It was late afternoon before he ventured home. Stunned, unsteady and shaken to his core. He was in love again and cautiously delighted to be so. He recognised all the signs, although despite some of them feeling familiar, they also felt different. It was that difference which occupied his mind now that he was alone and he tried to quantify exactly what had caused it in order to understand it.
Gray had always thought he had loved Cecily with every fibre of his being—but they had never been intimate. They had dabbled in pleasure—in an inexperienced and guilty way—but he had never seen her completely naked or been given the privilege of taking her innocence. In many ways, that lack of intimacy had been a barrier. With hindsight, he could see now that it was her insurance in case something better came along. Back then, he had accepted her reluctance to fully share her body with him as the way things were. They were both saving themselves for their wedding night because propriety dictated they did so. Similarly, as childhood had given way to adulthood, he could now see that his relationship with Cecily had been unbalanced. It was Gray who had done all the running and Cecily who controlled things.
It had always been Cecily who had stopped things getting out of hand, because as much as she had enjoyed his touch—and she had been quite selfish in the pursuit of her own pleasure—she had still had the rational and pragmatic ability to stop. In private she had used his affection and desire to manipulate him to bending to her will, so much so that in public in the latter stages of their relationship she had convinced him to behave as if there was nothing serious between them at all. She had rationed them to one dance at balls and happily allowed him to watch as she was twirled around the room by other men.
Now that he thought upon it, how many times had he watched her waltz with his brother? Certainly enough that he had come to think nothing of it.
In contrast, Thea had given herself with complete abandon. He had given her plenty of opportunities to hold back and she had dismissed every single one. Her trust and complete commitment had humbled him. Initially, it had been daunting. Terrifying, even, because he had known that the physical act of love between them was as much of a declaration as the words had been. She had been the first woman he had made love to with his heart as well as his body and the experience had been earth-shattering and earth-changing as a result. With entirely unscientific motives, he had made love to her twice more and both times the intensity of emotion had been there front and centre throughout.
What had really shocked him was how easy it all was. They had not only made love in the brook, on the bank and then back in the brook again—but they had laughed and chatted and relaxed with each other in between. She never asked him about the future, nor did he venture anything about it, but she had shared her body with impunity and delighted in sharing his. They had lived entirely in a moment that had lasted hours, both stripped naked in more ways than one and, despite not discussing what would happen next, Gray accepted they would have to. They would have to because he wanted to.
There was no turning back now. They were in love and there were plans that needed to be made. All he had to do first was work out how to remove the giant fly from the ointment. The enormous elephant in the room. Whichever path he took now was positively littered with potholes and, frankly, he had no idea what to do about it. Because it didn’t take a genius to work out that Gray’s mission, and all the secrets he was keeping from her, had the power to destroy it all and leave him alone and heartbroken all over again.
That horrendous prospect had occurred to him about an hour ago and had plagued him the second he finished their lingering goodbye kiss at the stables and he still hadn’t worked out a way of fixing it. Casually dropping the fact that he was a spy into the conversation, one who had lied to her about a number of important details, one who happened to be searching for enough evidence to see her uncle hang for his crimes, wasn’t an option. Nor was failing to do his sworn duty for King and country. Waiting for the cards to fall where they may, his usual answer to all life’s problems, was also unappealing. He wouldn’t trust fate with something of such importance. Somehow, he would find a way to negotiate the potholes because he couldn’t and wouldn’t live through all that misery again.
Trefor’s barking interrupted his thoughts and it was then Gray saw the subtle signs—the amassed forces of the King’s Elite had made it to Kirton House well before an agent came to tell him.
‘Lord Hadleigh is waiting for you inside, sir.’
Of course he was. Now that an arrest was imminent, the lawyer would be chomping at the bit to get started. ‘Is Lord Fennimore back?’
