Willoughby 03 - A Rogue's Deadly Redemption

by Jeannie Ruesch

  It was too much to ask that she might love him again.

  “Mr. Melrose.”

  Robert looked up, pulled from his thoughts. “Yes?”

  His housekeeper approached him, a note in hand. “A note from the Marquess, sir.”

  Robert waved it away. “Place it on the stack with the others. I have no desire to see his writing so early.” Or any time, really.

  Mrs. Tandy pressed her lips together, an expression so familiar he could draw her constant disapproval in his sleep. “I cannot do that, sir. His man is here, waiting.”

  Robert dropped his napkin on his plate. “So send him away.”

  “I tried that, sir, but he was quite insistent.”

  Robert scraped his chair back. “Fine. I’ll see to it myself.” He stood and snatched the letter off the tray. He stalked to the front entry way, where a young footman stood tall and still.

  Robert waved the note in front of his face. “I have the note. You may leave now.”

  “I’m afraid I cannot, sir. I was given strict instructions. But I would be happy to wait out in the carriage until the appropriate time.”

  Robert frowned. “Time for what? He wishes a response? He’ll get a response when I feel like giving him one.”

  The footman shifted his weight. “It is not a simple response I am to wait upon, sir.”

  “Then what?”

  When the footman didn’t reply, Robert muttered, “For God’s sake, what now?” He tore the envelope open, dropped it and opened up the short letter. The words were sparse, but each one added to the anger that had begun to boil inside. “You are to escort me to him at precisely one-thirty this afternoon?” Robert’s words were slow, building in volume and clipped off at the ends. “What the hell am I, a child? Are you to sit and attend to my nappies as well?”

  He didn’t expect either housekeeper or footman to respond, but instead he tossed the letter on the ground. “He can go to hell. I will not come to heel now or any other day, and you can bloody well report that to him. Get out of my house.”

  The footman stared with wide eyes. “As you wish. I shall wait in the carriage until this afternoon.”

  “No, you will not.” Robert’s fists clenched at his sides. “You will return to your master, and tell him precisely where he can place his request.”

  The footman bowed and as he exited the house, Robert took the petty pleasure in slamming the door behind him.

  Who the hell did Marcus think he was? Ordering him about like he had any say in Robert’s life? As if he was any part of his life, period?

  “If you don’t mind my saying so,” Edwin intruded as he walked into the foyer, “but I don’t envision the young lad leaving. You’ve left him quivering in the carriage but he’ll stay until he’s fulfilled his lordship’s request.”

  “Why can’t I have a servant who obeys?” Robert snorted. “He’ll have a long wait, for I have no intention of being escorted anywhere.”

  “You have a meeting at one this afternoon, in any case, my lord.”

  So he did.

  Robert enjoyed the irony that he was elevating his position within the organization while his brother sat upon his heels and awaited his fancy.

  Should Robert’s activities get about, it would envelope the respectable, circumspect Marquess in a black void of scandal.

  Of course, Robert preferred his own neck out of the hangman’s noose and wouldn’t be inclined to give up what life he did have just to destroy his brothers—neither the ‘heir’ Marcus nor the spare, Cary. But the thought of it held some merit.

  Robert peered out the window past the lace covering. Thick fingers of fog curled above the ground, making it difficult to make out his brother’s tell-tale coach. The shiny black, the silver embellishments, the excellent horseflesh leading it.

  There it stood. Waiting.

  Robert could imagine his neighbors peering out their windows at the carriage. Not that he knew them or gave a whit about what they thought, yet somehow the notion that they might perceive him under his brother’s thumb needled. The longer he stood there, watching the gray mist further envelope the world outside, the more he felt like he was doing exactly as his brother expected. Staring out the window, focused on what his brother wanted.

  Marcus expected him to show. And he’d expect Robert to show late.

  A cold grin curved Robert’s lips. He wasn’t going to wait. No, indeed.

  He had a meeting to attend, and he was going to use his brother’s carriage to get there.

