“Did you know that the house was recently purchased?”
Raoul took a deep drink from the bottle. “I had heard such rumors.”
“And by any chance, do you know the new owner?”
“Intimately.”
“You?” Fredrick’s silver-gray eyes narrowed as Raoul dipped his head in acknowledgement. “Bloody hell.”
“Does the thought trouble you?”
“Quite the opposite. I am delighted to know the house will belong to someone who will appreciate what Dunnington accomplished here.” The unnerving gaze swept over Raoul’s carefully guarded expression. “But I am curious. You already possess an obscenely large town house. What the devil do you intend to do with the place?”
Raoul glanced toward the towering shelves that were stuffed to the ceiling with leather-bound books.
“I have yet to decide,” he hedged, not yet willing to commit himself.
“Then why purchase it at all?”
“As you said, maudlin sentimentality, no doubt,” Raoul mocked his desperate need to cling to Dunnington’s house. As if the memories that echoed here could somehow fill the hollow ache in the center of his chest. “Or perhaps I am merely becoming batty in my old age, as Nico has kindly suggested.”
Easily sensing Raoul’s reluctance to discuss the intimate reasoning behind the purchase, Fredrick took a drink from his flask and allowed his gaze to wander around the room.
“Do you recall the last time we gathered here?”
Raoul nodded, his mind conjuring the memory of Fredrick and Ian seated near the fire, while he paced the floor. They had just returned from Dunnington’s funeral, then endured the pain of listening to their beloved tutor’s last will and testament being read by the solicitor.
The shock that had gripped all three of them still lingered.
“How could I forget?” His short, humorless laugh echoed through the library. “It was a memorable day.”
“Indeed, it was.” Fredrick grimaced. “Not only were we mourning the loss of Dunnington, but we’d just learned that he had left us each a legacy of twenty thousand pounds.”
“Twenty thousand pounds that the wily old fox had managed to extort from each of our fathers to hide their deepest, darkest secret.”
There was a pause as they contemplated that long-ago afternoon, then Fredrick’s expression abruptly softened. A certain sign he was thinking of his beautiful wife, Portia.
“So much has changed since then,” Fredrick murmured, his voice distracted, as if he were imagining rumpled sheets and a warm woman.
“Certainly for you, mon ami,” Raoul murmured, pretending it was not envy clenching his stomach in a painful vise. “It is not every bastard who discovers he is heir to a noble title, and a damned fine estate. And, of course, you have been blessed with a wife who is not only très belle, but absurdly devoted to you.”
“And for Ian as well,” Fredrick added. “Whoever could have predicted the gentleman toasted as Casanova would so happily settle into married life and devote his days to his tedious investments?”
Raoul snorted. He had shared dinner with Ian and his wife, Mercy, only a week ago.
“There is nothing tedious in the manner that Ian invests.” He shook his head as he took another swig from the bottle. “I had nightmares after he confessed he had risked near fifty thousand pounds on a shipment of spices from the far East.”
Fredrick chuckled. “True enough, he is neck or nothing in everything he does. He is fortunate that Mercy possesses nerves that are not easily overset.”
“He has most certainly been dealt a winning hand when it comes to his wife.” His lips twisted. “Not to mention in his mother and uncle, who I gather are determined to make amends for the past.”
“They have certainly done their best.”
“Indeed. Although, I am not certain Ian would have wished for their amends to be quite so . . . lavish.”
The log snapped in the fireplace, the heat of the dancing flames battling back the gloomy chill of the day.
“Ah, you have heard that Lord Norrington is building Ian a grand new country manor house in Surrey?”
“As well as the sad tidings that it is also to be home to Mercy’s parents.” Raoul shuddered. He had met the Vicar and Mrs. Simpson only once, but that had been more than enough to assure him that he’d rather have his throat slit than live beneath the same roof as the quarrelsome couple. “Mon Dieu. No house, no matter how lavish, would be worth having to reside with those two hideous creatures.”