‘Not yet, sir. We’ve received word he’s staying overnight to continue his interrogations and see the prisoners secure. I’m to tell you that you are in command in his absence.’ A responsibility which had now lost all of its appeal. One that meant he might be called upon to hammer the death knell into his and Thea’s relationship. ‘And to give you this.’ The agent handed Gray a burned piece of what once must have been a letter. Remnants of a wax seal still adorned the charred back while on the other side were words which now made no sense because the rest of the sentences were missing, written in neat, tight handwriting.
Men will meet...
...payment in full...
...do not
‘The captain of the vessel was in the process of burning this letter as the Excise Men found him. They managed to salvage this. It’s not much, but Lord Fennimore wants you to do some subtle digging to see if you can find who wrote it.’ A task easier said than done. It wasn’t as if he could blithely stroll up to Gislingham and Bertie and demand they write something for comparison.
Wearily, because the full weight of the world now seemed to rest entirely on his shoulders, Gray headed to the kitchen where Hadleigh was calmly drinking coffee. ‘What’s going on at the Hall?’
‘Nothing. To all intents and purposes, Gislingham and his right-hand man are behaving as if nothing is amiss at all.’
‘His right-hand man?’
‘Bertie. Or Albert Frederick Walsham, to give him his full name. Ostensibly his manservant but there’s more to it than that. I can feel it.’ The secretive behaviour. The knowing looks. Instinct told him there was something there. Something more than the bond between a master and an invaluable servant. ‘The man watches everyone like a hawk and was the only person to dash back after the express arrived. He was needed, apparently.’
Gray shared everything they knew thus far, which was not a whole lot more than they had known when they had first arrived a few weeks ago. But at least they now had this tiny fragment of charred paper and the handwriting of somebody significant, even if they had no earthly idea whose. Then he gave Hadleigh all the papers he had taken on his midnight raid. The lawyer scanned each one silently and thoroughly before pushing them to one side on the old, battered table.
‘There has to be more. The man never leaves the house! Did you search everywhere?’
‘Of course not. It was too close to dawn, so I focused only on his study. I’ve thoroughly searched downstairs and, believe me, there is nothing of any interest down there.’
‘What about the bedchambers?’
‘Never set foot in one of them.’ For very good reason. ‘All of Gislingham’s private apartments are on the first floor. Thea and the Viscountess sleep on the second.’
‘Thea?’ His friend quirked an eyebrow. ‘That’s very informal.’
They were long past informal. Gray had kissed every beautiful inch of her. ‘Things are more informal here in the country.’ Especially down by the brook.
‘Do you think his niece is involved?’
‘No.’ And nor was he prepared to even discuss the possibility that she might be. ‘But dear Bertie is in it up to his neck. And unlike Gislingham, he does leave the house. He’s been gone weeks.’
‘I concur. Maybe Bertie’s room holds the key? I assume it is within the Viscount’s private
apartments. We need to urgently procure a sample of the man’s handwriting.’ The lawyer’s eyes lit up. ‘And in view of recent developments, I suggest we do that sooner rather than later. We don’t want evidence destroyed.’
‘Impossible. The man has eyes like a hawk. We can’t go rifling around in his private quarters in broad daylight. Believe me, I’ve tried. I haven’t even been able to return the letters I took from his desk! The Viscount is very particular about his privacy and Bertie is the hawk that guards it.’
‘Even hawks sleep, Gray. And the longer we wait, the more chance we give them to cover their tracks. We have one tangible piece of evidence. This note.’ He tapped the burned missive with his index finger. ‘This could be our only chance to categorically link it to Gislingham.’
‘You want me to break in again? Tonight? The day after his ship has been seized and they will be on their guard? That’s utter madness. I won’t do it.’
‘Fair enough. I’ll do it alone. I am an unknown entity here. I’ll have a good poke around the bedchambers and if I’m discovered you’ll be completely in the clear.’
