“Who was he?” Ross asked, wondering if he’d answer. “The one you….” He gave a jerk of his head rather than spell it out.
“A nasty little Frenchman,” Falmouth replied, lip curling with distaste. “He thought to take someone I loved from me. I disabused him of the notion.”
Ross gave a low chuckle. “Oh, aye? Pistols at dawn, was it?”
“No. He did not deserve such an honour,” the earl said, and something in the man’s eyes made Ross very certain that the Earl of Falmouth was not a man you crossed. There was an unmistakeable air of power about him that had little to do with his title.
“They’re ready,” Sam said, hurrying back to them. “No apology, I’m afraid.”
“Good,” Ross replied with grim satisfaction as he took the pistol that Sam gave him. “I’d nae have accepted it.” He checked the pistol over, though he knew Sam ought to have already done so. “Nae offense,” he said dryly.
Sam shrugged. “None taken.”
They had paced the ground out and marked the position for each duellist. Ross walked towards the man that was his father, never letting his gaze fall from his face. Eyes as green as his own regarded him with cool distaste.
“I’ll kill you,” the viscount said, his previous shock replaced by the cold arrogance that Ross had expected.
“Ye may take yer best shot,” Ross replied, chuckling as the viscount breathed heavily, his nerves showing.
“A pity your mother didn’t drown you and herself. She could have rid the world of both of your worthless bodies at once.”
Ross just smiled. Despite his bold, vile words the viscount was rattled. This close, Ross could smell the acrid stench of his sweat and fear and see the perspiration on the man’s forehead.
“A pity for ye, aye. I’m just glad to hae lived long enough to have the pleasure of putting a bullet in ye. Fret not, though, Da. They accounted me the finest shot in the regiment. Ye’ll not linger with fever for days, my word on it.”
His grin widened as the viscount blanched, and then they turned, standing back to back. They would walk back to their positions, turn, and fire. One shot each.
Ross began to walk, unhurried. A fatalistic calm he had encountered before in dangerous situations settled over him and he felt no fear. He stiffened as someone cried out, his head snapping around as the sound of a pistol firing exploded through the air. Some instinct told him to duck and move and he did so, cursing as pain exploded in his right shoulder.
The bastard had tried to shoot him in the back.
Ross looked around, more furious than shaken as he saw blood pouring from a wound in his shoulder. It was only a flesh wound thanks to his reactions, but it stung like the very devil and the blood was soaking into his sleeve.
“Ye rancid little cowardly shite,” he raged at the viscount, who was staring at him in disbelief, the look in his eyes proving Ross ought to be dead.
With utter calm, he paced the final distance, turned and raised his pistol, training it on his father.
“Moncreiffe,” said a sharp voice beside him. Cursing he turned his head a little to see Falmouth and Samuel Pelham hurrying towards him. “Moncreiffe, delope, for the love of God.”
“Did ye see what the sleekit bastard did?” Ross demanded in outrage. “Ye think he should live after shooting me in the back?”
“Yes,” Falmouth said, his voice determined. “He’s ruined and has lost any shred of honour, no one will receive him. He’ll be out of the country before noon today, my word on it. Let him live with his disgrace in a foreign land, knowing you’re alive and well. If you kill him, you’ll hang, and there won’t be a thing we can do to stop it.”
To his surprise Samuel reached out and put a hand on his good shoulder. “We’ve only just found a long-lost brother, Moncreiffe. Let us know you a little before you get yourself killed. Alex is right. He’s not worth it. Much as I’d like to see him cold in the ground, it’s not worth seeing my kin hanged for it.”
Ross hesitated, astonished by the man’s words, furious and so filled with loathing for the vile creature before him he didn’t see how he could not pull the trigger. The desire was so intense he was vibrating with the urgency, the need, to see the man fall dead at his feet.
“He’ll get away with it,” he ground out, his heard thudding in his chest. His arm was burning with pain, the weight of the pistol and his rigid stance tearing at the wound on his shoulder like the turn of a knife. “No one can make him leave the country. He’ll wriggle around it and find a way to restore his reputation. He’ll make it my fault.”
