by Donna Hatch
“My father was not one of them,” she said desperately.
He sat up and draped an arm around one knee. “No, I doubt he’d speak of himself as ‘our man.’ But that doesn’t mean he is unaware of the plot.”
“It doesn’t mean he is aware of it, either.”
“True, but you’d never admit it even if we found irrefutable proof.” He pressed his fingers against his temples.
She stiffened. “He’s my father. Wouldn’t you defend your father to your dying breath?”
He let out a snort. “My father was a tyrant.”
She stared, shocked at the venom lacing the harsh words.
Unlike his usual stoicism, he added, “He made it very clear that Cole and Christian were his favorites and the rest of us were expendable.”
“Surely not.”
“Neither one of them could do any wrong. But if the rest of us stepped out of line, he was all too quick with the cane. I got sneakier, Jared got more outrageous, but Jason…” He swallowed hard. “Jason tried so hard to please him, but he never gave Jason the time of the day except to express his displeasure.” Grant sank his head into his hands and drove his fingers through his hair. He sat hunched over, his fingers still in his hair, and took labored breaths.
“Is your head causing you pain?”
“Some.” He swayed a little.
She jumped to her feet and went to his side. “Are you dizzy? Lie back down. You need rest. Such a blow to the head is nothing to trifle with.”
Unresisting, he lay down and squeezed his eyes closed. She ached to smooth back that strand of ebony hair laying over his brow and soothe him. But she’d been too bold already. “Rest now. We’ll talk more in the morning.”
He said nothing, only pressed his lips together.
“Good night.” She stepped out and closed the door.
Resting her forehead on the door, she pictured a dark-haired child desperate for attention and approval, but instead receiving the wrong end of a cane. With such highly protective instincts, he must have suffered seeing his beloved brother receive the same treatment. And then that brother had died. No wonder Grant had closed up. The inner wounds he carried from childhood had probably multiplied during the war until his only defense from pain came from layers of emotional armor. Some people grew gentler with adversity and tragedy; others grew into hardened men like Grant.
Her childhood home had been filled with love and laughter. She’d never been physically punished and couldn’t imagine her parents using force as a means of discipline. Tragedy had struck when her eldest brother died in the war serving king and country. And then dear Mother was gone. But despite the aching hole in her heart at their loss, she’d never doubted their love.
Grant wasn’t truly hardened. She’d seen too much evidence of his goodness. But he protected a soft heart behind a hard barrier. What did he hope to keep out? Pain? Unfortunately, that same barrier probably also kept out love.
She pushed away from the door and continued down the corridor toward her room. A boy of perhaps fifteen sat slumped in a chair, dressed in the tailored, if subdued, clothing of a valet. He sprang to his feet as she approached, and he trotted toward Grant’s room.
As they passed she said, “Are you his valet?”
He checked his step and blinked large brown eyes at her. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Your name?”
He glanced around wide-eyed. Perhaps he was unaccustomed to being addressed by ladies of her social status, or perhaps by women in general. “Clark.”
“Is that your first name or your last name?”
He paused. “It’s the only name I have.”
She stared, startled by his answer. Compassion overcame her for the child that must have grown up all alone in the world struggling to recall the name his mother had given him. “Clark, have you been with Mr. Amesbury long?”
He cast a glance at the door. “Since the war.”
“You were in the army together?” Her attention fell to his missing ear and the spider web of scars splayed along the side of his neck.
“No, ma’am. We met after he came home.”
She nodded, tempted to press him for information but suspected he would prove as taciturn as his employer. He proved her wrong.
“He caught me trying to pick his pocket. He grabbed my hand and told me I could either go to the constable or find a way to improve myself.” His mouth twisted in attempted suppressed humor.
Leaning forward, she waited for him to elaborate. An image of a stern Grant Amesbury issuing an ultimatum to a street urchin formed in her imagination.
