“I will need my books,” came Edgar’s sullen response. “They are in my study.”
If he had ever entertained any doubt of Edgar’s culpability it vanished. That his half-brother made no undue protestations of innocence, no pretense of surprise, damned him as guilty. Duncan struck a match and lit the oil lamp beside the bed. “I have all the time in the world, brother. Throw on a dressing gown and let’s go find your books.”
Hours later, Duncan eyed the long column of figures Edgar had provided him. “Is this all of it?”
His brother nodded, staring a hole into him as if he wished him dead. Duncan was rather confident if Edgar were armed and not such a coward, he might well try to kill him.
“I will start verifying these accounts tomorrow, and I will need your signature assigning ownership of said accounts to me.” He regarded Edgar thoughtfully. “Perhaps you can answer a question that has been bedeviling my brain.”
Edgar eyed him hatefully. “Ask it.”
“If you knew the identity of your father, and your well-planned thievery suggests you have anticipated your exposure, why go to the Dacosta ball?”
The man shrugged. “Wouldn’t you have wanted a glimpse of your sire? I expected my presence to go unremarked. Had I realized our strong similarity…had I realized you or Miles would be there, I would have stayed away,” he finished bitterly.
“I am sure you would have,” Duncan mused. “Now, I would like you to meet your new lodgers.” Duncan whistled sharply, and two rough looking sorts appeared from the shadows as if by magic. Edgar gave a start. Duncan motioned to the grizzled man on the right. “This is Corporal Davies. Served with me until declared unfit for duty and pensioned off. Still quite spry though, eh, Corporal?”
“Yes, sir.” Davies grinned.
“Corporal Davies has only one eye. The other is glass. He’s quite proud of the glass one. Show my brother your eye, Davies.”
“Right-o, sir.” Davies raised his hand over his left eye, popped it out and held it up between thumb and forefinger. “See that there? Finest example of Venetian glass made. Capt’n got it for me. Cost a pretty penny it did.” He popped it back in accompanied by Edgar’s shudders of revulsion.
“Has losing an eye affected your aim, Corporal Davies?”
“It did at first, sir, but I’ve practiced enough. I think I’m a better shot now than I ever was before.”
“Good man. Now, standing to Corporal Davies’ right is Sergeant Wilson. Sergeant Wilson is also a former member of my squadron thought to be unfit and pensioned off. And why were you considered unfit, Sergeant?”
“Got my left arm blowed off below the elbow. Makes it hard to load a gun or ride a horse, sir.”
“Does it interfere in any way with your skill in throwing a blade?”
Wilson grinned. “Nary a bit, sir. Still as deadly as ever.”
“Will you demonstrate your skills to my brother?”
“I’ll be glad to, sir.” He reached into his coat and took out a lethal looking knife. “If your brother would be so good as to put his hand palm down on the desk and spread his fingers wide.”
“Edgar, do as the man says. I caution you not to move.”
Edgar extended his hand palm down and splayed his fingers. As if in one motion, Wilson drew knife, after knife, after knife, after knife, each one hitting directly below the webbing of the adjoining finger.
“I’m impressed, Wilson,” Duncan mused.
“I’ve done better, sir. I nicked him a little. There above his thumb.”
Duncan peered at Edgar’s trembling hand. “Ah, yes, I see a faint bit of blood. Ah well, a long way from the heart, right, Edgar?” He smiled and patted his brother’s shoulder. “Davies and Wilson are going to stay with you until I have transferred all the money you stole into the Chelsony accounts in London. Once I have done that to my satisfaction, I will send another one of my acquaintances with a draft for £10,000 pounds, and you are free to go your merry way just as long as it never, ever, for the rest of your miserable, worthless life, brings you to British shores. If I should ever discover you have stepped foot into England, I will turn your name over to the court on charges of grand larceny and have you hunted like vermin.” Duncan’s voice had become increasingly caustic and at the end dripped with venom. He centered his pistol between his brother’s eyes. “Am I clear, brother?”
