“Do you have a valid reason for being here, Mrs. Grey,” he drawled, hoping his voice sounded steadier than he actually felt, “or are you simply spying on me again?”
“The latter, of course.” Emily smiled as she set the book aside and reached toward the tray on the low table to pour a cup of tea. His sister moved with an inherent gracefulness that turned women green with envy, and the sharpness of her mind only served to distinguish her more from those society ladies who could bore a man to death with their chatter about fashions and balls. “I know you have a visitor waiting for you—Royston wished me good morning when he arrived. But when you’re finished with him, I expect you to join me for tea.”
Not a request, he noticed. “You know, as a marquess, I outrank you.”
“Only a courtesy title, brother dear,” she reminded him, falling easily into the teasing jabs and barbs that were their wont. “Although it wouldn’t hurt to put that title to good use and consider calling on some of the young ladies who—”
“No.”
She shot him a peevish glare over the rim of her teacup, which he ignored. He would have to marry someday and produce an heir, but there was no hurry. No need to punish some poor girl unduly by bringing her into the madness of the Matteson family sooner than necessary.
“You came to check on me again,” he accused gently, although in truth he was glad to see her. The darkness never disappeared completely these days, but when he was with Emily, it receded.
“I came because I had the day to myself for once, and I wanted to spend time with my loving brother.” Despite that obvious lie, she scolded lightly, “Shame on you for insinuating otherwise.”
He arched a blatantly disbelieving brow. Emily was beautiful, charming, and elegant, and an absolute pain in the arse whenever she meddled in his business, which was most of the time. But he loved her, and he would gladly lay down his life for her—when he wasn’t set on throttling her himself. “Where has Grey gone off to, then?”
“He and the colonel went to Tattersall’s to look at a hunter that Jackson Shaw has up for auction,” she answered far too smoothly, clearly having practiced her response in anticipation of the question. She never could lie well, not even as a child. “Kate and the twins are away at Brambly House. And I couldn’t bear the thought of being all alone at home, so I came here.”
“You couldn’t bear the thought of me being all alone, you mean,” he countered, knowing full well that she had her son, his nanny, and a dozen servants to keep her company. “So you came here to torture me.”
With a shrug she lifted the teacup to her lips. “If you can’t torture family, well, then, whom can you torture?”
“And that,” he pointed out earnestly, “sums up every Matteson family dinner since we were five.”
She choked on her tea. Laughing, she cleared her throat. “Go on, then. See to Royston. I’ll be here when you return.”
“Dear God,” he grumbled painfully, “truly?”
He saw the devilish smile she tried to hide behind the teacup, then turned into the hallway.
“And give my regards to Lady Humphrey the next time you…see her.”
He froze. Damnation.
Rolling his eyes, he glared at her over his shoulder. “You’ve become as much of a spy as that husband of yours.”
“Torture, spying—” With a wave of her hand, she dismissed him. “It’s all Matteson family business.”
Yes, he conceded as he took the stairs three at a time, he supposed it was.
Except not for him. Not any longer.
Pushing the black thoughts from his mind, he forced a smile as he strode into the drawing room. “Royston.”
“Chesney.” Simon Royston, Earl Royston, clasped his hand. “Good to see you again.”
His chest lightened at the warm familiarity with which the earl greeted him. It was always good to see someone he could trust, especially these days. “And you.”
Royston had been a family friend since the days when Thomas’s father first returned from India and took a government post in London. Since then the two families had grown even closer. The two ladies often co-hosted soirees and elaborate parties that were the talk of the season, and the two men worked closely together in the Lords, with Royston an ardent supporter of several of Thomas’s father’s initiatives.
In comparison to the Matteson family, with its duchy going back nine generations, the Roystons were recently titled, the current earl only the third in the line. But the earl’s grandfather had been well admired among his peers, and Simon Royston carried on that legacy, having become a rising star in Parliament and a trusted advisor at the ear of the prime minister. Thomas liked the man and his family. Royston had been one of the few peers to welcome his father to London long before inheriting had ever been a consideration, and Thomas personally felt a certain loyalty to the man that rose from Royston’s help in securing his captain’s commission with the Scarlet Scoundrels. Because of all that—and a niggling curiosity about what brought the earl to Chatham House during the off-season, a curiosity that just might distract him for the remainder of the morning—he warmly welcomed the earl.
Thomas gestured to the liquor cabinet. “Whiskey?” Not yet noon, the hour was still early, but he noticed with concern the tension in the older man’s body, the dark circles beneath his eyes. The earl could use a drink. And truth be told, so could he.
Royston nodded. “Please.”
Thomas poured two glasses and handed one over, then motioned for Royston to sit. He settled into his chair and watched as the earl tossed back nearly half the whiskey in a single swallow.
“I haven’t seen you since August,” Thomas commented. “I hope you’re well.”
“As fine as one can be in England in October.”
But the forced jocularity to his voice raised Thomas’s concerns. “And your wife and son?”
“The countess is happily fussing over the affairs of running Blackwood Hall, and Charles is finishing his last year at Oxford. I expect him to claim a first in mathematics.”
