“Westerly?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Ask the staff to do their utmost not to interrupt.” Alex gave Westerly an exaggerated wink before pouring a cup of tea for Liana and turning toward the door to the master bedchamber. “Or, warn us of their approach. Her ladyship is shy.”
“Your father used to ask that we whistle,” Westerly volunteered. “Shall I reinstitute the policy?”
“I would appreciate it.”
Chapter Twenty-three
“The congress dances, but does not progress.”
—Charles-Joseph Lamoral, 7th Prince de Ligne, 1766-1814
Hotel Kaiserin Maria Antonia
4 Hofburgstrasse
Vienna, Austria
05 March 1815
“I’ll kill him!” Colin, Viscount Grantham exclaimed as he crumpled the letter that had been delivered to his hotel suite a few minutes earlier in his fist.
“Colin? What in the world is the matter?” Gillian, his wife of nearly three years, hurried out of their bedchamber and into the petite salon attached to it, still fastening the hooks on her bodice, to find her husband furiously wearing a path in the Turkish carpet. “Has something happened? Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” he snapped. “But he won’t be once I get my hands on him.”
“He who?” Gillian asked. “I’ve haven’t see you this worked up in ages.”
“Alexander Courtland.” Colin stopped pacing and spun around to face his wife. “I’m going to throttle him to within an inch of his life.”
“Alex? Why?” Gillian asked, her concern evident in her voice. “What has he done to provoke this reaction from you?”
“He married my sister!”
“That’s wonderful!” Gillian was genuinely thrilled for her sister-in-law.
“What’s wonderful about it?” Colin demanded as he dropped the crumpled letter on the table and began smoothing it out in order to read it his wife. “He crossed the line. He crossed the line from what’s acceptable to what isn’t.” Colin met his wife’s gaze, willing her to understand the severity of Courtland’s crime. “A friend doesn’t just up and marry his friend’s little sister without notice or a by-your-leave.”
“He must have had his reasons,” Gillian said. “Besides, Liana’s been in love with him for ages.”
“I wish I could say the same for Courtland, but whatever his reasons, it wasn’t because he has fallen madly in love with Liana,” Colin told her. “Listen to this.” He held up the letter and read:
Dear Colin,
I am writing to let you know that I married your sister, Liana, today at St. Michael’s Church with your mother, father, and sister, Caroline, in attendance. My mother also attended the ceremony and gave us her blessing. We were married by the Archbishop of Canterbury. Sussex stood up for me and Miranda and your sister, Caroline, stood up for Liana. Bishop and Lady Manwaring hosted the wedding breakfast attended by a number of MP’s, peers, and society hostesses.
As part of the wedding contracts, I agreed to settle your father’s gaming debts. I will also see that your mother and Caroline and the boys are taken care of in your absence. You and Lady Grantham need not worry on their account. As my marchioness, Liana will have the best of everything.
I apologize for breaking the news to you in this manner, but I felt it my duty as your friend, to inform you of the facts of what happened as you will no doubt hear gossip and other less truthful and less flattering accounts. We are currently in residence at Greneleafe Abbey, my country house in Derbyshire, and will remain here until April, when we will remove ourselves to London. I know this news will distress and most likely anger you, but I assure you I did what I thought was best. As I will do my utmost to give your sister the life she deserves.
I remain, your devoted friend,
Alexander, Marquess of Courtland.”
Colin turned to Gillian. “And just what do you think of that?”
There was no easy way to answer. Gillian knew Colin and understood his prickly Scottish pride, knew he was more hurt than angry at discovering his sister had wed while they were out of the country and unable to attend. And he was hurt because his friend hadn’t consulted him first. Colin wasn’t angry with Alex Courtland as much as he was frustrated at being so far away from home, involved in a political meeting that was proving more ponderous and unwieldy every day. Especially when the diplomats and politicians, society leaders, and crowned heads of Europe were more interested in the parties and fetes of Carnival Season than with constructing a lasting peace.
