by Laura Landon
Chapter 4
Over the last three months, Griff had used every skill he’d perfected during the war to find the gunman responsible for Freddie’s death—and come up with nothing to show for his efforts. He was perilously close to running out of options, perilously close to running out of leads. But not once did he consider giving up. Vengeance was strong motivation.
He put his half-empty flask back in his pocket and made his way down the walk, keeping close to the rows of storefront buildings already locked up for the night.
He’d turned over every rock, followed up on every lead, talked to every person who might have seen anything that night. But as each lead ended in futility, his frustration consumed more of him. His fear that the killer had gotten away with another murder, and that he, Griffin Blackmoor, was the cause of another innocent person’s death, ate away at him like a deadly cancer.
At first he thought he’d lose his mind trying to battle the unrelenting guilt that refused to go away. But he’d figured out the amount of liquor he needed to consume every day to numb his emotions without affecting his ability to think. It was important that he always remain alert enough to function—at least until the nightmares came. Nightmares that drove him to the brink of insanity.
Griff pulled the flask from his pocket and took another long swallow. Now he simply subsisted in a haze of blessed numbness, not sober enough to recall the faces of the people he’d condemned because of their association to him, yet not drunk enough to completely forget.
Griff kept his feet moving until he reached Waterman’s, the club to which every member of his family had belonged for generations. He stopped and stared at the doorway, not sure when he’d been here last. Not sure when he’d been anywhere last.
He swiped a hand over his brow and entered through the door the ever-present Harry held open for him.
“Good evening, Mr. Blackmoor.”
“Good evening, Harry. How are you this evening?”
“Fine, sir. And you?”
“Fine. Just fine. Send over a bottle, would you?”
“Right away, sir,” Harry said, but he didn’t rush off as he usually did. “Sir?”
Griff turned. “Is something wrong?”
“Not exactly wrong, sir. But you might want to consider that Lord Bington is here and avoid him tonight.”
Griff tried to recall the last time he’d seen Bingy. He couldn’t. “I take it I offended Lord Bington recently,” Griff said, handing over his coat and hat.
“Yes, I believe you did. It seems Lord Bington took offense at a disparaging remark you made regarding the lack of participation by any of his offspring in our war in the Crimea.”
The air caught in Griff’s chest. “A disparaging remark?” he asked, trying to remember the incident.
“Well, actually it wasn’t a remark, sir, but more an accusation because not one of Lord Bington’s six sons considered it their duty to serve their country. If I recall correctly, you compared several of Lord Bington’s sons to those brave soldiers who had given their lives for their country and found Lord Bington’s heirs, um…lacking.”
Griff ignored the stabbings of guilt that tore at him. Even if what he said was true, he’d had no right to make such comments in public. “I’ll try my best to avoid Lord Bington, Harry. Thanks for the warning.”
“My pleasure.” Harry cleared his throat and looked a little sheepish. “It’s only that I overheard Mr. Waterman himself remark that he wouldn’t tolerate any more disturbances where you are involved, Mr. Blackmoor.”
Griff nodded his understanding, then walked into the room. He found a table in the corner where he could be by himself, and waited impatiently for the bottle he’d ordered. The minute a footman brought it, he poured a liberal amount in a glass and drank it. He reached to fill the glass again but stopped when Viscount Sheridan, who was seated at a nearby table, greeted a stranger approaching him.
Griff intended to ignore Sheridan. They had never been close acquaintances, and from what Griff had heard of him, he had no intention of making any change in their relationship. But his intentions evaporated when Sheridan used Freddie’s title to greet the stranger.
“Brentwood,” Sheridan said, pulling out a chair for his guest. “Sit down and join me. I haven’t seen you since you came into all that Brentwood wealth. I thought perhaps you considered friends from your old life too insignificant to bother with now that you possessed such a lofty title.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Sherry. You and I spent too much time in each other’s homes as youths. You know me better than that.”
“I do, friend. So, what has kept you from coming to London before now? It’s been more than three months since you’ve inherited. Is it true you’ve been so busy entertaining the late marquess’s sisters that you couldn’t tear yourself from their pleasant company to visit us?”
“Hardly. Lady Anne and her sister moved out of Brentwood Manor the day after the solicitor read the will. I’ve seen very little of them since. As the oldest, she watches out for her sibling as if I were the bad wolf in that appalling fairy tale.”
“Well, aren’t you?” Sheridan laughed a lot more raucously than Griff wanted to hear. “I thought maybe you’d be sharing your bed with at least one of them by now.”
“You wound me, Sherry. As their only remaining relative, I’ve taken them both under my wing for safekeeping.”
Viscount Sheridan slapped his hand on the table and laughed. “I thought you were going to tell me you’d taken them both into your bed.”
“Not yet, friend. Not yet. My first step was to offer them the old caretaker’s cottage to live in until they find another residence.”
“And when will that be?”
“Never.” Brentwood’s tone dripped with condescension. “Rumor has it they’ve already had to pawn some of their mother’s jewelry in order to put food on the table and buy a few necessities. If they’re that lacking in funds, they can hardly afford to pay rent on a place to live as well. It won’t be long before they’ll have to accept my generosity.”