Chapter Twenty
Several hours later and against his better judgement, Gray found himself picking the lock to the French doors while Hadleigh stood guard. Because the lawyer had the bit between his teeth and wouldn’t be dissuaded and, because he had expressed his intention to investigate the trunks in Thea’s room to sift through those accounts, too, Gray had reluctantly become involved. To his friend he hoped it looked like diligence and a desire to return those damned letters rather than a primal need to protect the woman he loved from the unsupervised gaze of another man as she slept. In fact, Hadleigh didn’t stand a cat’s chance in hell of setting one foot in her bedchamber. If that made him an irrational, jealous fool, then so be it. She was his and that was that. Irrational, protective jealousy went hand in hand with being in love.
God help him. This had been the most trying twenty-four hours!
Beneath his fingers, he felt the barrel of the lock click into place and tested the handle. The door swung open silently on its blatantly well-oiled hinges. They crept inside and diligently checked the hallways before moving on.
‘There is a distinct lack of guards, don’t you think?’ Hadleigh whispered as they crept down the hall.
‘There’s a distinct lack of anything, if you want my humble opinion. Guards, papers, suspiciousness, motive...’
‘You doubt Gislingham is The Boss?’
‘I think there’s as much chance, if not more, of him not being the man we suspect as there is the chance he is. Something doesn’t add up.’ Or he was becoming so desperate for a way to prevent the inevitable implosion and awful aftermath affecting him and Thea that he was purposely, yet unconsciously, missing things. ‘I cannot shake the feeling that Gislingham is far too nice to be a master criminal.’
‘That’s what he wants you to think.’
‘Yet if this house was his lair, the centre of all his nefarious deeds, then it might look like a house on the outside, but it would be a veritable fortress within.’ To prove his point, they were able to slip up the stairs to the Viscount’s private apartments completely unseen with not so much as a sleeping servant at the front door in case they were visited in the night.
They made a search of the sitting room Gray had happily sat in almost daily during the past week and found nothing one would not expect to be in a sitting room. Behind every picture was nought but blank walls and beneath the giant Persian rug every floorboard was secured with sturdy nails. There were no secret compartments, no hidden escape hatches, no nothing. Harriet’s half-finished daub stood proudly on an easel near the window. A sorry effort which was little to show for the hours she had doubtless spent on it. Thea’s unfinished book lay on the table. Pride and Prejudice. A romance, because his Thea was a romantic at heart, he now knew. When Hadleigh wasn’t looking he traced his finger along the spine and allowed himself a little wistful smile. He hoped their romance had a happily-ever-after. She deserved it and perhaps so did he. If he could only navigate those blasted potholes.
They then searched the study where Hadleigh hastily stashed the rest of the love letters into his satchel and sat in the window seat, scrutinising the large leather account ledger by the light of the moon, with the burned note held aloft for comparison, while Gray hunted for hidden compartments in the furniture and floors.
‘Anything?’ Time was ticking along. They had been here an hour already.
‘Nothing.’ Hadleigh closed the book and returned it to its exact spot on Gislingham’s desk. ‘The handwriting is all the same, very curly and flamboyant, and very definitely not this.’ He pocketed the charred remnant looking peeved.
‘Thea acts as his secretary. The writing is probably hers.’ She was curly and flamboyant, too. There was nothing staid or average about his Thea. ‘Did you see anything amiss in the accounts?’
‘He lives well—but well within his means. Exactly as you said.’
The next door led to a messy dressing room. A testament to Bertie’s lack of talent as a diligent servant. Piles of Gislingham’s bright silk waistcoats lay on a chair. Cravats hung from doorknobs. Plainer waistcoats that looked far too sedate and too small to still fit the Viscount sat folded on an ottoman in the corner. His plethora of cufflinks and stickpins jumbled together in a deep glass dish. Gray pressed his ear to the bedchamber door and heard the soft, rhythmic sounds of snoring. As there was no other way forward, they had to risk it.