He heard the tension edging the man’s voice and forced himself not to frown. “Good to hear.”
“And you?” Royston’s eyes narrowed on him, and Thomas felt the peculiar suspicion that he was being scrutinized. Although, knowing the close relationship the earl had with his parents, his mother had most likely put the man up to checking in on him while he was in town. “It’s been a year since the shooting. Is everything back to normal for you?”
If anyone else had asked him that question, Thomas would have told the man to go to hell. But he knew the deep regard in which Royston held him and his family, and he knew the question was asked with nothing less than true concern.
“Yes,” he lied, raising the glass to his lips to cover any errant expressions that might flit across his face. “Back to my old self and doing my best to lay waste to whatever pleasures London can provide.” Then, purposefully turning the conversation away from himself, he commented, “Although this morning’s visit is a surprise, I must admit. I thought you’d be in the country until January.”
“I had unexpected business in London,” he answered vaguely with a polite smile.
Thomas respected the man’s privacy and didn’t press. “Of course you’re always welcome at Chatham House.” Over the years, Thomas and his father had spent more hours playing cards and shooting billiards with the earl than he could count, not to mention all the dinners and political talk at various ton affairs. A visit from Royston wasn’t unusual, except…“But Father is in the country for the hunting season. Surely you know that.” As should be every other man of landed property who had the good sense to avoid London this time of year. Including Royston.
“I came looking for you, actually.” The earl paused. “May we speak in confidence?”
He nodded, holding back a puzzled frown. Whatever could Royston want with him?
The man leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and rolled the crystal tumbler between his pa
lms. “There’s been trouble at Blackwood Hall.”
Thomas had never been to the Roystons’ country estate, but he knew of the place, which had been granted to the earl’s grandfather when he received the title. Located in the heart of Lincolnshire, the estate was two days’ hard ride on horseback from London under the best of conditions; at this time of year, with the increasing cold and fall rains, a coach would be lucky to reach the estate in four. So whatever had sent the earl scurrying to London must have been serious. And it clearly wasn’t a social call at his mother’s behest.
He studied Royston with concern over the rim of his glass. If there was anything he could do to help, he owed it to the earl for the years of friendship between their two families. And the earl’s troubles might just provide a distraction for him as well. “What kind of trouble?”
“Highwaymen.”
“Highwaymen,” Thomas repeated, and carefully kept his face stoic, not letting his disappointment at the mundane answer register.
Royston grimaced. “I know what you’re thinking. What road in Lincolnshire doesn’t have highwaymen?”
He had been thinking exactly that, but to ease the man’s pride, he instead offered, “Actually, I was wondering why you didn’t go to the constabulary.”
“I have, but to no avail.” He finished his whiskey, then stared down at the empty glass. “It’s a damnable mystery.”
With that odd comment pricking his interest, Thomas stood to refill his glass. “How so?”
“There appears to be no pattern, except that there is.” When Thomas frowned at his contradictory words, he continued, “The only robberies have been of guests returning home from Blackwood Hall, and then, not all the guests and not all the time.” Royston grimaced. “We’re being targeted. My guests. Me.”
“I wouldn’t go that far.” Thomas tried to keep the patronizing tone from his voice, but truly, the description of the robberies struck him as simple paranoia. Yet Royston’s distress over it concerned him, and he frowned as he fetched the decanter. “You’re a wealthy landowner in Lincolnshire, so surely more of your guests than—”
“I’m one of the wealthy men in the area, true, but not the only one.” He held up his glass to let Thomas pour more whiskey. “Only my guests have been robbed by this particular highwayman. No one else’s.”
Well, that was odd. He set the decanter aside and sank back into his chair. “Nevertheless, it doesn’t mean you, specifically, are being targeted. Could just be a run of coincidence and bad luck.”
Royston shook his head. “When the carriages are stopped, only the men are asked to hand over their valuables. One man in each coach, no matter how many others are present. And never anything from the women, not even when openly displaying their jewels.”
Thomas leaned forward. A highwayman who robbed only one man per coach and left jewels? Finally he was intrigued. “How long has this been happening?”
“On and off for the past two years.”
A faint needling of suspicion, one he hadn’t felt since he stopped being a spy, tickled at the backs of his knees and made his heart skitter. “You’re just now noticing the pattern?”
“I had noticed before, I’m ashamed to say. But it never needed to be addressed until now.”
“What changed?”
“I have grand hopes for the Lords next session. Some important positions will be opening, and I want to make my mark.” His eyes met Thomas’s intently. “With your help.”
Shaking his head, Thomas set his glass aside. “I’m afraid you’re wasting your time. I’m not involved in anything of importance in the government.” Not anymore.
Royston leveled his shrewd gaze on him. “I know things about you, Thomas,” he answered quietly, all polite pretense gone. “I know what you’ve done since you returned from Spain, and I have connections in the War Office who have vouched for your special skills.”
Despite the electric jolt that pulsed through him at the earl’s words, Thomas remained silent and stoic, unwilling to either deny or validate Royston’s assumptions about him. Only a handful of people knew the truth about what he’d done for his country once he left the army, once his real fight against the French had begun. Despite the close friendship their two families shared, he wouldn’t endanger Royston unnecessarily. No matter how much he wanted to help.