“You haven’t opened your pantry to them?”
“Such a magnanimous offer would only hinder my goal.”
“Which is?”
“To wait until they are desperate.”
“And then?”
“I’ll make my offer.”
“What offer?”
“Marriage, of course.”
“You intend to marry the late marquess’s sister? Lady Anne?”
“Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”
“Because she’s hardly your type, Brentwood. She must be all of twenty-five. It’s a well-known fact that when she had her coming out a few years back, she all but chased every eligible suitor away. Society still talks about it.”
Brentwood laughed. “I don’t doubt it. She hasn’t changed since then.”
Sheridan continued. “By all accounts, she’s turned into something of a recluse. Some even call her odd.”
“The only thing odd about her is she’s as cold as a block of ice. Being in the same room with her is like sitting next to a frozen statue.”
“Then why would you choose her for your bride?”
Brentwood laughed again and set his glass down with a loud thud. “I have my reasons. Besides, can you imagine anything more exciting than the submission of an unwilling wife?”
Griff fisted his hands around the glass in front of him and took a deep breath. Freddie had mentioned the distant cousin who would inherit his title and land if anything happened to him. Griff also remembered he hadn’t said anything good about him. The new marquess had a violent reputation with women that his overprotective family had kept secret. That did not speak well for the man who’d given Freddie’s sisters shelter—the man who intended to wed the sister Freddie called Annie.
Take care of Annie. Promise me.
Griff ignored the rest of the conversation between the two men and concentrated on refilling his glass, then emptying it. He refused to
let Brentwood’s bragging over his good fortune due to Freddie’s death affect him. He refused to consider helping Freddie’s sister as Freddie had begged him to. The only way he could protect her was to stay as far away from her as possible.
Eventually, the two men rose to visit a brothel that specialized in satisfying the darker side of a man’s sexual appetites. Griff watched them go, then finished another glass of liquor. He tried to forget what he’d overheard but couldn’t. He tried to forget about Freddie’s sisters—but couldn’t. Especially the one he remembered standing alone at the window. The one called Annie, who seemed able to see through him to his very soul.
She was alone now. What if she found herself forced to marry such a man to support herself and her sister? What if she had no choice but to submit to such a man night after night?
Griff released the glass before it broke.
Take care of Annie. Promise me.
He pushed his chair back and stumbled to his feet. He needed to get out of here. Needed to go where he could be alone.
He threw the remaining liquor to the back of his throat and took one step forward. Fingers of iron clamped tight around his arm and stopped him.
“Griff. Sit down.”
Griff turned around too fast and took an unsteady step backward. When he was able to focus, he found himself looking into his brother’s angry features.
“Adam. What an unpleasant surprise.” Griff pulled his arm free with a jerk. “If you’ll excuse me, I was about to leave.”
Adam pointed to the chair Griff had just vacated. “I’d like to talk to you if you don’t mind.”
“Well, I do mind.”
“It’s important, Griff.”
Griff stared at his brother. A knot of unease welled inside him. “Leave me alone, Adam. It’s late. I want to go home.”
Griff staggered toward the door. He had to get out of here. Had to go someplace where he could be alone. Someplace where he could forget the deaths he’d been responsible for. Someplace where the memories wouldn’t haunt him.
He moved toward the door, thankful when he was outside in the cool evening air.
He forced one foot in front of the other, weaving from the left to the right. He could still hear the new Marquess of Brentwood’s voice, still hear the man who’d inherited Freddie’s title say what he intended to do to Freddie’s sister.
Take care of Annie. Please.
He reached inside his pocket and tipped the flask to his lips. He took a long drink.
Bloody hell. She was already pawning her mother’s jewelry to put food on the table.
Take care of Annie. Please.
He brushed Freddie’s words aside. He couldn’t take care of her. She wouldn’t be safe anywhere near him.
He picked up his pace, staggering even more in his desperation to escape Freddie’s words. Freddie was dead because of him and his sisters were alone to fend for themselves.
Take care of Annie. Please.
Griff stepped off the walk and into the gutter. He needed to make his way across the narrow cobblestoned street. Needed to get as far away as he could from Waterman’s and the conversation he’d heard between Lord Sheridan and the new Marquess of Brentwood.
“Stop, Griff!” Adam called from behind him.
Griff spun around. He lost his balance and slammed into a pair of horses pulling a carriage down the street.
The piercing screams from the panicked horses shattered the silence around him as he flew through the air. He landed on the ground with the air knocked out of his body. A sharp pain grabbed at his ribs and another shot through his head.
The last thing he saw before the world around him went black was the concerned expression on Adam’s face.
As darkness consumed him he recognized the only emotion that was strong enough to overshadow the pain—that of regret.
Regret because he hadn’t been hurt severely enough to die.
Chapter 5
Griff opened one eye at a time, then slowly closed each one. Last night must have been worse than usual. He hurt like hell this morning. Or afternoon. He wasn’t quite sure which. Thankfully, the drapes were still shut and he didn’t have to face the blinding sun.
