by Lauren Smith
Such a thing would ruin Hugo. Beyond the damage to his reputation, the Scots would want him dead, and the Crown would disavow him to protect the tenuous relationship between itself and Scotland. They might go so far as to ensure he had an accident of his own.
He would not have made such a mistake now, but he’d been young then.
There were few things Hugo forgot, but this…this was one thing he wished he could. Ironically, it had been this very mission that had ensured his place among his peers and helped him to the position he was in today.
With a steadying breath, he broke the seal and read the letter. It was coded in the pattern of the old cipher he’d used ten years ago. It required a special device, one which Hugo had designed himself, to decode. He still carried it with him and occasionally used it for less important communications. He slipped it out of his pocket and set the symbols to match in the upper left corner of the letter, which then gave him the key to deciphering the rest of the message.
Sir Hugo,
It has been many years since we last spoke, but my memory is still sharp. I write to you from my deathbed. You cannot punish me any longer. That is up to the Lord now.
But do not think that you have won. I took money in exchange for silence when you murdered my fellow countrymen, and they call to me for revenge. I can ignore them no longer.
I still have every letter you wrote, with the code set out. Soon, the only person I trust will receive the device you once gave me, along with instructions to find where I’ve hidden the letters. They will expose you at last for what you are.
Soon your king and your country will know how many you murdered for the sake of your precious nation. A nation built on lies. A nation that kills its own people when they so much as suggest standing up for themselves.
I’m laughing at you, Waverly. Laughing from beyond the grave. I suspect I will be seeing you in hell soon enough.
Kincade
Hugo couldn’t breathe. The cipher device and the letters…the letters that could condemn him and ruin his life. And they were being sent to…whom?
Hugo scanned the letter again, searching for a clue. The only person I trust. He trusted no one, because he had been willing to betray anyone.
Except perhaps his family. If there was someone he trusted, it would have to be family. He thought back to what he knew of the man. Four children. Three sons and a daughter.
But it made no sense. Exposing those letters would destroy the Kincade name as well as his own. He wouldn’t trust his heirs to destroy their own futures.
Rosalind, however…
Her wealth and status were independent of the Kincade name. And from what he knew from their meetings, there had been no love between her and her father. Quite the opposite. For that very reason, the old bastard could assume she’d be more than willing to expose her father’s sins.
And she was en route to see one of his greatest enemies, presumably with the cipher in her possession. But not the letters. He still had time to find those before she did.
“Bloody hell,” he whispered.
“Anything to be concerned about?” Sheffield asked.
Hugo folded the letter and pocketed it. As soon as he was home he would burn it.
“A ghost is trying to haunt me. Reach out to our man inside Lennox’s estate. Have him send reports to our agent in Lonsdale’s employ. I want them to find a way to steal back a cipher device that may be in Lady Melbourne’s possession. It looks like this.” He raised his own for Sheffield to see before returning it to his pocket. “I want Lady Melbourne’s residence searched in case she left it behind. If it is not found, find a reason for Lady Melbourne to return to London. I will be able to handle her myself.”
“I’ll see to it.” Sheffield rose, and with a casual glance about the room, he set his empty brandy glass on the table and left Boodle’s card room.
Hugo felt the weight of Kincade’s letter in his waistcoat pocket. Rosalind possessed a weapon that could destroy him, and she was about to go straight toward one of his enemies with it. But on its own it was nothing more than a trinket. A curiosity. He would find a way to stop her from finding the letters before he did.
His nerves began to steady. Having a plan of action always calmed him. But as if to betray him and remind him of his concerns, his hands shook as he set down his glass.
Damn the League of Rogues, damn them all.
*****
Brock Kincade was slumped over his escritoire in his small study at Castle Kincade. The last candle he could afford to spare was burning down to the end of its wick, the wax pooling at the base of the candleholder. Outside, the wind whistled through the tapestries and cracks in the stone and glass, filling every room with an inescapable biting wind, even in the spring.
The papers in front of him blurred together as exhaustion plagued him. But he had to stay awake in case he was needed. It seemed that the weight of the world crushed down upon him. Upstairs his father was dying, and the thought of it was leaving Brock’s life in a state of upheaval.
The study door banged open and his younger brother Brodie stood there, chest heaving as though he’d run the entire way.
“You must come. It’s time.”
Brock licked his thumb and forefinger and snuffed out the candle. He rose from his chair and followed Brodie up the winding, narrow steps to the tower where their father’s chambers were.
They came to a halt outside the room, and Brock opened the door. Their younger brother, Aiden, sat at the foot of the bed, his face ashen.
Aiden stared at the old man lying in the bed. “He’s not going to last, Brock.”
Montgomery Kincade, once a tall, broad-chested and hard man, had become frail, small, shriveled. It was an odd thing to stare at the nightmarish beast of a man who’d hurt him so many times before and see him completely helpless.
Their father could not strike them now or shout at them now. He was too weak to do more than murmur. But Brock could see the glittering malice behind the old man’s eyes as he glared at him.
