by Allison Lane
Hillcrest shut his mouth.
Rafe followed suit, fearful that another word would provoke a battle. This meeting had no rules that he knew. He stifled pique that a witless female and his worst enemy had penetrated Hillcrest’s thick skull, while he—
“Alice accused me of confusing you with your mother,” Hillcrest said slowly.
“It would be best if we let Mother rest in peace,” said Rafe just as slowly.
“Perhaps, though I must explain one point. Our argument was not one-sided, Rafe. I may be guilty of demanding that she comport herself more modestly than other ladies, but she never let me forget for a moment that her dowry saved me from ruin. If I can offer one piece of advice – don’t let your wife’s wealth stand between you.”
“I won’t.” He couldn’t choke out another word. Helen’s voice echoed through his mind. As contrary as your mother … treated you as her savior … argue for the sake of arguing…
She was right. His mother was not the saint he’d supposed. She had been as instrumental in maintaining the war as Hillcrest, fighting with equal cruelty, equal determination, equal unfairness. Every fight had been waged using personal attacks and ugly insults. Even normal conversation had included barbs.
Pain flared as two truths slammed into his head. His fear that Helen would try to rule him grew from watching his mother’s constant quest to rule his father. And his mother was another who had considered him a pawn. Love had been there, but so had manipulation. Each parent had tried to bind him – his mother with love, his father with duty. But each had sought the same goal: commanding his allegiance against the other. Had his support faltered, she would have turned on him, for her love was always strongest after he’d defied his father. If he could forgive her, he must also forgive Hillcrest.
The anger drained away. Hillcrest had been trapped in a battle he could never win. Unable to compromise, he had fought on, pigheadedly demanding the same concessions over and over again. Pitiable, but not evil. And not Rafe’s problem.
The weight of years slipped from his shoulders, leaving him lightheaded. Love did not need weapons or manipulation. Only trust.
Hillcrest studied the table in silence. “What other exaggerations does gossip make?”
Rafe picked up his cue for the next shot. “Nearly everything.”
“Surely you can’t claim you live like a monk!”
“No.” He potted the next ball. “But I’ve done nothing worthy of comment in ten years. Yet gossips needs rogues to titillate and shock their delicate sensibilities. I let them cast me in that role at age eighteen. Since they refuse to abandon that perception, they speculate on what I’m hiding.”
“Even the worst gossips lose interest after a time.”
“Not when my father makes a career of denouncing me.” He hit the ball so hard, it bounced out of the pocket.
“I see.” Hillcrest bit his lip, then sank four balls in a row, ending the game. When he straightened, he’d abandoned the subject. “You claim Helen is in trouble. How?”
Rafe reset the table. “Her uncle resents that she inherited her father’s fortune. Sir Steven is utterly unscrupulous. So far he has forged documents to divert trust payments into his own pocket, incarcerated her so she could not seek help, intercepted her correspondence, and demanded that she wed his son. When she wed me instead, he sent men to kill me.”
“What?” Hillcrest dropped his cue. He stared at Rafe’s black eye and scraped forehead as if seeing them for the first time. Had he thought his blow at Hillcrest had caused them?
“They mistook Portland for me,” explained Rafe. “We look alike from a distance.”
“So that’s what happened.”
“Exactly. The attack occurred outside Hillcrest’s gates. The Home Office is now on the case, as well as the runner I hired. Sir Steven is guilty of defrauding dozens of men—”
“How?” demanded Hillcrest.
“Phony investments, mostly. I nearly fell for his damned canal scheme – would have if my man of business hadn’t talked me out of it.”
“Not Courtney’s Passenger Canal!”
Rafe nodded.
Fury twisted Hillcrest’s face. “Damn! The bastard took me for two thousand guineas.”
“My condolences. But that’s not his worst sin. I believe he murdered Alquist.”
“Why?”
“Alquist was Helen’s cousin and guardian. When he learned that Steven was at Audley, he started investigating Steven’s activities. So Alquist died. I have runners looking for evidence.”
