The Earl's Enticement (Castle Bride Series)
Page 14
After two wrong turns amongst the miles of corridors in White Hall, he forced himself to sequester those memories and focus on the task at hand. At last, he reached the secretary’s office. Roark gave a sharp rap on the ornately carved double door.
“Come.” Yancy’s clipped command was muffled.
Opening the heavy door, Roark stepped through the entrance. Yancy sat hunched over his desk. He held several papers in one hand and a quill in the other. He glanced up, his green eyes widening. A grin spilt his face.
“Clarendon! What a pleasant surprise.”
He reared up, dropping the papers and setting the quill aside. Yancy strode across the room. He seized Roark’s hand in a firm grip. Pumping his arm, Yancy slapped him on the shoulder. His astute gaze studied Roark.
“I say, you look like bloody hell.”
Roark offered him a rueful smile as he handed over the packet. “From Sethwick. You’re to read them at once.”
At Yancy’s raised brow, Roark explained. “I just came from Craiglocky.”
“Ah, yes, I knew Sethwick was there. Something to do with escorting Miss Stapleton, I believe. Care for a drop of brandy?”
Yancy made for a small cherry-wood cabinet, tossing the packet onto his cluttered desk as he passed by. “You look like you could use a stiff drink, old chap.”
“Yes, well, as to that, I’ve spent the past three days traveling here in rather a hurry. One of Sethwick’s sisters mistook me for Edgar. She locked me in the keep’s dungeon for another few days.”
He pointed to his cracked lip. “She also gave me this.”
A vision of Adaira’s swollen pink lips, moist from his kisses widened his smile. By Jove, the chit kissed like a wanton.
Yancy’s jaw dropped, the brandy decanter poised in midair. “The devil she did!” He poured a generous splash into the glass, glanced at Roark, and added a dab more. “Which one?”
“You’ve met Sethwick’s sisters?”
Yancy nodded before taking a drink himself. “Yes, at a house party given by the Marquis and Marchioness Betheridge, two, maybe three years ago. I believe you’re acquainted with their son, Flynn, the Earl of Luxmoore. They’re distant relations to Giselle Ferguson, if I recall correctly. I believe Luxmoore’s paternal grandmother was also Scots and is somehow related to McTavish.”
Roark nodded. “Yes, I know Luxmoore well. We were boyhood chums. His father has a hunting lodge a few miles from my estate. The chap’s an eternal optimist with a perpetual grin on his face and curvaceous woman on his arm.”
Yancy chuckled. “Yes, that’s him. As to the daughters, one was quite young and painfully shy. Another had eyes like Sethwick’s.” A far-off expression flitted across his features. “‘Pon rep, truly the most exquisite woman-child I’ve ever seen,” he murmured.
Roark gave Yancy a sharp look.
The secretary raised his glass and grinned. “And the eldest, a dark-haired, petite hoyden who let a snake, a rather large snake I might add, loose on the dance floor in the midst of a waltz.”
Yancy laughed. “The ladies were not amused, especially since the night before, a dozen baby rabbits had been released in the music room. Earlier in the day, she hid all the chamber pots.”
He topped the crystal decanter. “Come to think of it, she never confessed. She just glared daggers with those black eyes. Hostile bit of fluff.”
“That would be Adaira.”
And her eyes aren’t black. They’re coffee brown with citrine flecks.
Blast. Had Roark said that aloud? A quick glance at the secretary told him he hadn’t.
He was neither surprised nor entertained by Yancy’s revelation. Neither did it please Roark that he remembered what color Adaira’s eyes were. He fingered his lip. The swelling was gone. Only a small scab at the corner indicated he’d been clobbered recently.
How old had she been two years ago? Seven and ten? Eight and ten? Old enough to know better. He rubbed his forehead. Yes, she most definitely needed instruction in proper decorum.
Yancy picked up the second glass, his signet ring clinking against the crystal. “Adaira, your jailor?”
Humor laced his voice. His gaze dipped to Roark’s lip, and he flashed another sardonic grin.
“Yes.” Roark’s clipped response was harsher than he’d intended at the reminder of his imprisonment. He unbuttoned his coat, grateful for the cooling draft wafting in through the open window behind Yancy’s desk.
He wrinkled his nose.
Unfortunately, not only did the din of the city carry into the office, London’s summertime stench, the putrid Thames and rotting refuse and excrement piled along the streets, did as well. He yearned for the freshness of Cadbury Park.
Or the balmy heather-scented air of Craiglocky.
“By-the-by, my stepsister is Viscountess Sethwick now.”
Yancy’s russet brows shot to his hairline. “Indeed?”
He chuckled, a low delighted rumble. “Sethwick, married.” He shook his head and chuckled again. “You’ll have to fill me in about that on dit, and that dungeon bit too. Sounds most intriguing.”
A sly smile teased the secretary’s mouth.
Roark’s lips twitched. “Undeniably.”