Fredrick shrugged. “Unfortunately, when it comes to families, we must accept the bad with the good.”
Raoul knew that his companion was no longer speaking of Ian.
“Such as a vindictive stepmother?” he asked, softly.
Fredrick grimaced. “And a ridiculous buffoon for a stepbrother.”
Raoul raised his bottle in a mocking toast. “To families.”
Fredrick readily raised his flask. “Families.”
They both drank, a comfortable silence filling the room. For a long moment, Raoul allowed his thoughts to drift back to the evenings spent listening to Dunnington read from one of the numerous books that lined the walls, or indulging the boys in a game of chess.
Simple, uncomplicated days.
Damn, but he missed them.
At last aware of Fredrick’s unwavering regard, Raoul turned his head to meet the steady gaze.
“Is there a reason that you are studying me as if you expect me to sprout a set of horns?”
Fredrick continued to stare, unapologetic. “I am wondering if the rumors are true.”
Raoul’s lips twisted. Over the years he had become accustomed to the gossip that swirled around him. Hell, he had encouraged most of it. A part of his success on the stage was a reflection of his carefully crafted image offstage.
He was seen only with the most beautiful women. The parties he attended were the most exclusive in London. And he never, ever allowed anyone to see the man beneath the façade that was Raoul Charlebois.
He was an enigma, a mystery.
And that was what kept the jaded members of the ton titillated.
“I find rumors in general to be untrustworthy, but that does not seem to keep them from spreading like a virulent plague.”
“So, the magnificent Raoul Charlebois does not intend to retire from the stage?” Fredric demanded.
“That is hardly a rumor, Fredrick,” he drawled. “I made the announcement myself.”
“Why?”
Raoul smiled with a rueful flare of humor.
It was a question he had no answer for.
At least none that made any sense.
“The most important talent any actor can possess is an immaculate sense of timing,” he said smoothly. “That includes knowing when to take my final bow. I have no intention of having all of London watch me become a decrepit wreck of a man, deluding myself that I am still in my prime.”
Fredrick frowned. He knew Raoul too well to be easily fooled.
“For God’s sake, Raoul, you are far from becoming a decrepit wreck. I would say you are at the very pinnacle of your career.”
Raoul shrugged. “What better moment to walk away?”
Far from satisfied, Fredrick studied Raoul for a long, discomforting moment, then with a shake of his head, he accepted Raoul had said all he intended.
Instead, he smiled wryly.
“It is certainly causing a sensation throughout London.”
“It must be if word has managed to penetrate to the dark, musty bowels of your workrooms, mon ami.”
“My workrooms are not musty,” Fredrick protested. “I am not quite the hermit you think.”
“No? Then tell me, was it Portia who informed you of my recent retirement?”
“I . . .” Fredrick laughed, realizing he would never be able to lie beneath Raoul’s penetrating gaze. “Damn you, yes.”
Raoul chuckled. “You will never change, Freddie, and in truth, I am glad o
f it. The world would be a sadder place without your odd combination of plodding logic and fanciful dreams.”
“Maudlin, indeed.” Fredrick tilted his head to the side. “Tell me, what devil is plaguing you, old friend?”
“The devil that plagues many gentlemen who have reached my advanced years.” Raoul grimaced. “Quite simply, I am bored.”
“And you believe retiring from the stage will relieve your boredom?” Fredrick demanded. “What the devil will you do with yourself?”
“I have taken an urge to travel.”
“The continent?”
“Cheshire.”
“Ah.” Fredrick’s puzzled expression cleared as if by magic. “So the thorn has at last festered, has it?”
“A charming analogy,” he muttered, recalling Fredrick saying those precise words near a year ago, when they had first discovered the truth behind Dunnington’s legacy.
The silver gaze never wavered. “You seek to uncover your father’s dark secret?”
Raoul kicked his feet off the desk and rose from the chair, suddenly struck by a flare of restless discontent. Not an uncommon sensation. At least not when the mention of his father, Lord Merriot, entered the conversation.