His mouth lifted faintly on one side and he spoke carefully, as if practicing polished words rather than using the accent of a London street urchin. “He fed me, asked me lotta questions about the streets—thieves, flash houses, others who lived on the wrong side of the law. Then he told me he’d pay me to give him information. So I did. I had food in my belly, I did—for the first time in a long time. Eventually, he hired me to be his valet.”
“I’m sure you do an outstanding job.” She smiled and nodded, hoping she appeared interested and encouraging. It must have worked because he kept talking.
“But I’m not a real valet, not according to what the other valets tell me they do. I fetch his dinner, take his clothes to the washerwoman, keep my ears open on the streets for anything that might help him when he needs information.”
“I’m sure that’s exactly what he needs of you.” She lowered her voice, “Clark, for the next few days, he needs rest to recover from his head injury.”
“Yes, miss. The doctor, he explained that to me.”
“Try to get him to stay in bed.”
“I’ll try miss. He’s powerful stubborn.”
“I know. Do your best. Goodnight, Clark.”
“’night, miss.”
Smiling, she went to her room and prepared for bed picturing the very tough, unapproachable Grant Amesbury rescuing a street urchin. Despite his grumbly exterior, he was proving to be a surprisingly complex and kind man.
She could only hope he’d be fair enough to see her father’s innocence.
Chapter 15
Grant took a few cautious steps forward, steeling himself against the nausea and dizziness that plagued him the previous day, but his stomach stayed in place and the ground remained level. Doctor Blake had warned him that he’d have dizzy spells and headaches, possibly even difficulty concentrating, over the next few days or weeks and to get plenty of rest. But Grant had work to do. And at the moment, he felt well enough. Truth be told, his body ached all over from the fall, but he never let a little thing like pain stop him.
“Are you sure you should be up?” Clark asked, rubbing absently at what was left of his ear.
“Don’t be a mother hen.”
“The doctor, ’e, I mean, he warned me to keep you abed—”
Grant waved his hand to cut off the boy’s words. “I need to get to work. This house party is my best opportunity to investigate our prime suspect, and no little bump on the head is going to stop me.”
He wiggled his toes as he pulled on his boots. With a longing glance at his trunk where one set of comfortable clothes lay, he tugged at his fashionable frockcoat and let Clark wrestle his cravat into submission, all the while wordlessly cursing the investigation that had thrown him into gentleman’s clothing and amid polite company. He’d rather be in the streets. Creeping along alleys in search of cutthroats suited him so much better than wearing fancy togs and doing the pretty with the brainless, boring members of the beau monde who swore by honor but lived for pleasure. Only a murder plot kept Grant at the house party.
He chose not to give Jocelyn Fairley a single thought. Nor did he consider the way her eyes glittered and her cheeks pinked when she defended her father with her admirable loyalty. He most certainly did not recall the softness of her hands when she helped him back into bed last night after he’d fallen, or the way she’d combed his hair away from his face. And h
e refused to recall the lure of her mouth or the fullness of her lips.
Generally, he made a point not to think of females at all. They were either empty-headed twits or conniving, treacherous serpents complete with fangs and venom. No. He didn’t think of her even for a second.
“Before you ask,” Clark’s voice brought him back to the present. “I’ve been keeping my eyes and ears open, but the only scuttlebutt in the servants’ hall is about your heroism in saving Miss Fairley.” His mouth twisted into a wry grin.
“I think they mean ‘stupidity,’ not ‘heroism,’” Grant corrected.
Clark’s grin widened. “None o’ them are talking ’bout politics or prime minister or plots.”
“Stay sharp.”
Clark shot him a frown as if he’d just insulted the boy’s honor. “Always.”
Careful to hold his head level lest he cause another dizzy spell, Grant left his bedchamber and strode into the breakfast room. As savory scents called to him, his stomach complained at his neglect yesterday when he’d been too nauseated to eat.
He paused in the doorway, noting the position of the men present. Mr. Dawson sat next to Dr. Blake with an empty chair at his other side. Perfect. As a loyal supporter of Fairley, Dawson would likely be involved in a scheme to assure Fairley’s rise to power. And he could be the ‘D’ who signed the letter he found.