“Very,” the man mumbled.
“Good.” Duncan smiled pleasantly. “You might give some thought to contacting your father, the Marquis de la Forte. I told him I would find you for him, and he is anxious to claim you. I will give him your direction. Since you cannot go to him, he will have to come to you. You might still benefit from your birth.” He lifted his pistol such that the barrel pointed to the ceiling. “We have several hours until the banks open. I, for one, could use a hot cup of tea.”
Chapter Twenty
Duncan stepped onto British soil at the end of January with a stir of immense satisfaction. Assembling all the stolen funds and transferring them back to the Chelsony accounts in the London banks had taken him far longer than he had anticipated. Edgar had scattered his stolen gains in banks in Brussels as well as Amsterdam. Because many of the institutions had been closed or on short hours for the Christmas holidays and then New Year’s, he, Corporal Davies, and Sergeant Wilson had been Edgar’s ‘guests’ for the better part of a month. Edgar was a prat, but he’d always known that. His wife proved a delightful surprise. Bettina Everleigh was a pleasantly sturdy Dutch woman with the cheerful and pragmatic Dutch outlook on life, and he’d genuinely enjoyed her company. He hadn’t a clue what she saw in Edgar.
He collected his black thoroughbred from the posting house in Great Yarmouth where, from the look of him, he’d been eating his head off, paid the livery bill and set out for London. Edgar had given him the name of two fences and a used goods purveyor who had bought most of the estate furnishings, and he meant to give them a visit. The livestock, horses, and carriages would have been widely dispersed and were probably unrecoverable, but he might be able to return to Chelsony Hall the family treasures of the ducal, sterling silver, dinner service, the fine porcelain china and lead crystal, as well as the portrait paintings and other artwork. The name of one of the ‘fences’ he already knew from some shady dealings for his past employer. Samuel Detrond was sharp as a tack with a knack for making money selling ‘used’ goods of uncertain provenance, but a greater one for selling information. Arriving back in London, he returned the black, who he thought he might want to buy, to the livery stable on Canary Lane and hailed a cab to a warehouse fronting the docks and currently owned by one Samuel Detrond.
He paid the jarvey and strolled into the vast dark space of the warehouse.
A voice came out of the gloom, followed by a figure of a man dressed in the clothes of an everyday laborer. He was of medium height, with medium brown hair and medium brown eyes. There was nothing notable or distinctive about him, which made him perfect for the purposes of Duncan’s prior employer. “Captain Everleigh, well met, sir. I trust you have been enjoying good health and good fortune.” Samuel Detrond tapped his temple. “No…beg pardon, it’s not captain anymore. It’s Your Grace. What may I do for you, Your Grace?”
Duncan tipped his hat. “Detrond. My brother, Edgar, gave me to understand you and he had business dealings some weeks ago. Sterling silver, paintings, Persian carpets, crystal chandeliers… antique household furnishings from a great country house. My house. Chelsony Hall.” He smiled agreeably. “I’ve come to see about getting them back. Might you help me with that?”
Detrond looked up toward the loft of the vast warehouse and set his hands on his hips with a pleased expression. “I knew that git was bamming me—talking a great lot of fustian about his rightful recompense when the whole city knew he’d been shoved out the door for being some Frenchy’s by-blow.” Detrond gazed at Duncan with an expression of pleased satisfaction. “I’m always glad when I guess correctly. Follow me, Your Grace.”
Duncan followed the man into the dark recesses of the enormous warehouse. Detrond stopped before an immense double door with a heavy lock. Unlocking it, he used his entire body weight to swing open first one half and then the other. Stepping into the blackness, he struck a light and lit two lanterns that hung from hooks on either side of the doors. The limited light seemed to reveal a great room within the warehouse filled chock-a-block with interior furnishings, though it was hard to tell as many large objects were draped in heavy sheeting. Detrond turned to face him. “I told myself I’d been sold a Banbury story by that sneaksby. We’ve had dealings, you and I, and you’ve always struck me as a fair, upstanding gent. I told myself, that Captain Everleigh…he’d pay handsomely to get his odds and sods back. Why should I go to all the trouble to sell this off, bit by bit, when someday, an Everleigh might show up wanting the whole lot of it?”