“I can make him,” Falmouth said, with the air of a man who knew his will would be obeyed, no matter what. “He’ll leave, Moncreiffe. I’ll make sure of it. My men will have him escorted to France and I’ll ensure that he knows he’ll be shot on sight if he sets foot here again. I’ll give my men a bounty to do just that if they ever see him. You have my word of honour.”
Ross gaped, wondering who the devil this earl really was? For he was like no nobleman Ross had ever encountered before.
“How—?” he began, but Falmouth returned a dark smile.
“You’ll understand when you get to know me better, but to put your mind at rest for now, you might like to know my son-in-law will second my opinion.”
“And who the hell might he be?” Ross demanded, his arm beginning to tremble with the strain of his position.
“Have you heard of Black Rule?”
Ross gave an incredulous bark of laughter. There wasn’t a man alive who’d not heard of Black Rule, Lord of the London underworld.
“What kind of man are ye, for the love of God?” Ross demanded.
“Delope, Captain,” Falmouth said, his grey eyes steady. “And I’ll tell you. You’ve my word your father will live the rest of his miserable life in a foreign land.”
Ross hauled in a shaky breath, staring with loathing at the man on whom he’d trained his weapon. It would be so, so easy. He was right there. Just one crook of his finger and he’d be dead.
With a curse, Ross swung his pistol to the side and fired at the ground. He stared at his father for a long moment, and then spat on the floor before turning and walking away. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the viscount crumple, falling to his knees in the mud.
“If ye have played me false, Falmouth, I’ll come for ye, Black Rule or nae,” he said, breathing heavily, the pain in his shoulder taking his full attention now.
“Understood,” the earl said with a sharp nod. “Now, let’s get that shoulder seen to. Mousy!”
From out of the trees lumbered the biggest man Ross had ever seen in his life accompanied by a dozen or more dangerous looking individuals that could only be described as cutthroats. Ross stiffened, his hand moving to his sword, but it appeared Mousy and his brethren were well known to the earl.
“The viscount over there needs a ship to France at your earliest convenience. You may allow him an hour to gather his belongings, but I want him off English soil by noon. Is that understood?”
“Aye, my lord,” the fellow said, tugging at his forelock. “T’would be my pleasure.”
“Good man,” Falmouth said in approval. “Right then, come along Moncreiffe, we’ll get you patched up.”
Staring at the earl with growing consternation, Ross was too stunned to argue and climbed back into the man’s carriage.
***
“Nae, lass, dinnae tickle it. Give it a going over, like this.”
Freddie watched as Mrs Murray took the dough from her and kneaded it expertly, before moving aside for Freddie to have another go. She’d felt distracted all day, the strangest sensation of anxiety having settled over her shoulders late last night. Try as she might, she couldn’t shake it off.
“Do you think he’ll come home soon?” she asked, despite knowing it was a stupid question.
There had been no word from Ross, no letter to inform them where he was or when he might be back. It was almost two weeks since he’d left, and she was
sick with worry.
Mrs Murray gave her a kindly smile but only shrugged. “He’ll come home when he’s ready, lass.”
“Will he?” she asked, the dreadful idea she might have chased him from his own home making her feel ashamed.
A low chuckle from Mrs Murray reminded her she was being an idiot. Of course she’d not done anything of the sort. Ross himself had said she was nothing more than a minor irritation. She’d do well to remember that.
There were other things she couldn’t help but remember, like the awe in his voice when he’d told her, “I never saw anything so lovely my whole life.”
Had those just been pretty, empty words, the sort of thing a man might say to get a foolish young woman into his arms, into his bed? Not that he’d taken her there, though the knowledge that she might have been reckless enough to let him made her heart flutter uncertainly in her chest. He’d been too honourable for that, or perhaps his desire hadn’t been as strong as she’d believed.
No.
That wasn’t true.