“Aiden, you don’t have to stay. You can say your goodbyes now and go,” Brock said softly.
Aiden continued to stare at the feeble old man. “No. I want to stay and…” He cleared his throat. “Make sure he’s dead.”
Brock shared a surprised glance with Brodie. Aiden was the sweetest of the three of them, assuming any could be called sweet. He’d also been the one to care most for their ailing father as his health declined in the last four months.
“Stay if you want.” Brock sighed and walked over to stand beside the bed. His father’s eyes drifted from Aiden to him, no less cold, no less cruel.
“You finally have to listen to us,” Brock said. “After years of suffering pain at your hands, you cannot move, cannot speak. ’Tis fitting.”
He then folded his arms over his chest. “Know this, Father. We love you as God expects, but we have never liked you. You drove Rosalind away by your cruelty, but now you’ll never hurt her again.” His tone was soft, like a blade wrapped in a tartan.
His father’s eyes glinted with a red hue, but when he opened his mouth, only a soft hiss escaped him. The stroke he’d suffered two days before had robbed him of his ability to move except for one hand, which he tried to raise.
“Letters.” The word escaped the old man’s lips. “Must give…to Rosalind.”
“Letters? What letters?” Brodie drifted a step closer to his father as though torn between curiosity and hesitancy.
“Under…me.” Montgomery’s gaze dropped down to his lower back. Brodie lifted up the feather mattress and dug around for a minute before his hand halted. Brock watched his younger brother pull out a stack of letters, yellowed with age and bound with twine. Brodie handed them to Brock and looked back to his father.
“Must save…for Rosalind. Give them to her by…your hand.”
Brock had held back his anger for so many years, and yet seeing his father broken, but still so full of malice, infuriated him.
Montgomery shook his head, the movement so faint that Brock almost missed it in the dim light.
“For…her alone. She has the key.”
Brock smacked the letters against one of his hands in rage. He was not about to ride all the way to London to deliver to his little sister a set of letters that were likely full of hate and insults from a bitter, dying old man.
His father’s lips twitched in a cold smile, as though he wished to laugh at his eldest son. “If you wish revenge upon me…these are the way…” His eyes fixed on the letters in his son’s hands and he coughed.
“I’m not going to play some bloody game with you, Father. When you’ve passed, I will be master of this castle and things will be different.”
“Brock, don’t,” Brodie warned. None of them wanted to have any more time with their father, but it wasn’t wise to provoke him to an early death. It would be unkind, even though their father deserved no kindness.
But Brock had no pity left. No mercy. Three decades had left him weary and his control frayed.
For the next half hour, he and his brothers stared at the wrinkled visage of their father’s face in the dwindling candlelight. It was close to midnight when the old man suddenly jerked, all of his muscles contracting. Then his gaze drifted heavenward and he exhaled, a weak, shallow breath.
His last. Montgomery was dead. The weight of the letters in Brock’s hands felt as heavy as a mountain of stones. He walked over to his father’s bed and shoved the letters back under the mattress. He could burn them tomorrow if he wished, but he would not give them to Rosalind, not when he was certain whatever was inside would cause her harm.
Brodie leaned over the bed and brushed his fingertips over their father’s eyes and closed them while Brock and Aiden watched.
“What…what do we do now?” Aiden asked.
Brock picked up the sputtering candle, and with one glance at his brothers he blew it out.
“Father is dead. We take back our lives.”
“What of Rosalind?” Aiden asked. “Will she come home now?”
The last that they knew of their sister was that she’d married an Englishman, had been widowed, and was now living in London. They’d learned that much through occasional reports from friends who went to London every few months. But they’d not dared to contact her since she’d left. It hadn’t been safe. They’d feared their father would have gone after her, dragged her back home and punished her, even though he’d never cared about her.
“I want her home,” Aiden said. “I miss her.”
Brock nodded. “I know.” Brodie was thirty, but Aiden was a mere two years older than Rosalind, and they’d been close growing up. All three of them had mourned her leaving, even knowing she had to go for her safety, but Aiden had acted as though part of his heart had been ripped out. He had so much of their mother in him. Like Rosalind, he was all heart.
“We will bring her home. She’s safe now. We all are.”
*****
It was the worst coach ride Rosalind ever had. When she’d made arrangements to leave that afternoon, the skies had been clear and the day fine and sunny. Yet as they’d climbed in the coach that evening to leave, she’d thought she’d smelled rain in the air. About an hour outside of London, storm clouds had gathered upon the horizon, and shortly after that, the skies opened up.
Rain lashed at the windows, and the driver cursed as the horses balked. It felt like her driver was aiming for every hole and ditch in the road.
“Heavens, this is a dreadful storm,” Claire exclaimed, wrapping her cloak about her.
“It would rain,” Rosalind muttered darkly. A wretched day could always turn worse.
“How long until we reach Lord Lennox’s estate?”
“At least an hour or more.”
The coach suddenly dipped. Rosalind and Claire crashed to the floor. Rosalind’s arm stung sharply with pain as she landed awkwardly on it.
“Are you all right, Your Ladyship?” Claire asked.
