Lord Margrave's Secret Desire

by Samantha Grace

  Crispin leaned forward, his arm casually draped across his thigh. “Your father had a man kidnapped once—to punish him for trying to help Miss Bellerose escape England. Were you aware of that little secret?”

  “N-no.” Crimson rose in the duke’s face; his calm faltered. “Is this true?”

  “My source is reliable.”

  The duke exhaled. “Damnation. If this rumor makes the rounds, no father or mother will allow their daughter in the same room with me. I will never find a suitable wife.”

  “A wife?” Crispin drew back. “Your father and brother were murdered, and your concern is with making a marriage match rather than finding their killer. One might wonder if you had a hand in their deaths.”

  Stanhurst nailed him with a withering stare. “One would quickly discover I’ve not been to London in over a year, and I was fond of my brother, if not our sire.”

  As the duke surmised, Crispin had discovered that fact during his investigation. Stanhurst was not a suspect, but neither did Crispin care about solving the murders. His mission was to determine Farrin’s fate. Nothing more.

  “I inherited a failing estate from my father,” Stanhurst said, his frankness a surprise. “Bringing his murderer to justice will not change my situation. Any concern I have has been reserved for my younger sisters.”

  Crispin recalled hearing that upon Old Stanhurst’s death his eldest son had become guardian to five girls not yet of marriageable age. He hadn’t given it much thought at the time. “Do not tell me you covered up the murders to protect your sisters’ marriage prospects.”

  Stanhurst squared his shoulders, challenging him with his stance. “My sisters’ chances of making a good match would be difficult enough given our father’s reputation for being hot-tempered. The pitiful dowries he set aside for them will make it impossible. My title is the only currency I possess to secure their futures. Is there no one in your life you care enough to protect?”

  Crispin weighed the likelihood of this man playing a part in placing Sophia in danger today; his fingers tightened around the stock of the pistol. “I would not be lying in wait for you if I cared for no one.”

  Stanhurst scoffed. “It seems you’ve developed a liking for Miss Bellerose after all. Tell my father’s paramour she has received all she will from me, and I am not amenable to extortion. I will ruin both of you if you further sully our family name with this preposterous tale of kidnapping.” He bent forward to retrieve his book from the floor. “I want you to go.”

  “I am not here on the actress’s behalf. She is a stranger to me. I’ve come to gather information about Farrin. What business did your father and brother have with him? I want to know the reason he killed them.”

  Stanhurst’s breath rushed from him as if he’d been struck in the gut. His mouth open and closed while he searched for his voice, or perhaps the correct words. “How—how do you know this man murdered Father and Geoffrey? The magistrate said they probably surprised smugglers.”

  “There were witnesses that night. I cannot tell you their names.”

  The duke’s complexion was pale, but he drew himself up in the chair, his spine seemingly fashioned from iron. “Where is this man now? He will be brought to justice.”

  “Farrin is dead. He will give you no more trouble.” Crispin arched an eyebrow. “Did you believe him—the magistrate?”

  “He seemed cocksure of himself.” The duke swallowed hard. “I had my doubts, but the magistrate provided reassurance that my father and brother were innocent victims.”

  “You had doubts. Elaborate.”

  “How does this concern you?” Stanhurst ran his steely gaze over Crispin; he paused on the firearm. “My brother was a frequent patron of the Den of Iniquity. Father covered his gambling debts more than once. If you hold Geoffrey’s vowels, you have come here in vain. I will not honor his debts.”

  Crispin ignored the duke’s insinuation. It was best to allow him to draw his own conclusions about his interest in the Stanhurst family.

  “Lady Van Middleburg waylaid me at a ball last night,” Crispin said. “Your cousin warned me to leave you alone.”

  “Good Lord! Ida did not have my blessing to speak with you.”

  “Your cousin acted alone?”

  “I’ve never mentioned you to her, which means someone on my staff has been whispering in her ear.” Stanhurst’s jaw hardened. “I will question the servants and firmly put Ida in her place when she calls. She calls every day, so I expect her tomorrow.”