“Where is Sir Steven now?”
“Probably headed here.”
“To kill you himself?”
Rafe shrugged. “Or steal enough to support him in France – he cannot stay in England. By remaining at Audley, you make yourself a target,” he added.
“Surely the staff can deflect him.”
“I doubt it.”
Rafe abandoned the game, gesturing Hillcrest to a chair. For the first time in his life, they were equals rather than enemies. He laid out the entire story.
“So we can’t rely on the staff,” he concluded. “Helen turned off the butler, but there must be others. And who knows how many servants might turn a blind eye from fear of retribution?”
“This place is huge.”
“And it has far more entrances than I can watch.”
“I will take a turn on guard, as will Crawford,” said Hillcrest, naming his valet. “What about grooms?”
“Those we can trust are posted about the grounds. And I dare not leave the stables unguarded. I wouldn’t put it past Steven to burn them out of spite.”
“Mine can help there, too.”
“Thank you. Why don’t you retire?” suggested Rafe. “I’ll wake you for your watch.”
Hillcrest nodded, then excused himself and headed upstairs.
Rafe let out a long breath as he returned the cues to their case. Hillcrest would never be as close as Alquist had been, but perhaps they could get along. Even an hour ago, that had seemed impossible.
* * * *
Helen frowned when Alex entered the drawing room alone. Where was Rafe? And Hillcrest?
Rafe had not wanted Hillcrest in the house. If her insistence subjected him to another tirade, she would never forgive herself. But there was nothing she could do at the moment.
Alex soon distracted her by turning the full force of his charm on Alice. Helen couldn’t deflect him without abandoning Mrs. Everly. The woman was happily chattering. Helen didn’t have the heart to stop her.
But she seethed. Alice’s infatuation was clear – the rosy cheeks, the wide-eyed stare, the flirtatious glances across her fan. She was hanging on his every word, acting as if he were a scrumptious confection set before a starving mouth.
Helen cringed. If she had looked that sappy-eyed four years ago, it was no wonder everyone believed she had given him everything.
Warning Alice would serve no purpose. If someone had told her Alex’s charm meant nothing, she would have angrily ignored the words. And Alice was less worldly than she’d been. Bereavement also made Alice susceptible to flattery.
So she must separate them. Swallowing the suggestion of whist that had hovered on her tongue, she announced, “We keep country hours at Audley. I’m sure you are longing for bed after your journey, so I will bid you a good night.” As the others left, she held Alex back.
“What?” he demanded.
“Don’t toy with Miss Pauling,” she ordered shortly. “She is too vulnerable right now.”
“I don’t see that it’s any of your business,” he snapped. “An unwanted guest who…”
“Enough, Alex. Wanted or not, Miss Pauling is a guest. You are a blatant flirt highly skilled at fascinating young girls – I’m not sure you entirely realize it. But I won’t have you hurting someone under my roof. I’ll see you castrated if you damage another reputation.”
“I never meant to hurt you, Helen.” He ran one hand through his hair as he pa
ced to the fireplace and back.
“But you did.” When he tried to speak, she cut him off. “We will not argue fault again. Nor will we discuss your supposed devotion. Frankly, you know little about the woman I am today. Nor do you know anything about Miss Pauling.”
“Right on both counts, Helen.”
His agreement knocked the wind from her sails.
He smiled. “It is well that I was called away that night, for we would have been at each other’s throats inside a year.”
“Very likely. You used me to mask your investigation, then decided marriage was an suitable payment. I would have accepted your offer so I could escape another year in the country. But neither reason is adequate.”
“Miss Pauling seems quite like the girl I thought you at the time. But I doubt she is hiding an independent nature behind that sweet face.”
“Such thinking is dangerous,” she warned him, recalling Alice’s disgust that she’d meekly submitted to her father’s orders all those years. “She is stepping into the world for the first time after living under a tyrannical father’s thumb. Even Rafe is surprised at how much she’s changed since Lord Pauling’s death – and he’s known her for twenty years. She hasn’t yet decided what she wants, but that uncertainty makes her vulnerable. She needs time to settle before being targeted by a charming rogue.”