“Yes. What’s wrong? We’ve stopped.” The coach was no longer moving. The fine hairs on the back of her neck prickled. If her driver was stopping in this storm, it wasn’t for a good reason. She opened the door and blinked against the rain as she sought the driver. He stood beside the back wheel of the coach.
“Mr. Matthews! Why have we stopped?”
“The wheel’s fractured, my lady. It cracked on that last dip. We won’t make it far in this weather before it completely breaks.”
“Oh, heavens.” Rosalind groaned and looked about the rain-spattered road before her heart stopped. A shadow flickered on the edge of the road, drawing closer. Someone was coming toward them from the woods. She ducked back inside the coach.
“Claire, fetch my reticule. I have a small pistol inside.” She hoped to God she wouldn’t have to use it. She had heard these smaller country roads were prone to highwaymen and other thieves who would prey on travelers.
Her maid found the reticule and handed it to her. Rosalind dug around until her fingers closed around the pearl-inlaid handle.
“Stay back while I see who it is.”
She opened the coach door and froze. The driver had started to climb back up to his perch, his hands in the air. A cloaked figure wearing a domino mask concealing his features had a pistol trained at the driver. A highwayman. They were to be robbed.
Chapter Five
Of all the trouble Rosalind had imagined getting into when trying to get her life back from Ashton’s steel grip, she hadn’t expected to be robbed by a highwayman.
“Who’s inside?” the man demanded of the driver.
“Lady Melbourne and her lady’s maid.”
“Step away from the horses and go over by the road.” The man flicked the end of his pistol to indicate where he wanted the driver to go.
“What is it?” Claire whispered.
This isn’t bad. Not compared to what you’ve faced before. She prayed she could convince herself of that.
Without taking her eyes off the armed man, Rosalind whispered back, “I believe we’re about to be robbed.” Her heart pounded hard enough that she could barely hear herself think.
“What?” Claire gasped.
“Let me handle this. Stay behind me at all costs.”
“But—”
Rosalind raised her hand with the pistol as the masked man strode purposefully toward the coach. Just as he reached the door, Rosalind aimed her pistol at his chest. She had never shot a man before, and she prayed she wouldn’t have to now.
The man halted, as though startled by her sheer audacity to point a pistol at him. Then he smiled at her hesitation.
“Don’t even think of shooting me. I have men in the woods ready to take my place should I fall. The end result will be the same, though they are likely to be less kind than I.” The highwayman’s accent was refined and strangely familiar. She couldn’t quite place where she’d heard his voice. Despite the storm, there was light enough to see those electric-blue eyes as the man stared at her. Eyes she recognized. The eyes of the very man she was desperate to find and throttle.
“Lord Lennox?” she gasped.
The man’s eyes widened a second before they narrowed. The lightning illuminated his own pistol aimed at her chest.
“Be wise, madam, and put your weapon away. I want any money you possess and your jewelry.”
Rain coated Rosalind’s face as she leaned out of the coach a little, but she didn’t blink, didn’t back down. Still, she was hesitant to use the gun.
“We have no jewelry or money.”
The man laughed. “And yet you wear such an expensive gown? I do not think so.” He pressed the muzzle of his pistol right above her heart, the metal cold against her skin. “Your money. Now.”
Rosalind made no move to do as the highwayman demanded, but suddenly her purse was being handed over her shoulder by Claire.
“What are you doing?” she hissed at her lady’s maid.<
br />
“Saving our lives,” Claire whispered back.
The masked man flashed a cool smile as he plucked the purse from Claire’s trembling gloved fingers.
“At least one of you has the good sense to do as you’re told.” He stepped back, pistol still raised, and waved the bag with all the money she had on her. “Have a lovely night, ladies.” He ran for his horse, mounted up and kicked his boots into the horse’s flanks.
It was too much for her to bear. Aside from the fact Rosalind couldn’t imagine being in a worse possible position, stranded in the middle of nowhere with a broken carriage and no money, this monstrous personal violation was intolerable. It would not stand.
Rosalind leapt out of the coach, her pistol arm raised, and she fired. The man flinched and clutched his arm but kept riding away until he vanished beneath the heavy rain and darkness.
“Thank heavens you missed him!” Claire exclaimed.
“I was aiming for his black heart.” Wiping the rain out of her eyes, she looked for the driver. Her hand with the pistol started to shake. She’d never shot a man before, and only now did the repercussions of that begin to set in.
The driver came forward, grim-faced.
“I assume we can’t make it the rest of the way on that wheel?” Rosalind asked.
Mr. Matthews shook his head. “We won’t make it more than a mile. I do know of an inn not far from here. The woman who runs it might allow us to stay the night, and I could see about bargaining for the wheel replacement or riding back to London at first light if the storm lets up.”
Rosalind sighed, frustration pricking beneath her skin.
“I suppose that will have to do.” She climbed back into the coach. Her gray bombazine gown was heavy with water, and it made her feel bone-weary dragging the skirts back up the steps. Once the coach started rolling again, her maid leaned close to her.