Duncan shook his head in wry appreciation for the man’s cunning. Finding a significant amount of the contents of Chelsony Hall, although he wouldn’t know how complete until it was unpacked and returned to its original place, was an amazing stroke of good fortune, though Detrond was certain to milk him dry for its return. “Well, Mr. Detrond. You were correct. What do you want for the whole lot of it?”
Detrond tossed a number out.
“Sir…we are discussing used furniture and old threadbare carpets, not His Majesty’s crown jewels, are we not? I should think I could pay no more than…oh…” Duncan threw out a number far under that which Detrond had named. The look of offended disbelief on Detrond’s face was comical. With a smile of enjoyment, Duncan set about to bargain for the return of the Chelsony heirlooms.
He walked out of the warehouse sometime later having paid more than he wanted but less than Detrond initially demanded. Wasn’t that the sign of a deal well made? Neither party was happy? He’d also arranged for delivery of the items to Chelsony Hall. It would take a staff of at least two dozen house servants to see the items returned to their places with any expediency, and he had yet to visit the other two brokers Edgar had said he used. Duncan had no connection with them and doubted his visit would be nearly as productive.
The thought of reinstating all that his brother had torn down filled him with weariness. Beyond the recovery of goods, there were servants to hire, stables, cowsheds and sheep barns to fill. If the main house was in such a neglected state, what about the outlying tenant farms that belonged to Chelsony? He shuddered to think of the outlay of cash that would flood from his accounts in order to right the years of Edgar’s chicanery.
First and foremost, however, his thoughts turned to Florence. He could finally call on her and explain his actions. His heart lifted at the thought. This hell was drawing to an end. It might take him a lifetime to atone for all the hurt she had suffered because of him, but he’d willingly pay it. He’d joyfully pay it if she would consent to be his duchess. On that spirit of hope, he returned to his rooms at Bentley’s with plans for the next day.
“Your Grace, Lady Lloyd-Smith is not in residence,” said Mr. Greyson. Upon seeing his face at the front door, Florence’s footman had run… had run!… and returned with Mr. Greyson. The house steward now stood and eyed him coldly. Truthfully, he had expected nothing less. He was prepared to be persistent.
“I see. Is it only me for whom she is not in residence, Mr. Greyson?” Duncan bit back his impatience. “I wish to offer Lady Lloyd-Smith a profound apology and an explanation. Will you please convey such to her and ask if she will please see me.”
“I’m afraid that will not be possible, Your Grace, as Lady Lloyd-Smith is not in residence.”
Duncan held the man’s eyes with steady challenge. “Yes, I heard you the first time. If she is not here, then where may I pay my address?”
“I’m not at liberty to say, Your Grace.”
Duncan shot the man a look of impatience. “Of course not.” Again he reined in his frustration. “I wish to explain myself to her. I believe she will want to hear what I have to say. Will you please tell me where might I find her? I am trying to set things right.”
“I believe you have done quite enough, Your Grace.” The door closed in his face, and the bolt shot home.
He stood on the front step of Florence’s townhouse, rigid, his jaw clenched tightly, then forced himself to relax. He had known this was not going to be easy, but he was determined to see her and force her to listen to him. He descended the steps and turned toward Miles’ residence. Eleanor would know where she was.
“I’m sorry, Your Grace, Lord and Lady Miles are no longer in London. They returned to Rutledge for the happy event. I believe Lady Lloyd-Smith went as a companion to Lady Miles. For support.” The housekeeper bobbed a curtsy. “That’s all I know, Your Grace.”
He smiled at the woman. “Ah, yes. I had forgotten they were returning to Rutledge. When do they anticipate the happy day?”
