid coating the bottom. “How can they forgive me for the part I played in the loss of their child?”
“They do not know,” Gideon whispered, his voice close to her ear. She’d not realized he’d moved from his place across the room. “I told them of the hold-up, of their son’s willingness to assist you despite the danger to himself.” He gently removed the glass from her fingers. “They are happy knowing their son—a young man who’d previously shown no hint of unselfish behavior—was willing to risk his life to assist a lady in danger. He died a hero. It is all they need to know.”
Malvina closed her eyes, taking in deep breaths with lungs that almost refused to allow it. Eyes flying wide, she retrieved the glass from her husband and downed the tiny bit of brandy she’d poured. Heat spiraled into her stomach, sending a warm fuzziness into her brain. It wasn’t her first taste of brandy and it wouldn’t be her last but it was all she needed at the moment. A calming lassitude invaded her limbs and she could breathe again. The glass barely rattled as she set it on the table.
There was a reason for everything, she reminded herself. Smiling, Malvina turned to her husband and cupped his cheek, forcing his eyes to meet hers. “As much as I hate the agony Deverell has caused, I cannot regret the past. I cannot regret meeting you.”
“Have you considered I am the reason you lost your son?”
Her smile faltered, just a bit. His face shuttered, hiding his feelings from her though she knew his pain, his guilt, ran as deep as hers. “We cannot know if things would have been different for Wolf had we never met you,” she soothed, her fingers tracing a path over the worry lines framing his mouth. “It does not do to blame yourself, love.”