Reaching the bay window, he peered down at the icy street below. “Yes, mon ami, I find that I must discover what my father was willing to pay twenty thousand pounds to keep hidden.”
“Be careful that is all you discover.”
Raoul snorted.
Both Fredrick and Ian had gone on their quest to uncover their fathers’ secrets, only to return with brides.
“There is no fear of that.” Raoul’s gaze shifted to his slender servant who leaned against the gleaming black carriage. Despite the nasty weather, Nico refused to wear one of the dozen fancy uniforms that Raoul had purchased for him. Instead he preferred a plain woolen coat and loose breeches that made him look more a dockworker than valet for London’s most famous actor. Not that many people noticed his clothing. Not with those lean, swarthy features that were finely honed and edged with a promise of violence. Women trembled at the dark, Latin beauty and smoldering dark eyes that perfectly matched the long, raven hair he kept pulled into a queue. Gentlemen instinctively gave him a wide berth. At least they did if they desired to see another day. “While I have the greatest appreciation for the fairer sex, I have yet to encounter one that can claim more than a passing interest. I am resigned to my future as a bachelor.”
Rising to his feet, Fredrick moved to reclaim his hat and coat from the chair.
“Never dare fate, Raoul. It has a nasty tendency to make a fool of a man.”
“Not of me.”
“We shall see.” Fredrick offered a mocking bow. “Happy hunting, mon ami.”
December 9
Cheshire
It had been twelve years since his last visit, but Cheshire was precisely as Raoul remembered it.
Rolling timberlands that were dotted with occasional fields and meadows, along with the dangerous kettle holes locally known as meres. The tiny villages were mostly notable for their black-and-white timbered buildings, and the native red stone used in the local cathedrals.
A sleepy, peaceful corner of England that was content to allow the world to pass them by.
Greeted by a light, icy rain that was not at all uncommon for early December, Raoul discovered he was not entirely disappointed by the familiarity of his surroundings.
Odd. His memories of the particular neighborhood were hardly worth cherishing. Hell, most of them still gave him nightmares.
He could only suppose there must be some need within every man to know there is a place in the world that never changed.
Of course, it helped that he had chosen to settle in the small but elegant hunting lodge loaned to him by Sir Harold Baxter, rather than his father’s lavish estate simply known as the Great House.
He would never be able to claim Fredrick’s raw intelligence or Ian’s sheer cunning, but he did understand human nature.
In all its noble glory, and with all its fatal flaws.
And more importantly, he understood his father.
Lord Merriot was a handsome, fiercely proud gentleman who was accustomed to others bending to his will. Predictable, if annoying. The Merriots were by far the most important family in the entire county. Who would dare stand against them?
He would be infuriated that his bastard son would arrive in Cheshire without a formal invitation. And even more infuriated that Raoul had not yet presented himself at the Great House like a proper sycophant, to beg for his father’s approval.
Soon enough, his conceit would overcome his dignity, and he would seek out Raoul.
In that moment, Raoul would gain the upper hand.
Until then, unfortunately, he had little to occupy his time.
Unlike most sons of a wealthy nobleman, Raoul had never developed a passion for hunting, and his one attempt to join in the local society by attending a ball at the assembly rooms had caused a near riot among the local ladies, one of whom had actually swooned at being in the presence of the notorious Raoul Charlebois. Even a brief luncheon at the village pub had created an embarrassing fuss.
Conceding defeat, he awoke his fifth morning in Cheshire and gathered his restive horse from the stables. Then, ignoring the gray clouds that threatened snow, he deliberately took a path leading away from the village. Soon enough, the natives would be accustomed to his presence. Until then it seemed best to avoid stirring the mobs.
For well over an hour he meandered through the countryside, enjoying his ride despite the decidedly brisk breeze.
He had forgotten how soothing the silence could be.
Savoring his rare sense of peace, Raoul was completely unprepared for the small form that appeared from seemingly nowhere to dart across the path.