“I believe sometime the beginning of April, though you know those little ‘uns keep their own calendar.”
“Yes, well, I thank you.” He nodded. “Good day.”
Well… at least he knew where she was. With Eleanor so close to her time, he doubted Miles would welcome the emotional dramatics sure to accompany him should he arrive at Rutledge unannounced. He’d forgotten where he’d heard it, but he remembered something about how expectant mothers needed a serene environment. April. He could wait two months until the babe was born. It wasn’t as if he lacked for things that needed doing. He could spend two months simply readying Chelsony Hall to receive his new duchess, and while he might not appear before her in person, he could write. Yes. The determination to write Florence every day and tell her of his progress in returning Chelsony Hall to a state fit to receive its new duchess fixed firmly in his mind, but first he would profoundly apologize for his reprehensible behavior. He would set forth the set of events that drove him to end their engagement in such a hurtful manner. He would explain his dishonorable behavior that one particular evening and tell her he knew how much in error his jealousy was. He would put down words in pen and ink of his immeasurable love for her—that she meant all to him and beg for her forgiveness. Florence was a reasonable woman. She would understand everything he had done, he’d done out love for her, and she would forgive him. That was a happy thought. He lifted his arm to hail a cab. Yes… he’d hold to that thought.
Without fail, every day, he penned her letters of passionate love—even when, as one week followed the next and then the next, his letters returned to him unopened.
Chapter Twenty-One
Florence pulled her shawl around her more closely, snuggled further into the upholstery of her wing chair, and snuck her feet onto the andiron to warm her toes. It wasn’t that the grand fireplace in the library of Rutledge lacked wood. A ripping fire snapped and crackled happily. It was just that the room was expansive with tall ceilings and a full wall of windows that looked over a grey winter landscape of leafless trees, bare vines and a fountain full of black water, a typical scene for the end of March when winter had not yet relinquished its claim on the land.
Rutledge, the home estate for the Earl of Rutledge, and thus Eleanor and Miles, was a huge, sprawling, grey stone, mansion comprised of four stories. It was built in the shape of a “U” with most of the public rooms on the first floor of the cross piece and the family bedrooms—whole apartments really—upstairs in the legs of the “U”. Above the second floor were single guestrooms, the nursery and some of the bedrooms for the upper servants and employees of the earl, while above that were the servants’ quarters for all those dozens of others employed inside the house. Managing the staff in just this residence would be a full-time job in and of itself. She did not envy Eleanor her staff.
For all of February and most of March, the quiet pace of country life at Rutledge had worked to soothe her inner tumult, and for the first time that she could remember, she didn’t miss the social whirl of London. A numbness of feeling had grown within that allowed her to face each day with t
ranquility. While she had no great highs, neither did she have any great lows. Her gaze rose from the pages of her book and fell on Eleanor, asleep on a sofa at right angles to the fireplace, her feet in her husband’s lap.
He happened to look up from his reading and their gazes intersected. “She overdid it, but she insisted on getting up and out for the morning gallops. I told her between Bitters, Fedders and I, we could handle it…but, you know how she is about the young race prospects. She must oversee every step of their development.” Miles shook his head ruefully. “I cannot say her “nay”. I’m merely thankful she no longer gallops the young horses and now takes the gig to observe workouts.
Florence’s smile softened. “She will make an intrepid mother.”
Miles arranged the chenille blankets covering Eleanor and said quietly, “I am glad you are here, Florence. You are a tremendous comfort to her.”
“She would do it for me.” Florence lifted a dismissive shoulder. “Though I doubt I will ever have children.” She had come to terms with the thought she would never have a family. She no longer felt any sadness about it, but then… she felt little of anything these days.
“Florence…”
She shook her head with a patient smile. “Please don’t say it, Miles. I am resigned to being a good aunty to your children. It will be enough.” He looked unhappy at her statement, but he did not offer empty protestations for which she was thankful. “How are the Earl and the Countess today?”
A Destitute Duke Page 17