“Never a rogue.”
“I disagree. At the very least, you are damnably careless. Miss Pauling is barely a week into mourning, and not just for her father. Make sure of your own intentions before you take this any further. If you attach her affections, I’ll see you wed so fast your head will spin.”
He raised his brows.
“As I said, you are careless. You spread charm without thought, but this isn’t London, where ladies assign no more meaning to flirtation than to an exchange on the weather. I won’t tolerate your hurting another girl the way you hurt me. And don’t talk to me of betrothals,” she added when he tried to protest. “If you think carefully about your conversation with Father, you will likely find that you left your intentions rather vague. I think even then, you knew we would not suit.”
His eyes flashed.
“If you think Miss Pauling might, then wait. In three months, she will be out of deep mourning. You can call at Hillcrest Manor and see if the spark remains. But for now, stay away from her.” She turned on her heel and left.
Chapter Nineteen
Helen finished reviewing lockup procedures with Frank, then started upstairs to find Rafe. The knocker pulled her back to the hall. Stepping into the shadows, she waited while Frank answered the door.
A murmured exchange ended with Frank saying, “Please wait, sir. I will see if the gentleman is receiving.” He shut the door, then spotted Helen. “A Mr. Riley to speak with Mr. Portland.”
At ten in the evening? “Mr. Portland said nothing about expecting a caller.” It might be a hoax. Nalley knew Alex was here, so Steven might also know. A courier would have identified himself as such. But she couldn’t be arbitrary. “Seat him in the alcove. I will inform Mr. Portland.”
Frank looked puzzled, but complied.
She found Alex and Rafe outside the master suite. “A Mr. Riley is downstairs. Do you know him, Alex?”
“He’s my assistant. If he came in person, he likely has urgent news.”
“Then I’ll bring him to the library.” Maybe Steven had been arrested.
* * * *
Rafe was pouring wine when Helen ushered Riley into the library.
“Terrence!” Portland gripped his assistant’s hand, taking in his appearance in a swift glance. “You must have had a hard journey.”
“No worse than yours, I’ll warrant.”
“Have you supped?” asked Helen.
“In Taunton, ma’am.” Riley accepted wine from Rafe. “You are kin to Alquist, I believe.”
“My wife is. My connection is to Lady Alquist,” said Rafe. “I’ve not heard from London in two days. How goes the investigation into his death?”
Riley drained his glass. “’Twas murder, all right. The scandal drove your marriage from every lip.”
“Good,” said Helen.
Riley turned to Portland. “Several gentlemen saw Alquist walking home that night. None noticed a wagon, but two remembered a pair of rough strangers hanging about – the same pair who attacked you, sir. Alquist’s butler identified Arnold as the man who called at the house. He is quite upset about revealing Alquist’s whereabouts.”
“I will write to him,” murmured Rafe. Reticence might have postponed the attack, but Alquist would have died anyway.
“Barney is cooperating in exchange for transportation instead of hanging,” continued Riley, sending a glance to Portland that Rafe easily interpreted. The government would promise anything to obtain information because Barney’s wound had turned lethally septic – hardly a surprise if Hawkins had let the local doctor treat him.
Riley turned to Helen. “Sir Steven’s secretary hired them to kill Alquist. Society is up in arms over the news. Stone crossed to France, so it may take some time to find him, but we suspect he was acting on Sir Steven’s orders, so I have a warrant for Sir Steven’s arrest.”
Helen puffed out a relieved sigh.
“Good work,” Rafe managed.
“Where is Sir Steven?” asked Portland.
“He may have passed through Bath last evening. A carriage containing two men and a woman was spotted. The occupants spoke to no one, so I cannot prove they were Sir Steven’s party, but I dispatched word to London. The duke is pressing, which is why I came myself rather than sending the warrant.”
Portland raised a questioning brow.