After serving himself eggs and a scone with jam, and pouring a cup of strong, hot coffee, Grant seated himself next to Dawson.
The doctor leaned forward. “Up and around already, Amesbury? How do you feel?”
Honestly, he felt like he’d gotten into a fight with a gang of angry trees. “Well enough.”
“Don’t over exert yourself. A concussion is nothing to take lightly.”
Grant sipped his coffee and said wryly, “Then I’ll be sure to avoid challenging anyone to fisticuffs over the next few days.”
The doctor remained sober. “I caution you to avoid anything that strenuous for the next few weeks.”
Dawson glanced at him. “Quite the hero, Mr. Amesbury, the way you leaped after Jocelyn.”
Grant shrugged. “I didn’t think about it. I just acted.”
“Her father and I are in your debt.”
Grant waved it off.
Dawson lifted his brows and eyed Grant. “Have you developed an attachment for her?”
Grant choked on his coffee. “No, sir. I make it a point of avoiding those kinds of attachments.”
“I hope you haven’t raised the lady’s expectations.”
“Not at all. Nor does she show any particular fondness for me.” Surely her attention last night had been the act of a dutiful hostess. Nothing more.
The doctor eyed him. “A girl could do worse than the son of an earl.”
Grant stuffed a piece of scone into his mouth to avoid having to verbalize an answer, and only shrugged again, making a mental note to spend less time in Miss Fairley’s company. The last thing he wanted was a protective father, or family friend, insisting marriage to his daughter because of raised expectations—not that Grant cared about the feelings of a possible murderer, or his daughter, however desirable, but that sort of complication would interfere with the investigation.
Dr. Blake’s gaze turned searching, clearly tracing the scar down the side of Grant’s face. Grant carefully scooped up a forkful of eggs, resisting the urge to touch his cheek where the scar served as a constant reminder of his life as a prisoner—not that he was in danger of forgetting—nor the reason he’d found himself in such a predicament.
“You don’t think a mere scar on such a strapping man would deter the affections of a young lady, do you?” Dr. Blake asked.
A ‘mere scar,’ no, but a shriveled black heart, not to mention the scars crisscrossing his body, would send any woman fleeing for shelter. Besides, he wanted no woman. Ever. He’d live and die alone. He coolly crushed the emptiness that tried to follow on the heels of contemplating such a future. He was better off without the schemes and lies and false promises of a woman.
He said as dismissively as he could manage, “I haven’t given any thought as to how to gain or deter the affections of ladies.” He chewed his eggs and studied his plate as if breakfast required all his conscious thought.
“What do you do in your spare time, Mr. Amesbury?” Dawson asked.
He almost smiled at the expression that would have appeared on Dawson’s face if he answered that he preferred to bring cutthroats to justice and to assault young ladies in their fathers’ studies. “Oh, the usual—riding, fisticuffs, fencing.” How could he turn the conversation to politics? “Lately, I’ve considered running for parliament. There’s a rotten borough in one of my brother’s parishes, and he’s asked me to consider filling the position.” Which was an outright lie, but it created the perfect segue.
Lord St. Cyr entered, nodded a greeting at them, and served himself.
“Your brother is Lord Tarrington, is he not?” Dawson asked.
“Yes, he is, but I’m fairly new to politics. I’ve been following the discussions in the papers, and asking a lot of questions to those who already serve, but I’m not sure that’s my calling.”
“Politics is not for everyone,” Dawson said.
Grant leaned forward and lowered his voice. “I’m mostly hearing about the hot debate over who the better candidate for the next prime minister is, and whether that position needs a change.”
Dawson smiled. “Obviously, I favor Fairley. But others think no one can usurp Lord Liverpool.”
“Many seem unhappy with how slowly we’ve recovered economically from the war,” Lord St. Cyr added as he joined them.