  ***

  Edwin opened the door to the carriage, and Robert jumped up to the highboard, startling the footman who sat atop with the driver. “Sir! What are you doing?”

  “Getting in. We’re going to my brother’s.”

  The boy’s eyes grew round. “But he wished you to arrive at one-thirty this afternoon.”

  “He’ll have to live with disappointment.” Marcus was well acquainted with the emotion. He’d directed plenty at Robert over the years, on the few occasions he’d paid him any attention at all.

  “But…I can’t.” The boy looked terrified.

  “You will. Or I’ll get out and you can return without me. Those are the options. And after we dispense with this, you’ll be taking me to run an errand. Edwin, get inside.”

  Edwin hauled himself into the carriage and sat across from him.

  “It will be slow going, sir,” the boy said from the driver’s perch. “The fog has grown right thick, it has.”

  In a few minutes the carriage began to crawl forward. Robert stared out the window. He couldn’t see an inch past the carriage and wondered how the driver was able to see at all. Not the brightest time to be out in the weather, but his brother had insisted.

  Why had he?

  “I assume you reached out to your contact yesterday,” he said to Edwin, who had remained silent as was normal on their excursions.

  “You read the paper, didn’t you?” Edwin gave him an affronted look. “I met with him yesterday to give details of Lady Melrose’s departure, as we knew they’d discover it anyway, and your supposed activities in various gambling hells last night. They appeared in the column this morning.” He tsked. “I still find it appalling that they write such ‘news’ without verification of the story.”

  “You are their verification. They pay you to do their work and provide information. I gather they don’t much care if it isn’t true.” Robert shrugged. “It works in our favor.” When you provided the information, you controlled what was said.

  Had Marcus read the news with his morning tea? The gossipers would have had a field day had they seen Lily leaving with her trunks and belongings, and the items Robert ensured Edwin placed in the paper would only compound the gossip.

  A half hour later, they arrived at Wayfair House. Surrounded by a black and gold iron gate, the grand, white house stood in the center of impeccable manicured gardens like a queen granting an audience with the world. Just the sight of it tightened Robert’s cravat around his neck and he reached up to loosen it.

  The carriage came to a halt, and he turned to Edwin. “I’ll be back shortly. Wait here.”

  “Where else would I be?” Edwin’s dry tone brought a slight curve to Robert’s lips, then he opened the door and hopped out.

  “Sir, let me—” the footman started, but Robert ignored him. With solid strides, he made his way through the gate and up to the front door. Without waiting for a by your leave, he pushed the door open and moved into the foyer. This was the house of his childhood, but amidst the cold statues, cold marble floor and white on white décor, there were no fond memories.

  Ghosts lurked in every crevice. Invisible spurs waited around corners to bring him to his knees. The veil of invisibility that he’d felt as a child became his shadow. He loosened his cravat again.

  “Mr. Melrose, I did not hear the door,” boomed a firm voice.

  Robert turned and immediately drew his shoulders back. “Hasgood.”

  Hasgood had be
en with their family for Robert’s entire life, and even at his age, he maintained a ramrod posture. The man stood a handful of inches over six feet, with broad shoulders and a reed thin frame. Silver hair flanked a long, lean face that held no warmth, his mouth a thin slash of disapproval. Robert was on the receiving end of that expression so often from so many, it almost felt like affection.

  Robert turned away, throwing over his shoulder, “I am looking for my brother.”

  “He is in a meeting. But may I show you to the parlor? You may await him there.”

  “He summoned me, and I am here now.”

  If Hasgood had offered the parlor, his brother was meeting in the library. Robert lengthened his stride, hearing Hasgood’s steps echo his own. But he refused to stop. In minutes, he stood at the library doors.

  “Mr. Melrose, as I said, he is in a meeting. Perhaps you would wish for some breakfast instead.”