She remembered how angry he’d become well enough. That anger had been born of frustration, because he’d wanted her too much. He’d liked her well enough to take himself off, but he’d told her to go, too, and she hadn’t. She couldn’t. Just how furious would he be that she’d stayed? The idea made her quail inside, but she would stick it out.
At least she could be his friend, she told herself. Except she knew that wasn’t what she wanted, not really. If it was all she could have, though, would she take that? An uneasy fear flickered to life as she considered that question. Perhaps he would never love her, but he wanted her. That ought to have made her feel a little better, she supposed, but it only made her feel sad. Freddie had wondered what it would be like to be the kind of woman men desired, but if that was all there was to it, then it was a rather empty sensation.
Would she be his lover? Would she ignore the whispers that had already begun and let him take her to bed? Let him? Freddie snorted as she realised, if she wanted to be his lover, she’d have to seduce him, not the other way around. He’d just run from his own home to ensure that he didn’t take her to bed. That kind of determined honour would not be cast aside lightly.
With her heart thudding and full of anxiety and longing, Freddie was so lost in her thoughts that Mrs Murray’s voice made her jump out of her skin.
“I think it’s dead, lass,” she said, deadpan, as Freddie realised she’d been pounding the dough with increasing fervour.
“Oh,” she said, giving the woman a sheepish smile. “I’m not much of a baker, am I, Mrs Murray?”
The woman chuckled and patted her on the back. “Dinnae give up, Miss Wycliffe, ye just keep on. Ye’ll get there. I’m certain of it.”
Freddie smiled, as Mrs Murray gave her a warm, encouraging smile, and knew she was not speaking about the bread.
***
“Here,” Sampson Pelham handed Ross a healthy measure of brandy as they waited for the doctor to arrive.
Much against Ross’ wishes, he’d been carried back to the Pelham household. Their father’s things were being packed up as they spoke, Samuel had assured him. He would not be setting foot inside the building ever again.
Ross wasn’t certain how Sampson felt about him.
Samuel, the youngest, seemed delighted to know him and, if it hadn’t been for the bullet in Ross’ shoulder, Ross suspected the lad would have been firing endless questions at him. That he was desperately curious to know about his new half-brother was obvious. He reminded Ross of a fox, all sleek red hair and intelligent, wily interest.
The twins—and heaven alone knew which was Sherbourne and which was Solomon—seemed to think it all vastly entertaining, and though they were not as obviously pleased by his addition to their numbers as Samuel, they had not seemed put out, either.
Ross turned his attention back to Sampson, who was regarding him with a cool, dispassionate gaze. They shared the same heavy build and broad shoulders, but that was where the similarity ended.
All four brothers had the good fortune to favour their mother. Sampson’s hair was the darkest, a deep auburn, with Samuel’s a lighter, more strawberry blond. The redheaded beauty’s portrait hung over the mantel in the study, and her fine bone structure, vivid blue eyes, and fiery colouring were most visible in the twins. Ross wondered what devilry the young men could get into with faces like that. No doubt they set women to swooning wherever they went.
“What do you intend to do?” Sampson asked, and Ross was relieved he’d just come to the point.
He’d expected nothing less.
Ross took a large swallow of his brandy and tried to ignore the throbbing pain in his shoulder. “I’ll wait for the doc to patch me up, then I’ll be on my way. Dinnae fret yerself, Mr Pelham. I want nothing from any of ye. I mean to go home. Ye’ll not see me again.”
To his surprise, Sampson did not look reassured by this.
“But you can’t just disappear again,” he said, a frown drawing his eyebrows together.
“Why?” Ross demanded, wondering why the man didn’t just thank his lucky stars and leave it at that.
“Sunny takes family very seriously,” one of the twins said, grinning.
“Don’t call me that,” Sampson snapped, looking irritated, and even more so as the offending sibling just chuckled.
“I’m afraid he’s decided you’re one of us,” Samuel explained, shrugging. “Which means you’re sunk, old man. You’ll never be free of us now. Sampson’s always acted as head of the family, as the actual head was more of an arse,” he added with a snort of disgust. “But, once Sampson has decided you’re his responsibility, well, that’s that.”