He opened his eyes a slit and tried to move his head. The pain was too intense and he quickly closed them.
He needed a drink. With his eyes closed, he reached out his hand to the table beside the bed. His hand came back empty. Where the hell was the bottle he always kept there?
He attempted to open his eyes again, then slowly turned his head. A sharp pain pounded at his temples, causing him to groan. He squeezed his eyes shut and swore a vicious oath, then lay in the comfort of the soft bed without moving. He felt like hell. Like someone had hit him over the head with a club.
He needed that drink.
He forced himself to lift his eyelids and look around the room. Where the hell was he? He certainly wasn’t in his own home. Then he remembered the running horses and Adam leaning over him.
Using more strength than he thought he had in him, he threw off the bedcovers and swung one leg over the edge of the bed. He needed to find a bottle. He needed a drink before his head split wide open.
He sat upright and clutched his fists into the covers to keep from toppling over. He wore a nightshirt. He hadn’t slept in a bloody nightshirt for years. He let his eyes scan the entire room. There wasn’t a bottle anywhere. His stomach lurched and he thought he was going to be ill.
Damn it to hell! He needed a drink!
By the time he had the nightshirt off and his shirt and breeches on, his hands were trembling so violently he could barely button his breeches. He left his shirt gaping at the neck. He knew he wouldn’t find anything to drink up here. He had to get downstairs.
He staggered across the room and out the door. A heavy film of perspiration covered his forehead before he reached the stairs. By the time he made it to the first floor, his knees felt like pudding beneath him.
“Good morning, Mr. Blackmoor,” Adam’s butler, Fenwick, said from behind him.
Griff clung to the thick, oak column at the bottom of the banister to hold himself steady. “Where’s the earl, Fenwick?”
“In his study, sir. Should I announce you?”
“No.” Griff forced himself to walk across the marble vestibule floor. “I’ll announce myself.”
Griff grabbed the handle on Adam’s study door and flung it open. Adam Blackmoor, Earl of Covington, raised his head and stared at him with a look that was part concern and part disgust. Griff didn’t care. His only thought at the moment was making it to Adam’s well-stocked supply of fine liquors and pouring himself a tall glass of anything that would numb the pain in his head and stop his hands from shaking. He filled a glass and took several long swallows, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
Adam rose and walked to the door. “Fenwick, bring a tray with coffee,” he ordered from the doorway, then closed the door behind him, leaving the two of them alone. The two brothers stared at each other for a moment. “I didn’t expect you to be up so early,” Adam said.
“Just as I didn’t expect to find myself in your home when I woke.”
“Where did you expect to find yourself, Griff? Or do you even care anymore?”
Griff ignored the sarcasm in the accusations and refilled his glass with scotch. After another swallow, he lowered his aching body to a chair beside the fireplace and sat there while Fenwick placed a tray of hot, steaming coffee on the table nearby. Griff clutched the glass of scotch in his hand and leaned back into the chair to wait until Fenwick was gone. “I have decided to go back to the country,” he said when they were alone.
“Why?”
Griff laughed. “You sound disappointed. I thought you would be glad to hear I was leaving London.”
“Well, I’m not. Your problems will follow you no matter where you go. All you will accomplish by hiding in the country is that a greater number of people will be spared seeing what a drunkard you have beco
me.”
Griff felt his temper flare. “I’m hardly a drunkard, Adam.”
“Aren’t you? Just how normal do you think it is to have finished your second glass of scotch before nine in the morning?”
Griff slashed his hand through the air. “When I choose to have a drink is hardly your concern.”
“Then whose is it?”
“Mine! Only mine!”
Griff closed his eyes and took another swallow of liquor to help ease the pain. “I simply wanted you to know I was leaving London.”
“Why the concern now? You haven’t thought to inform me of your whereabouts for the last three months. I’ve searched for you but only discover where you’ve been after reading the scandal sheet each morning to learn about the latest brawl in which you were involved.” Adam walked to the tray and filled a cup with coffee. “I wouldn’t know of your whereabouts now if I hadn’t paid every doorman in every club in London to send for me the moment you showed up at their establishment.”
It seemed Adam was bellowing. His voice boomed louder than Griff’s head could tolerate. Griff lowered his head to his hands, but Adam didn’t stop his ranting.
“You haven’t cared about anyone but yourself for months. Why in bloody hell are you so concerned that I’m informed of your whereabouts now?”
Griff sat back in the chair and took another swallow. “Because I need a favor before I can leave.”
“You need a favor? Don’t tell me you’ve left debts all over London and need me to cover them?”
“No. Money isn’t the problem. It never has been. You know I could never spend what I inherited from Mother’s family, or what you pay me for managing Covington Estate, even if I devoted two lifetimes and more to reckless waste.”
“Then what is it?”
“I need you to sponsor Freddie’s sister into Society.”
Adam’s jaw dropped. “You’re not serious.”
“I’m afraid I am.”
“Why?”
“Because she has no place else to go. Because she’s destitute and has already had to pawn their mother’s jewelry to put food on their table. Because that was the last demand Freddie made of me before he died. To take care of his sister.”