  “No need. I won’t be here long.” Robert grasped the cold doorknobs and shoved open the double doors with a hefty push. They slammed against the walls and Robert strode into the room, taking stock of the five or six men seated in chairs, couches.

  “I don’t believe that is the best course of action,” one man said, his nasally voice adamant. “The man in America stated that the bank there has tried…” His words faded as all eyes turned up toward Robert.

  Robert turned his gaze toward his brother, Marcus.

  It gave Robert a slight jolt to see the face so familiar to his own. Though they were twelve years apart in age, their features were stamped with the same angular jaw, the same dark brown hair that curled and created an afternoon shadow across their jaws. Not that Marcus would ever let such an imperfection remain. Robert, however, reveled in doing just that.

  He brought a hand to run across his stubble to be certain his brother took note.

  But his brother’s face remained impassive, without a flicker of awareness as he stood, barely an inch taller than Robert. Not even anger crossed his face. “Robert, our appointment is for later this afternoon. As you can see, I’m in a meeting, so if you would wait—”

  “I have a full day,” Robert lied. “You summoned me, so you’ll have to make do at my convenience, not yours. What is it you want?”

  It had been seven months since they’d last spoken, and this conversation already bore a striking resemblance to the former. That very fact had encouraged him to ignore the requests. Why beat one’s head against the rock that mimicked his brother’s own head?

  Marcus’s gaze flickered to the men seated, and Robert could see the wheels churning in his head. What was the appropriate way to handle this? How did one deal with the unruly brother?

  Robert approached the first man. “Robert Melrose. That’s plain old Mister Melrose, the third brother. You’ve likely never heard of me.”

  “On the contrary,” the man replied, managing to hold his nose slightly in the air to signify his lack of approval.

  Robert grinned. “Truly? Have I finally elevated to the level of black sheep instead of simply the nonexistent, useless brother? Excellent.”

  “Robert.” His brother snapped the word out like an order.

  Robert ignored him and made haste toward the one empty chair, the one his brother had vacated. He plopped down. “And what are we discussing so studiously today?” He noticed the papers scattered on the table and just as one of the men tried to gather them together, Robert snatched a page.

  “Now, wait here—” The man argued even as Robert glanced over the words written on the page. The word ‘forgery’ jumped out and his breath caught in his throat.

  Robert’s heart leapt forward like an out-of-control horse, and he studied the slanted scribble. Report of the Committee… on Preventing Bank Forgeries. What the hell was this?

  Why had his brother demanded his presence?

  The paper was crushed and Robert tightened his grip so even as the page was yanked from him, a corner of it remained in his fist.

  He looked up, meeting his brother’s gaze—now filled with irritation. Marcus straightened the crumpled paper in his hand. “Give me the rest of the paper, Robert. This is confidential business.”

  Robert searched his eyes for any sign of knowledge, something—anything that might indicate that Marcus knew. But for the slight moment of irritation, Marcus’s blue eyes had darkened to an undecipherable mud.

  Robert knew the intelligent thing would be to leave and quick, so of course, he leaned back and waved his hand, crinkled corner of the Report in his fingers, through the air. “By all means, continue. What ways are you preventing forgeries?”

  “Robert, this is not your concern,” Marcus told him.

  “It can’t hurt to have an opinion at this point,” interjected one of the other men. He stood up and extended a hand. “Jeremiah Harman, Mr. Melrose.”

  Robert met his grip with a firm shake, wondering if the man could feel the way his skin had gone clammy. “Governor of the Bank.”

  “Yes, and as I’m sure you would understand, I have a decided interest in ensuring that our bank notes maintain their respect.”

  “They have already lost their respect,” argued another man. “The forgeries are quite out of control—”

  “—Evidenced by the number of lives taken at Old Bailey,” interjected another man. He gave a short nod to Robert. “Charles Hatchett.”

  And just like that, Robert was included in the most bizarre conversation of his life. He doubted this is what his brother had in mind.