  That was excessive by anyone’s standards. Crispin’s suspicions were roused even more. “What does she want when she calls?”

  Stanhurst blinked as if the question was odd. “To offer her sympathies, of course.”

  “She offers her sympathy every day?”

  “She is family and wishes to help. Do you find this unusual? She offers to sort Geoffrey’s belongings, but I’ve ordered her to leave my brother’s chambers untouched. I will complete the task”—Stanhurst’s eyes misted and he roughly dashed away the dampness—“in time.”

  Crispin looked away. He refused to feel a kinship with this man. Sorting through his own father’s personal items after he was gone had been hard. He’d been numb for the wake but felt every scrape over his raw heart when the time came to face the task. He had been avoiding the master’s chambers for months. The sight of the room without his father had left him adrift. It was too quiet, too cold. Nevertheless, he had completed the task then buried the memory of his father like he’d buried any thoughts of his mother and brother all those years ago. It was what his father would want.

  Crispin shook off his sudden irritation and sharpened his focus on what brought him to the duke’s home. “Could Lady Van Middleburg be searching for something in your brother’s chambers?”

  “Such as a snuffbox or our grandfather’s gold watch?” The duke shook his head, his laughter humorless. “The lady is meddlesome, not a thief.”

  “More like an aspiring boss of the underworld.”

  Stanhurst’s brow wrinkled. “Pardon?”

  Crispin didn’t fully trust the duke’s claim of ignorance, but neither was he in a position to prove Stanhurst was lying—yet. He rose from the chair, the firearm dangling by his side. “No heiress will come within thirty feet of you if I discover you were your cousin’s accomplice in the attack on me this morning.”

  Stanhurst’s jaw fell.

  “You appear genuinely shocked, Your Grace.” Crispin’s smile lacked humor. “You might have a future on the stage.”

  He left Stanhurst gaping in his chambers and saluted a befuddled maid as he passed her in the corridor. In principle, his mission was complete. Farrin was dead and posed no threat to the Crown, but Crispin’s meeting with the duke left him with too many pegs that didn’t fit holes.

  In the morning, he would inform the Lord Chamberlain of Farrin’s fate, but his investigation was far from complete. Lady Van Middleburg’s plot to scare Crispin away reeked of desperation, and he intended to uncover what she was attempting to hide.

  Received in London 2 July

  Coded Message sent to Mr. Theodore Wolfe’s rented rooms in London:

  zhxmmv xcvkpgp iru oedl ctcv ncc mv ffko kq xal fjomepmgn. xjtp eq sgl ctc lrxi alewl jiqq fl.

  Deciphered Message

  Gather Garrick and make your way back to the beginning. Tell no one you have heard from me.

  Farrin

  Ten

  Whitechapel

  * * *

  An oil lamp burned low in the windowless boarding house kitchen, hiding the dust and spider webs collecting in the corners. Jewel usually kept a tidy house—aye, spotless—but these days, fastidiousness was the least of her concerns. Nursing her man back to health required her devotion and tireless efforts, not to mention the better part of a bottle of gin.

  The gin was for Farrin’s lingering cough. Jewel never touched spirits, not after seeing how possessed by drink her husband had become before his death. He had been a mea
n bastard while sober. He was a brute when he was deep in his cups. The only good deed he ever performed was bringing Farrin into her life.

  She flicked a nervous glance over her shoulder where Farrin’s two men were seated at the wide plank table waiting for him to come below stairs. They had arrived at her door at sunrise, just as Farrin predicted, and they were as intimidating as she remembered—especially the dead-eyed one staring a hole through her. A shiver snaked up her spine as she turned back toward the fire to ladle porridge from the iron pot into a bowl.

  Like Farrin had done for her husband, he raised had Garrick and Wolfe from the gutter. They were loyal like dogs, and well trained, but only a flimsy veil existed between civility and wildness for these gutter rats.

  Farrin strolled into the kitchen like he was the King himself as she was carrying a bowl to place in front of the dead-eyed one. Her chest swelled with pride at belonging to such a regal man. Her mama said she would never amount to anything, and Jewel hoped the witch was rolling over in her grave now.