It was proving to be a most frustrating experience for a man accustomed to action, accustomed to being needed, accustomed to making a difference.
Gillian was amazed Colin had lasted this long without losing his temper. They had been in Vienna going on eight months and the city had lost a great deal of its luster. They were weary of the shallowness of society and the unending rounds of parties, soirees, entertainments, revels and the countless intrigues.
Colin McElreath wasn’t cut out to be a diplomat and she wasn’t cut out to be a diplomat’s wife. He was too forthright and she found it difficult to associate with, and pretend to like or admire, people she despised. He refused to walk on eggshells in order to spare a politician’s feelings and she was appalled by the morals and behavior of the women who jumped in and out of men’s beds as often as they changed gowns.
Colin didn’t care about the feelings or the dignity of tyrants. He cared about the lives of Scotsmen and Englishmen who had been wounded or killed while fighting them. He cared about the lives sacrificed in order to further one man’s ambitions—a man who had far less noble blood than he did. Napoleon Bonaparte hadn’t been born to the crown of France; he had stolen it. He had used his popularity as a military leader to subvert the Republic and crown himself Emperor and place his brothers and sisters on other thrones of Europe.
Colin had no patience with thieves or liars or politicians and Vienna was near to bursting at the seams with all of them.
“It sounds to me as if your father has gotten himself into trouble again,” Gillian replied as diplomatically as possible. “Trouble he needed help extricating himself from.”
“You believe Courtland marrying Liana had something to do with my father’s penchant for gambling?”
Gillian nodded. “Why else would Alex mention agreeing to pay off Lord McElreath’s debts? It must have.” Seized by sudden inspiration, she pulled a letter from her skirt pocket and waved it at her husband. “Something caused Lord Courtland to marry Liana so suddenly. And your father always gets into trouble when your back is turned.” Meeting her husband’s troubled gaze, Gillian said, “Perhaps my mother provided more details in her letter.”
“That wouldn’t be hard to do,” Colin snapped. “Courtland’s letter is all fact and no detail.” He frowned at his wife. “But when did you get a letter from your mother?”
“This morning,” Gillian replied. “It came in the same diplomatic pouch as your letter from Alex. I was waiting to read it so we could savor the news from home along with our morning coffee. Shall I read it now?”
Colin raked a hand through his hair before nodding. “Let’s hope your mother provided a clearer picture of what’s happening in London. Surely she was invited to the wedding or privy to some gossip. I can’t help wondering what Father has done now and just how much it’s going to cost us to get him out of it.”
“We may be worrying for nothing,” Gillian offered, patting her husband on the arm. “Lord McElreath may have become the very model of circumspect behavior while we’ve been away.”
Colin looked doubtful. “And maybe pigs will sprout wings and fly….”
“It’s possible for your father to change.”
“Don’t bet on it,” Colin warned. “Although I’m sure he would. That man will bet on anything.”
Gillian started to reply, but a loud pounding on the door interrupted her.
“Grantham! Open up! It’s Shepherdston.”
Colin stalked to the door, threw it open, and was almost bowled over by Jarrod, Marquess of Shepherdston, followed closely by Jonathan Manners, Earl of Barclay and Trevor Abernathy, Earl of Weymouth and father to Griffin Abernathy, first Duke of Avon and one of the original Free Fellows.
“Please…do come in,” Colin said, rolling his eyes as they paraded past him.
His sarcasm was wasted on Jarrod Shepherdston, who slapped a copy of the Morning Chronicle on the table. “What the devil is going on? What do you know about this scandal?”
“I don’t know anything about a scandal,” Colin shot back. “Courtland’s letter was brief to the point of being curt. And he didn’t say anything about a scandal.”
Jarrod had always been the leader of the Free Fellows League. A year older than Colin and Griffin, he’d been a natural leader at ten when they were all at the Knightsguild School for Gentlemen, the one they had always admired and to whom they had looked for answers. Jarrod was older and richer and as a marquess, he had been the highest-ranking Free Fellow when they were at school.