Ross glowered, feeling alarmed by the sudden interest. Knowing you had half-brothers and sisters out in the world was one thing. Having family, though….
There was the oddest feeling in his chest, and it was suddenly hard to breathe. If he hadn’t needed to get the damn quack to sew him up, he’d have taken to his heels.
“I’m no responsibility of yours,” he said, knowing he sounded belligerent. “I’m older than all of ye, for one thing.”
An uneasy hush fell over the room and he knew he’d just touched a nerve.
“How old are you?” Sampson asked, his expression taut.
“Five and thirty,” Ross replied, watching him, seeing the slight tightening of his jaw. “And yerself?”
There was the slightest hesitation. “Thirty.”
“There ye are then,” Ross said with a shrug, wishing he hadn’t as pain exploded in his shoulder. “Jesus wept,” he cursed, closing his eyes. “That hurts.”
“What do you mean, there you are then?” Sampson demanded, an edge to his voice.
Ross snorted and shook his head. “Ach, dinnae fash, man. I’m illegitimate. I’ve no claim on what’s yours and, more to the point, I dinnae want one. Can ye see a man like me living in a place like this?” he added, staring about the sophisticated elegance of the London town house with a shudder. “Nae, thank ye.”
“You’re not quite house trained, are you, Captain?” Samuel asked, such amusement in his eyes that Ross didn’t take it as an insult.
“Nae,” he admitted, laughing a little. “Not entirely. Mrs Murray—that’s my housekeeper—says I was feral until I joined the army. They knocked me into shape, but a life like this….” He waved a hand at their fashionable clothes and the elegant furniture. “I’d despise every minute.”
“You’d really leave and never speak to any of us again?” Sampson was staring at him once more, that intense look in his blue eyes a little unnerving.
Ross experienced that odd sensation again: a strange sense of longing warring with the panicky urge to bolt. He frowned into his glass. “It’s best. Some lowborn by-blow is hardly someone ye want to acknowledge, and I’ve no desire to be paraded like a curiosity for yer fine friends to gape at.”
“You think that’s what we’d do?” Sampson demanded, his anger obvious.
With a curse, both from pain and frustration, Ross got to his feet. “What do ye want from me?” he asked, moving to stand before Sampson. They were eye-to-eye, both men on edge and prickly with tension.
For a moment there was a taut silence and then Sampson let out a breath.
“You’re kin, Captain Moncreiffe. It has been my father’s life’s work to set brother against brother, and I have made it mine to ensure that never happens. I’ll not let him succeed now. We’re blood, you’re a part of our family, and I won’t let you disappear off into the wilderness never to be seen again.”
Ross stared at him, touched and bewildered by his insistence, but the idea of doing anything to give his father what he wanted was so appalling he could not reject the man’s words out of hand. “I’m only going back to Scotland,” he grumbled. “Not Timbuktu.”
“It amounts to the same thing as far as Sampson is concerned,” Samuel said, grinning.
Ross snorted and shook his head. “Aye, well. I’ll not stay here. Not….” he said in a rush as Sampson was looking irritated again. “Because I’m nae welcome nor because I dinnae want to know ye. I… I need to go home,” he said, unwilling to dwell too hard on why there was a sudden sense of urgency to that desire. “But I’ll give ye my address and if ye be wishful to come and visit me, I’d welcome ye.”
“You mean it?” Sampson asked, still looking suspicious.
“Aye, I mean it,” he replied, holding out his hand, though moving his shoulder made him feel like throwing up. “And my name is Ross.”
Sampson took his hand and grinned. “Excellent. In that case, Ross, you won’t mind if I escort you home. I’m interested to see Scotland in all its glory.”
Ross opened and closed his mouth, too taken aback to speak for a moment. “I’m nae sure—”
“Did you not mean it when you said we were welcome?” Sampson asked, a challenging glint in his eyes.
“Aye, I did, but… it’ll nae be what ye used to. The place is fallin’ down around my ears, and it’s draughty and….”
The Scent of Scandal (Rogues and Gentlemen Book 16) Page 15