  Farrin was a man of importance and great influence—the man who advised King George and held Napoleon’s fate in his hands. She’d had no idea how powerful he was until he lay delirious in her bed, spilling his secrets.

  She delivered the bowl of porridge to Wolfe and hurried to dish up a serving for Farrin as he took his place at the head of the table. The hair on the back of her neck stood on end. Garrick was still watching her.

  “You trust her?” he ground out.

  She bristled at the insinuation. Farrin was her world. She would sooner cut out her tongue than betray him, but she said nothing in her defense. She knew better than to argue with her guests. When Farrin had set her up with the boarding house, she made promises. She only accepted the boarders he sent her way. She never uttered an unpleasant word against them. If she saw or heard anything, she always pleaded ignorance.

  Garrick’s insult was too hard to ignore, however, and she aimed a scowl at him when she slid a bowl in front of Farrin. Her lover grabbed her arm above the elbow and jerked her forward. She cried out when her knee banged into the table; her mouth gaped. Hunched over the uneven plank top, she was eye level with Farrin. A blistering heat invaded her cheeks, and she darted a glance toward his men. Wolfe crammed porridge into his mouth like a ravenous dog, not allowing the outburst to interrupt his breakfast.

  Farrin smiled benevolently and pulled her closer to place a kiss on her forehead. “I trust her.” His voice was still raspy from the lung fever he’d caught from falling into the River Thames. A weaker man would have died, but her man had regained most of his strength. She reflected his loving smile.

  “Leave us, my pet,” he said.

  “Aye, my lord.” Her deference was to his position of power rather than his birthright, although she suspected he was higher born than he led anyone to believe. His manners were more refined than any of the men under his service.

  She slipped from the room but didn’t go far. If he later asked if she overheard his conversation with his men, she would deny it, and he would believe her. He always did.

  Farrin coughed and cleared his throat. “What news do you bring from the streets?”

  “No one knows what happened to you,” Wolfe said in his usual cheerful manner. Whether he was discussing the weather or gutting a rabbit, his disposition remained the same. “There are rumors you might be dead. Garrick and me, we started to believe it until your message came.”

  “Gossipmongers are morbid creatures.”

  “Aye, and some of them have the Lord Chamberlain’s ear it seems. Viscount Margrave was summoned before him last week, and now Margrave is asking questions about Old Stanhurst and his boy.”

  As usual, Wolfe carried the conversation while his cohort probably fantasized about the death and dismemberment of his enemies. Garrick was a beast. And how dare he question my loyalty?

  “Has Margrave learned anything useful?” Farrin asked.

  “Not yet,” Wolfe said, shaking his head. “The Stanhurst family went to great lengths to cover up what happened to the duke and Lord Geoffrey. Margrave will get no cooperation from the current duke.”

  “I expect his investigation will prove thorough,” Farrin said. “I trained him well.”

  Jewel peeked through the hole in the wall between the pantry and kitchen. Garrick’s heavy brow dropped lower over his frigid eyes as he stared in the direction of her hiding place. Her heart stopped. He sees me.

  The brute didn’t sound the alarm. “Let me at Margrave; he’ll not be a problem.”

  “Killing Margrave won’t do nothing,” Wolfe said reasonably. “The Lord Chamberlain will find someone else to do his dirty work. It is the witnesses that pose a problem.”

  Jewel eased away from the hole and leaned her head against the wall. Her heart continued to batter her ribs. If Garrick told Farrin she was spying on them, he would be disappointed. Still, she couldn’t leave her hiding spot without the floorboards creaking, and there was a chance Garrick hadn’t seen her at all. Pray God, please let it be true.

  “Wolfe is right,” Farrin said. “Margrave is harmless as long as there is no one left to talk. The map Xavier Vistoire and Wedmore’s niece found was a fake, but they saw what happened at the docks.”

  The mysterious map again.

  In Farrin’s delirious ramblings, he had begged Jewel to bring it to him. She tried to tell him she knew nothing about it. He became agitated and berated her for her stupidity. He’d said in the wrong hands, he would be marked for death.