He opened the door a crack and peered through. The large lump under the bed covers suggested the Viscount was sound asleep on his side. His two canes were propped haphazardly by the nightstand, their gold tops shining silver in the single sliver of moonlight that seeped through the tiny gap in the curtains.
In case they were spotted, Hadleigh went first, his pocket stuffed with a silver candlestick and a diamond stickpin. If caught, he was going to claim to be a common, opportunist burglar so that Gray could escape with his cover intact. It wasn’t much of a plan, but as he had point-blank refused to allow anyone to creep around Thea’s bedchamber but him, it was the best they had and would jolly well have to do.
Hadleigh skirted the edge of the room, then stopped dead, frowning at the bed. Then he gestured and Gray followed and couldn’t quite believe his eyes.
The Viscount was not alone.
Curled up next to him, their limbs intertwined in the tangled bedcovers, was Bertie.
Bertie!
Suddenly feeling guilty for the intrusion, Gray grabbed Hadleigh’s sleeve and dragged him back to the dressing room as so many things fell into place. The secrecy. The knowing looks. The determined protection of his privacy. The dire state of the Viscount’s sham of a marriage. The love letters that told the sad story, not of love lost, but of forbidden love. The most forbidden love.
I suspected you were the one. Now I know it. I refuse to feel guilty for loving you.
Homosexuality could still be punishable by death, so this illicit love affair had had to be conducted well away from prying eyes.
It made him feel sad. Life couldn’t have been easy for either of them, yet their love had survived twenty years of potentially giant potholes. But that didn’t excuse smuggling and murder—if indeed they were smugglers and murderers. Yet stranger things happened, as this revelation was testament to.
‘Well, I wasn’t expecting that.’ Hadleigh raked a hand through his hair as they both stood back in the sitting room, stunned. ‘I think it’s fairly safe to assume from the dressing room Bertie doesn’t have his own room and if he does he rarely uses it.’
‘We should go.’ Gray felt queasy. Not at what he saw, because he had seen worse on his travels than that touching, affectionate display of what he now knew was enduring love, but at the ramifications for Gislingham and Thea on the back of it. Society, not to mention the authorities and the church, would be unforg
iving. Ruthless even. He doubted even Thea knew exactly how much Bertie truly meant to her uncle.
‘Not until we’ve searched that trunk in the niece’s dressing room.’ Hadleigh was already through the door before Gray could pull him back. ‘We need to match that handwriting!’
‘Only the dressing room! You do not set one foot in her bedchamber.’
‘All right...’ Hadleigh eyed him curiously. ‘Any particular reason why?’
‘This has nothing to do with her.’
‘Is that based on feeling or fact?’
‘I know her. And you don’t.’ Gray’s feet took him to the third door along the landing, guided no doubt by those invisible cords and the intoxicating scent of jasmine. ‘Her dressing room is the next door along.’
Hadleigh gently tested the door and poked his nose inside before turning to regard Gray blandly. ‘Intuitive. It is indeed. And from a man who claims never to have set foot in any of the bedchambers here before...’
As there was no response that wouldn’t condemn him, Gray set his jaw and followed the lawyer inside. Instantly, he was overwhelmed with her. The chemise and corset he had helped her back into only hours before lay on top of the trunk and he hastily moved them out of the way before Hadleigh touched the garments. Beyond the door he could sense her. Feel her breathing, her tender heart beating, his beating stronger as a result. Messy, complicated, wonderful feelings he was nowhere near getting used to.
While the lawyer searched through the discarded reports, Gray tried and failed not to drink in the intensely personal sight of her belongings. The huge pot of pins on the dressing table to tame her wayward, vertical curls. The fat hairbrush she must use to rid it of the inevitable tangles. The pretty perfume bottle filled with her imported fragrance from the Orient. He could picture himself here. Watching her dress or undress, comfortably chatting about their day. Their life. Perhaps even their children. The image so vivid and perfect he had to make it a reality.
The Disgraceful Lord Gray Page 22