Besides, those special skills the War Office had assured the earl he possessed were the same ones they no longer wanted.
“I want you to come to Blackwood Hall and investigate.” Asking for help from someone twenty years his junior was clearly difficult for the proud man, but judging from the exasperated look in his eyes, he’d found no other solution. “I want these robberies stopped, no matter the cost.” His gaze dropped back to his drink. “And if it goes well, I see no reason why I shouldn’t put in a good word for you with Lord Bathurst, assuring him that you have my full support and confidence. That you are truly back to being your old self.”
Bathurst. Thomas froze even as his chest squeezed hard. This could very well be the opportunity he’d been seeking, his very last hope of returning to the life he’d led before the shooting. When he’d had purpose and meaning. When he’d last felt alive.
“Do we have an agreement, then, Chesney?”
Thomas nodded slowly, outwardly calm despite his racing heart. Stopping a highwayman was a far cry from the type of work he’d done as a spy, but it would also serve as a test to prove to Bathurst—and to himself—that his skills hadn’t deteriorated.
“I’m hosting a house party at Blackwood Hall next week.” The earl set aside his glass and stood. “A chance for friends and associates in the area to gather for a sennight and break up the boredom of the country season. An irresistible target for the highwayman, I presume.”
Thomas rose to his feet, his mind already whirling with this new assignment. “Make certain the guest list is common knowledge to your household staff.”
Incredulity flashed over Royston’s face. “You think the highwayman could be someone within my own home?”
“I think he could be anyone.” Fighting down the excitement that coursed through his blood and replaced the anxiety that had clawed at him less than half an hour earlier, Thomas slapped him on the shoulder and walked him downstairs. “See you next week, then.”
With a grateful expression, Royston took his hat and gloves from Jensen and headed out the front door. “My thanks, Chesney.”
And mine to you. More than the earl would ever know. His chest pulsed with the first real hope he’d had in a year. A highwayman in Lincolnshire…not exactly an enemy to the crown. But at this point, with all other avenues blocked, he would claim whatever small victories he could.
Small victory? He laughed. Whom was he trying to fool? He knew the truth, no matter how reluctant he was to admit it.
A week at a boring Lincolnshire house party might just save his life.
Emily looked up from her book as he sauntered into the morning room and slumped down next to her on the sofa. “Business concluded, then?”
“Not business.” He grinned, feeling like the cat who’d gotten into the cream and the closest he’d been to his old self since the shooting. “Pleasure.”
Her lips twitched mischievously. “Hmm,” she commented with mock innocence, “and here I’d thought Helene had already departed.”
He shot her an icy look that made grown men quake in their boots but seemed only to amuse her. Brat. “Royston invited me to a house party at Blackwood Hall.”
“Oh?” Her single bewildered word spoke volumes. She blinked, incredulity visible on her face that he would so eagerly gallop off to a party certain to be filled with dull dandies and old gossips.
He dissembled by adding, “The earl has political aspirations and wants counsel on some recent matters which have been troubling him.”
“And he picked you?” Astonishment rang in her voice. “He wants to succeed at these aspirations, does he not?”
He grimaced at the teasi
ng insult. She was needling him, trying in her own fashion to get the truth from him, but he would keep this investigation to himself. If the trip to Lincolnshire went as well as he hoped, it just might prove his salvation, and he would tell her afterward when all was set to rights again.
And if not…well, there would be little she could do to help fight back the demons that would come for him, the suffocating blackness that would eventually devour him whole.
“Getting away from London might do you good after all,” she added thoughtfully. “You might be introduced to a whole new group of potential wives.”
Stifling an exasperated groan, he kicked his boots onto the tea table. “You know, brat, when you were a child, I sold you to the Gypsies,” he told her bluntly. “I’m still waiting for them to take you away.”
Emily laughed, her blue eyes shining, and offered him a cup of tea.
CHAPTER TWO
The following week
Islingham Village, Lincolnshire
Josephine!” Elizabeth Carlisle waved her fan high in the air to catch her daughter’s attention across the crowded ballroom at Blackwood Hall. Every inhabitant of every household in Lincolnshire seemed packed into the room for the opening night soiree of the Roystons’ annual house party. “Over here!”
With a smile Josie squeezed her way through the crush.
Countess Royston had topped herself this year. Complete with orchestra, free-flowing wine, and sugared fruits at the refreshments table, the evening would be the center of gossip for months to come. Even the dancing would be wonderful. Although it was a country dance and not a grand London ball, Josie had it under good authority from the second violinist that at least two waltzes were scheduled for the evening. And she did so love to waltz! In fact, waltzing was the only thing that had made the past five seasons bearable.
Five seasons. Good God.
Her shoulders sagged. At twenty-three, without any suitors or prospects, she supposed she would soon be officially on the shelf, and then she wouldn’t have to worry anymore about seasons or finding waltz partners who didn’t step on her toes.
How I Married a Marquess Page 2