Grant nodded and waved his fork in St. Cyr’s direction to emphasize his point. “With good reason. But honestly, how likely is it for the House to cast a vote of no confidence?”
St. Cyr shook his head. “Who knows? Some of us would, but are we enough? That’s anyone’s guess.”
“If that happens, how likely is it they will select Redding?” Grant asked him.
“Oh, he’s a good man,” St. Cyr said. “But he doesn’t have as many supporters in the House of Commons as Fairley.”
Dawson picked up the dialogue. “No one expects Redding’s name to be brought to the king while Fairley has so many who have vowed to choose him. The only real barrier is Lord Liverpool himself.” He sipped from his cup as his eyes glittered thoughtfully.
So the evidence pointed straight back to Fairley. The only one who benefited from assassinating Lord Liverpool would be Fairley, who would almost certainly take his place.
Grant glanced around. “I’m not in the House, but I have enough reason to wish Liverpool out of office. Who knows, maybe someone will take him out another way and pave the way for either Fairley or Redding.” He smirked as if he jested and glanced at all three men listening to gauge their reactions.
“Another way?”
“He might take ill, have an accident, or…” Grant shrugged.
St. Cyr jerked back, but huffed a laugh. “Yes, well, last I checked, assassination was illegal in England, not that a little thing like that would stop everyone.”
“If everyone respected the law, the gaols and gallows would be empty,” Grant said.
“The end justifies the means, Amesbury?” St. Cyr tilted his head at Grant.
Grant shrugged. “I suppose that depends.”
Dawson leaned forward and laced his fingers together on the tabletop. “Depends on what?”
“On the end, I suppose.” Grant let the subject drop, hoping he had planted a seed in their minds that he might be a supporter of their cause.
Jocelyn Fairley entered the room, her usual disgustingly cheerful smile in place. Only today it didn’t seem disgusting. Her cheer lightened the dark shadows in the corners of his soul. She turned his direction. When her eyes met his, her smile softened and became more intimate, almost…affectionate. His heart tripped and stuttered.
He focused on his breakfast. Sur
ely the blow to his head caused this unwarranted reaction to her.
She sat next to Dawson. “Good morning, gentlemen.”
They greeted her and she asked them how they were enjoying themselves. Small talk erupted with all the predictability of growing grass, but Miss Fairley’s focus fixed on him again and again. She smelled heavenly. And her pretty face was like a ray of light. He sipped his coffee, trying not to let her gaze throw him into a state of chaos. He failed.
She turned her face his direction. “And how are you feeling, Mr. Amesbury?”
“Confused.” He clamped his mouth shut, horrified he’d uttered the first word that came to his mind.
“Understandable after your injury,” Dr. Blake said. “You asked me a dozen times yesterday what happened. You may be disoriented on and off over the next few days.”
Grant nodded as if the doctor’s explanation had merit and vowed not to make any confessions where Jocelyn Fairley was concerned.
Chapter 16
Jocelyn sat at her writing desk in the back parlor, pouring over the dinner menu for tomorrow evening. Since it would be the final dinner of their house party before returning to London, it needed to be perfect.
A pattering of footsteps drew nearer. “Miss Fairley!” One of the younger footmen, a boy of perhaps fourteen or fifteen, burst into the room, breathless and red faced.
“What is it, Johnson?”
“My momma needs you. The baby is coming and the midwife is ill; she can’t come. We need you to deliver the baby.”
Alarm shocked Jocelyn into full alert. “But I’m not a midwife. I can’t deliver a baby by myself. I’ve only helped other midwives.”
“My brother is riding for another midwife, but she’s a fair ways away. Please, miss, I beg you to be with my momma until the midwife can come.”
Jocelyn hesitated. She had only helped deliver three babies, and each time the midwife had been in charge; Jocelyn had only assisted. She’d helped foal mares, too, but that didn’t exactly qualify her as an expert. But if a midwife were on her way, Jocelyn could at least offer comfort to the woman.