  “We’re not arguing the senseless deaths. People caught passing a forged note are being hung—just for uttering them, even if they aren’t aware the note is forged. The bloody code must be changed,” his brother said. “But some of you need to first accept that the bank notes compared to the country bank notes are easily forged. Until you do that, we cannot move forth with any of the recommendations before us.” He pointed at the mess of papers scattered over the table in front of him.

  Recommendations? Robert’s fingers itched to get his hands on those papers. What methods did the supposed experts feel they would need to employ to stop the forgeries?

  “Not to a practiced eye,” argued Harman. “You cannot deceive an intelligent eye with the required combination of ink, paper and drawing. It would take an idiot to not recognize the difference. I do understand many common folk lack the education or intelligence to do so and therefore they are being victimized by lesser works. But it is merely a lack of good breeding, which means we must educate them as best we can, as was done with the Bank of Ireland.”

  Robert bristled. Lesser works? A lack of intelligence and breeding was all that allowed one to not recognize supposedly inferior work?

  The ‘common folk’ hadn’t the luxury of the formal schooling the upper crust took for granted, but the life the folks on those streets lived required quick minds, sure-footed decisions and an intellect capable of dealing with horrifying situations in which these men would crumble.

  And even as he thought it, Robert realized how stupid and dangerous his irritation was. He created the bloody plates.

  What he did took finesse, it took talent. It was art. He was an artist and copper his chosen canvas.

  He created the copperplates the banknotes were printed on. He never uttered them. He never passed them off as his own money. But he had no right defending the very people affected by his work. He might be a criminal, but he wasn’t a hypocrite.

  This was not a conversation he should be a part of.

  “What about you?”

  Robert snapped his gaze up. “Pardon?”

  “Do you believe the Bank of England’s notes are easily forged?”

  Robert counted to five, then cocked his head. “Would you be judging my opinion as one of the unwashed idiot masses or that of the educated eye?”

  “All right, that’s enough,” Marcus snapped. “Gentlemen, I need to have a word with my brother. If you’ll excuse us for just a moment.” He looked at Robert and pointed to the door.
“Out. Now.”

  Robert gave a grandiose wave even as his gaze settled longingly on the papers. “It has been a pleasure.”

  Once in the hallway, Robert continued walking toward the front door.

  “Robert. My study, if you please.”

  Robert slowed his stride and swiveled on a heel. “Oh, have you time for me now? After summoning me to your side.”

  Marcus’s jawline twitched. “I have sent you at least six invitations to dinner, two for you to join me at the club and when those failed, I attempted to set three separate appointments, none of which you deemed important enough to show up for.”

  “And?” Robert drawled. “What does it take for one to get the hint?”

  Marcus’s gaze never wavered, but something seemed to change—a slight dimming, a slight giving in. Or perhaps a letting go.

  “I don’t understand what I have done to make you hate me.” Marcus’s words were soft, but lethal as a finely sharpened blade. They sliced away ties that bound dozens of memories of the stark childhood Robert preferred to leave buried.

  Years of flat, emotionless words that had cut him to shreds.

  I never wanted you. His mother’s favorite refrain.

  Moments where the lack of emotion directed his way was overshadowed by the effusive joy and bumbling affection showered upon Marcus and his other brother, Cary—the Viscount Carrington, who had also served a purpose. The heir. The spare.

  In that moment, Robert was six years old again. Knees shredded and bloody from falling out of a tree, pain keeping the constant sheen of tears in his eyes while he mustered all of his strength not to shed them.

  He would be brave and make her proud. He was trying, really, but the pain stung so much. But he blinked back the burn of tears. She would be proud of him, and then she would hold him. Hug him. Tell him it would be all right.

  He’d walked into the all-white foyer in search of his mother. That ethereal, beautiful vision whom he caught glimpses of now and then, before his governess whisked him away with admonishments that he wasn’t to be seen or heard.

  That day, he found her, finally. His mother. A need inside of him pushed him toward her.

  He stood there, looking up at her. Her gaze touched upon his before moving on, as though he were invisible.