Riley sighed. “The Duke of Oakwood is determined to apprehend Dudley St. James. I have a warrant for him, too.”
“Why?” asked Helen.
“Oakwood’s grandson was found in a ditch last week, badly mauled,” Riley began.
“Not Carley!” exclaimed Rafe. Lord Carley was his closest friend.
Riley nodded. “He’ll recover, though a night outdoors did him little good.”
Portland frowned. “Why did you say nothing when we last spoke?”
“I didn’t know it connected with this case, sir. Carley was delirious for days and unable to give a coherent statement until after you left.”
“So Dudley attacked him?”
“Carley was dicing in a hell on Jermyn Street the evening of the twenty-first. His winnings included five hundred in vowels from Dudley, who followed him outside, robbed him, then carried him to Hampstead Heath. After beating him nearly senseless – while cursing Carley’s dastardly friends – he left him in a ditch to die of exposure. It’s a marvel Carley survived. If not for two children out for a morning romp with their dog…”
“My fault,” choked Rafe. “That was the day he learned of our wedding.” He met Helen’s troubled gaze. Vandalizing her house hadn’t mitigated his fury. “He knew Carley and I have been close since school. I won his wife. My friend won his purse. It was too much.” When Helen laid a comforting hand on his arm, he covered it, drawing strength.
“The least insult sends him into a frenzy,” confirmed Riley. “I checked his service record, as you ordered,” he added to Portland.
“And?”
“There isn’t one.”
“But Steven said—” Helen shut her mouth.
“Where has he been?” demanded Rafe.
“On the Peninsula, supposedly at hand to fill field vacancies – a common way to enter the officer corps without buying a commission,” he added to Helen. “But he soon discovered lucrative diversions.”
“Such as?” Portland frowned.
“Providing military personnel with girls, food, and cattle – most of it stolen. Aiding deserters. Brawling with officers, some of whom swore he’d robbed them.”
Rafe shook his head. “So why is he desperate for money?”
“He shares his father’s weakness for gaming, as well as his poor luc
k,” said Helen. “In his month at Audley, he lost consistently.”
Portland pursed his lips. “Steven’s best course is to flee to Canada. Is it possible that he’s headed for Plymouth?” The Devonshire port served many vessels plying the Atlantic.
“Perhaps.” Riley frowned.
“But stopping here to pad his purse is likely, whatever his destination,” said Rafe. “I doubt he has enough to cover his passage. He is hardly the sort to sign on as an indentured servant, so until we hear otherwise, we must expect him to show up with at least two men on his heels.”
“We have respectable numbers,” Portland reminded him.
“When we are all awake.” He turned to Riley. “Sleep. You can take the third watch.”
* * * *
Helen left the men arranging watch schedules. One look at Rafe had stopped her offer to help. He might tolerate many of her oddities, but he would not approve of her standing guard. – which did not deter her from making her own preparations.
In the gun room, she unlocked her father’s pistol cabinet and examined the contents. Her mother’s muff pistol would be best – small and easy to handle. It was inaccurate over any distance, but within the close confines of a room… And its foldaway trigger made it safe under a pillow.
She snapped open the case. Her mother had left half a dozen balls. Loading it, she slipped it into her pocket. It was best that the servants not know she was armed.
* * * *
“You’re late.” Steven glared as his partner entered the schoolroom.
“I had to hire a horse in Taunton,” said Nalley sullenly. “The bitch turned me off.”
“Why?”
“You sent word to bar all callers. Easy enough to do – or should have been. But she has a knack for being in the hall whenever someone arrives. I didn’t notice her until it was too late.” He shrugged.
“Who called?”
“Lord Hillcrest.”
Hillcrest? Steven smiled. Perfect. Just perfect.
For days he had wracked his brains for a way to kill Thomas without drawing suspicion – after initially embracing his courtesan tale, society had dismissed it, so he could not afford any connection to the death. The highwayman attack would have been perfect if the idiots hadn’t blundered. An accident was difficult to arrange, for Thomas left the house only with Helen.