He wasn’t the highest-ranking Free Fellow any longer. Both Sussex and Avon outranked him, but Jarrod was still the leader of the League.
Gillian stepped forward to welcome their guests. The men had all remained standing out of deference to Colin’s lady.
“Good morning, my lords, please make yourselves comfortable. Colin has just finished reading a letter from Lord Courtland. I’ll order coffee so he can tell you all about it.”
“I already took the liberty of ordering it,” Jarrod told his hostess.
Gillian smiled at him before turning to the older man. “Lord Weymouth, may I ask if you’ve word of Lady Weymouth?”
Weymouth, normally a most taciturn man, gifted her with a rare smile. “Thank you for asking, Lady Grantham. The latest report from my son is that my lady is remarkably healthy and doing very well. She should present us with a son or daughter very shortly. In fact, I will be leaving in two days to join her. It’s been thirty years since we’ve had a child. I don’t want to miss it.”
“Please give her our best, my lord.” Gillian patted his arm. “Our prayers are with your family.”
Weymouth nodded.
“Now, gentlemen, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll remove myself so that you may discuss your business.”
“Lady Grantham,” Jarrod said, stopping her. “My wife Sarah, and Jonathan’s wife India are in suite number nine. They’ve ordered hot chocolate and Viennese pastries and asked me to invite you to join them.”
“I would enjoy that very much.” Gillian kissed Colin goodbye in full view of the gentlemen, then turned to Jarrod. “Go easy on him, Lord Shepherdston. The news upset him.”
“Wait!” Colin stopped her when she turned to leave. “Would you mind reading your mother’s letter before you go? It may provide us with some more badly needed clues.”
“Certainly.” Gillian ripped the letter open. A newspaper clipping fluttered to the floor.
Colin bent to retrieve it. “It’s a wedding announcement from the Times for the Marquess of Courtland and Miss Liana McElreath.”
Gillian scanned her mother’s letter, then read it aloud. “My darling daughter, just a quick note to let you know Colin’s sister, Liana, married Lord Courtland in a lovely ceremony at St. Michael’s Church a week ago. The Archbishop of Canterbury officiated and Bishop and Lady Manwaring hosted the wedding breakfast following the ceremony.” Lady Davies went on to describe Liana’s wedding dress and the wedding breakfast, and made mention of several prominent wedding guests. She concluded her letter by saying: “I’ve enclosed a clipping from the Times for you to keep. Much love to you and Colin. Mother.”
“Thank you,” Colin said, before kissing his wife a second time. “Enjoy your chocolate with the ladies.”
Gillian folded her letter and returned it to her pocket, then left the suite, giving the Free Fellows the privacy she knew they needed.
The men waited until Gillian left the room to settle onto the sofa and chairs.
“That wasn’t much help.” Jarrod didn’t bother with additional small talk. “What did Courtland have to say for himself?”
Colin read Alex’s letter to them.
“Concise,” Weymouth commented.
“He reported the facts,” Shepherdston agreed. “And left out most of the details.”
“Probably because he knew Colin would be upset,” Barclay added.
“My close friend married my sister.” Colin bit out the words. “Why wouldn’t I be upset? You’d feel the same way if you had a sister.”
“You haven’t seen the article in the Chronicle.” Jarrod reached for the newspaper and handed it to Colin. He motioned for Colin to sit down while he read it, but Colin shook him off and stayed where he was.
Watching him closely, Shepherdston and Barclay knew the exact moment Colin realized what, or rather, who, had precipitated his sister’s sudden rush to the altar.
Colin suddenly went white. Barclay shoved a chair at him.
Colin sank into it. He finished reading the account in the Chronicle, buried his face in his hands for a long moment, then looked up at Jarrod. After years of worrying about and looking out for Liana, he’d been out of the country when she’d needed him most. “Felix Rothermere.”
“I see you’ve heard the name,” Weymouth said.
Colin nodded. “I know his name and his reputation.”