Before he could react, his horse reared and instinctively struck out. Hercules had once performed at Astley’s Royal Amphitheater and was exquisitely well-mannered, but his nerves were no match for the unexpected disturbance.
Much like his owner, Raoul decided as he vaulted from the saddle to study the fair-haired urchin laying with a terrifying stillness on the frozen ground.
“Damn.”
Bending beside the boy, he studied the large bump already forming on his forehead. What he knew of children could fit into a thimble, but he put the youngster at eight or nine years of age, and seemingly well-fed beneath his heavy wool clothing. Fortunate, since he would heal far quicker if he were not malnourished.
There was a rustle from the side of the path, but on this occasion, Raoul was prepared for the impetuous lad who burst through the hedgerow and dashed to stand beside the unconscious body.
“Jimmy. Sweet Mother of God.” Clutching a well-used cricket bat, the boy stabbed Raoul with a worried gray gaze. “Is he dead?”
This one was older, maybe twelve, but with enough resemblance to the lad on the ground to suggest they were brothers.
“No. Knocked senseless.” Raoul kept his tone nonchalant, sensing the boy was hovering on the edge of panic. “Which is more than the impetuous cub deserves darting into the road without regard to unwary travelers.”
As hoped, the boy’s threatening tears were forgotten, and a flare of anger stiffened his spine.
“It was an accident, sir. Jimmy was chasing after our cricket ball. If you’re worried for your horse . . .”
“I suggest you swallow the remainder of that insult, Mr. . . . ?”
A flush touched the thin face framed by a thick mane of brown curls.
“Willie.”
“Master Willie,” Raoul continued, easily scooping the unconscious boy off the ground and cradling him to his chest as he straightened. “And instead make yourself useful by directing me to young Jimmy’s home.”
“Aye, sir.” With a surprising air of maturity, Willie squared his shoulders and nodded his head toward the massive black horse. “Shall I lead your mount?”
“No need.” Raoul gave a low whi
stle. “Hercules.”
The gray eyes widened as the horse readily moved to stand at Raoul’s side.
“Hellfire.”
“Does your mother allow such language?”
“Ain’t got a mother.” Willie turned to lead Raoul through the gape in the hedgerow. “She did a flit three years ago. Miss Sarah takes care of me and Jimmy.”
It was not an uncommon story. Too many young women were left alone to raise children they either did not want or could not afford. Most were simply incapable of providing a proper home.
“And who is Miss Sarah?”
“The finest lady in all the land.”
Raoul hid his smile at Willie’s fierce loyalty. The scamp was barely old enough to be out of shortcoats, but it was obvious he considered it his duty to protect his brother, and the mysterious Miss Sarah.
Such loyalty was something Raoul not only understood, but appreciated. It was precisely what he had felt toward Dunnington and his two friends, Ian and Fredrick.
“She is no doubt a fine lady, but not terribly wise to think she can give two rapscallions a cricket ball and bat without dire consequences.”
Willie nervously cleared his throat. “Well . . . as to that . . .”
“Ah. Did you steal them?”
“Nay.” Hurt pride flared through the gray eyes, sharply reminding Raoul of Fredrick when he was just a lad. “We might be poor, but me and Jimmy are no thieves.”
Raoul grimaced with regret. “Forgive me. That was shockingly rude.”
Willie led the way through an overgrown field, his back stiff and his chin high. Raoul was wise enough not to press, instead following in silence.
At last, Willie halted to pull open a gate set in a low stone wall.
“Just through here, sir.”
Stepping through the gate, Raoul came to a sharp halt.
He recognized the timber-framed cottage that was charmingly set beside the tiny stream. When the hell had he crossed into Merriot land?
“Mon Dieu.”
Willie stopped to regard him with a puzzled frown. “Something the matter?”
“This is the old gamekeeper’s cottage,” he breathed.
“Aye. Miss Sarah’s father was the gamekeeper for Lord Merriot afore he died some seven years ago.”
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