  To calm him, she had promised it was safe. It had worked, too. He’d grabbed her hand, showered it with kisses, and thanked her for rescuing him from the gallows.

  Gallows, indeed. Jewel’s man was not a criminal. He was a patriot, the leader of the King’s secret detachment. Ambitious men often tried to overthrow those in power. Farrin had told her so many times. She would bet her life an envious man was trying to cast the blame on Farrin for something he did not do—probably this Margrave fellow—or Charles Wedmore. The devil’s spawn, Farrin called him during the worst of his illness. A decent man would have no such moniker.

  Unable to resist temptation, she put her eye to the hole again.

  “Vistoire and the girl stumbled across something, though,” Farrin said. “Vistoire thinks the map leads to the Black Death.”

  Garrick cursed under his breath.

  Farrin formed a fist, opening and closing his fingers like he did when he was thinking. “Wedmore might have kept a record of his investigation. It breaks the first tenet of the Regent’s Consul, but he is a renegade. Always has been. He did not request permission before setting off in pursuit of a suspected traitor. Why would he observe the rules of the Consul?”

  The conversation made little sense to Jewel. Perhaps Garrick and Wolfe were confused, too. Neither man had an answer to his question.

  “No cause to worry yet,” Wolfe said. “Unless Wedmore’s niece met with the Home Office before she left, she won’t be talking to anyone soon. No telling where she and her bridegroom are or when they will return.”

  Farrin narrowed his eyes on Garrick. “What does he mean?”

  “Vistoire and his bride took a honeymoon trip,” Wolfe answered and shoveled another spoonful of porridge into his mouth. “Took one of the sisters too, the one with all those curls. Reminds me of my younger sister.”

  Garrick glared at him; Wolfe stopped yapping and swallowed. The scar that ran from Garrick’s temple to the corner of his mouth twitched. When he spoke, his voice was grating to Jewel’s ears, like a hoe scraping against rock. “An informant at the docks saw Mr. and Mrs. Vistoire and Wedmore’s middle niece board a ship bound for Port Le Havre. The youngest niece and his aunt stayed behind.”

  Farrin drummed his fingers on the table and studied his men. “You allowed them to leave.”

  “We had no word they were going,” Wolfe said with a defensive edge to his voice. “But now that we know you’re alive and what to do, we will be watching fo
r them to come back.”

  Garrick sneered. “There’s a problem with the aunt and young one that can’t wait. Margrave has been escorting the women around Town. If the old lady or girl knows anything, they might start yapping if they haven’t already. I can take care of ‘em. It would be my pleasure.”

  Wolfe recoiled. “You want to kill an old lady and a girl? What is wrong with you? Did your pa beat more than the pretty outta you?”

  Garrick called him a bastard.

  “Enough!” Fire flared in her man’s eyes, his anger forging a blade that would mercilessly strike down his enemies. Jewel had seen his temper in action many times. In his boxing days, she would sneak to the fights to watch him obliterate his opponents. He had never been a large man, but his anger—when unleashed—became a giant, crowding the ring and sucking life from the air.

  “Not just the two women. Margrave must go, too.” His leer stole Jewel’s breath. In that moment, he appeared as the devil incarnate. She wanted to run from this stranger, but her feet were rooted to the floorboards. “Wedmore signed their death warrants when he betrayed the Consul. He will pay for his treachery.”

  “With interest,” Garrick growled, glee dancing in his cold eyes.

  Wolfe’s Adam’s apple bobbed. For once, he appeared concerned. “Eh... wouldn’t it be better if we left before Margrave figures out the truth? An execution’s not a pretty matter for men like Garrick and me.”

  Garrick scoffed. “I ain’t dying. Hell don’t want me taking over.”

  “No one will be spared my wrath,” Farrin snarled. “Everyone must be eliminated—even that bloody yapping dog. We will divide and conquer then meet at the designated place once the targets have been eliminated. Garrick will leave at once; Wolfe and I will follow tomorrow.”