“Are you acquainted with the man? Were you aware your father was sitting down at the gaming tables with him?”
Colin raised an eyebrow at the sudden interrogation. “We belong to the same club. I recognize him when I see him. He’s been pointed out to me, but we’ve never been introduced. Since I’ve been away, I’ve not kept abreast of the men to which my father is indebted. I had no idea Rothermere was one of them.”
“What do you know about him?” Weymouth asked.
“I’ve heard he’s buried three wives who died under suspicious circumstances. And I’ve heard he consorts with peers who are rumored to dabble in the black arts and who have been barred from certain houses of pleasure because their tastes run to the cruel and bizarre.” Colin gave Lord Weymouth a beseeching look, struggling not to imagine his innocent sister in the clutches of such a monster. “How much of it is true?”
“I can’t confirm the fascination with the black arts because so far nobody has talked and everyone we’ve sent in to infiltrate their gatherings has died,” Weymouth said. “Including the first Marquess of Courtland’s close friend and Bow Street Runner, Tom Heston, and later Courtland himself.”
There was a quick intake of breath as the Free Fellows absorbed the news that Alexander Courtland’s father had been murdered.
Weymouth continued. “But the rest of it is true. He has a fairly well-documented history of cruelty to women.” He paused, as if to consider how much more he should reveal.
Jarrod took the decision out of his hands. “Courtland and the Dowager Marchioness have been hiring Bow Street detectives to shadow Rothermere since Alex inherited.”
“Does Rothermere know?” Colin asked.
Jarrod nodded. “He knows. Rothermere and Courtland ran into each other at Jean-Michel Freneau’s Académie d’Escrime several years back and Courtland gave Rothermere a scar near his eye. Alex has a scar on his right arm from Rothermere. Freneau had to separate them or they would have carved each other to bits.”
“There’s no love lost between the two men or the two families and it all started with Rothermere’s first wife,” Weymouth told them. “Lady Felicity Wolverton was young Courtland’s aunt. His mother’s beloved youngest sister. Felicity was supposed to have died in childbirth, but from what I gathered, she was conscious when Lady Courtland forced her way into Rothermere House. The baby girl was dead and Lady Rothermere unrecognizable.”
“What happened?” Jonathan asked, his voice thick with dread.
“Rothermere claimed his wife was ill and died shortly after the
ir daughter’s birth, but there were whispers about what really happened,” Weymouth said.
“There always are with Rothermere,” Jarrod added.
“The rumor going around at the time was that Rothermere beat his wife for giving birth to a live girl.”
“Why would any man do that?” Jonathan asked.
“Because their first child was a stillborn son.” Weymouth shook his head. “His heir died, but the girl survived. Of course, there was no proof because there were no witnesses.”
“No witnesses? Surely, there was a midwife or physician in attendance,” Jonathan said.
“No physician,” Weymouth replied. “And the midwife and her helper and a maid who tended Lady Rothermere all died shortly thereafter.”
“That couldna be a coincidence,” Colin said, agitation thickening his Scottish burr.
“Hardly,” Weymouth agreed. “Rothermere is not only dangerous if you cross him, he’s deadly.”
The knot in Colin’s stomach grew harder. “Heaven help my poor sister.”
“Heaven did help her,” Weymouth said. “Heaven sent young Courtland to save her.”
A knock on the door signaled the arrival of the coffee tray. Barclay admitted the waiter, who set out the cups and saucers and the pot of coffee and quickly left the room. Barclay stayed at the door long enough to make certain the waiter wasn’t listening at the keyhole, then rejoined the others.
Jarrod took control of the coffee pot and poured a cup of the steaming hot, black coffee, untainted by chocolate, orange, nutmeg, cinnamon, or any of the other flavorings so prevalent in Viennese coffee houses, for each of them. Jonathan removed a silver flask from his inside coat pocket and added a healthy measure of whisky to Colin’s cup before handing it over.
Colin gratefully accepted it and took a long swallow.
A Bachelor Still Page 22