“And a blow to your male pride, I imagine.” Yancy made no attempt to hide his delighted snicker.
Roark was taken aback. Yancy was right. Roark’s pride did sting. He’d been taken in by a slip of a girl. He arched a brow, then shook his head chuckling in agreement. “Indubitably.”
“Ah, do I detect a smattering of derision, my friend?” It was the secretary’s turn to arch his brows.
“You know you’ll be mocked when word gets out, Clarendon.” He crossed to Roark. “And it will. You cannot keep something like that a secret, old chum. Too many parties involved.”
“I’m aware. Sethwick and I hope to keep the murmurings to a minimum, nonetheless.”
“I assume there’ll be no complaint filed?”
“Not by me, and I’ve not authorized anyone else to do so.”
Yancy nodded. “Good. A female relative of a peer having charges laid against her, and Scotswoman to boot—” He swiped a hand through his hair. “Ugly, complicated business that.”
“Indeed, which is precisely why I’ve negotiated a different recourse with Sethwick,” Roark said.
At least he’d been saved the task of calling Sethwick out, although the circumstances surrounding the viscount’s marriage to Yvette were highly unusual, to say the least.
Canon Law proved to be quite convenient when expedited marriages were necessitated in Scotland. Now that Yvette was married, her honor was intact. He was prepared to ignore the tongue wagging surrounding the betrothal. Compared to Edgar’s imprisonment as a traitor to the Crown, the betrothal gossip was trivial.
Roark swallowed an oath.
So much for preventing further smears against the family name.
“Here.” Yancy handed Roark his brandy.
“Have a seat,” the secretary waved, indicating the black leather wingback chairs before the room’s unlit fireplace, “while I take a look at Sethwick’s missive.”
Roark sank into the comfortable chair with a welcoming sigh. Raising the glass, he took a long drink. The brandy burned his lip, then trailed to his gut. He closed his eyes, barely noting the crackle of papers as Yancy removed them from their leather covering.
Lord, but Roark was tired. He hadn’t had a decent night’s rest in nigh on a week. No, it was closer to a fortnight. A pair of saucy dark chocolate eyes and rosy lips interrupted his musings.
“Well, I’ll be damned.”
Yancy’s oath yanked Roark fully awake.
“Edgar’s finally been apprehended.” Staring off into space, Yancy drummed his fingers on
his desk. “But is there sufficient evidence to convict him?”
His fingers stilled, and his compassionate gaze sought Roark’s. “How fare you in this? Must be ruddy uncomfortable, his being your brother and all.”
Roark winced inwardly. That was putting it mildly. He chose to ignore the second question. “Edgar insists there isn’t enough proof, and I fear there might well be some truth to his claim.”
Roark took a sip of brandy.
“Even Sethwick’s sources could find no conclusive evidence of my brother’s involvement in either the poisonings or traitorous activities. Hell, Edgar helped the Crown by killing the two Italian spies who held Yvette after Aubry turned her over to them.”
“Aubry?” Yancy interrupted, a puzzled frown furrowing his forehead.
“A jealous Ferguson cousin, I believe.” Roark crossed his legs and took another swallow of the amber liquid. “The conniving chit fled after the deed was done.”
A droll smile tilted Yancy’s lips. “You and Sethwick do have some . . . ah, interesting relatives in your family trees.”
The secretary relaxed against his chair. “Edgar eliminating two spies may work in his favor, blast it.”
He tapped the papers before him with an ink-stained forefinger. “That doesn’t absolve him of his attempts to abduct Miss Stap— er, Lady Sethwick, in America. But, as he well knows, England’s courts won’t prosecute him for those crimes.”
“Or the deaths of Maman and Gideon.” Roark shoved to his feet. He lifted his glass. “May I?”
Yancy waved him toward the liquor cabinet, as he sifted through the papers once more. “By all means, help yourself.”
Roark crossed the Turkish carpet, his boots sinking in the plush depths. “There was no indication of poisoning, you know. From my medical studies, my guess is he used evening nightshade.”
Damnation, how could he stand here talking calmly about the methods his brother used to murder their mother and stepfather?
Yancy nodded. “Sethwick suspected either that or arsenic. Both are undetectable, and their symptoms often mimic those of a fever.”
After pouring another dram of brandy, Roark turned and rested his hip against the cabinet.
“My gut tells me my reprobate of a brother is responsible, although Yvette and Gideon were his targets, not Maman. With Yvette and her father out of the way, Maman would have been the sole heir to the Stapleton fortune. I’ve no doubt my brother planned on convincing Maman to bestow a generous settlement on him.”
Roark shook his head. “Edgar could always manipulate our mother. As for the treason, who remains to testify against him? Will it make any difference?”
Yancy heaved a gusty sigh. “The English court system is a muddled mess, as you well know, Clarendon. Half the time, an innocent man stands accused of a crime, based purely on hearsay or someone hired to swear the accused committed the crime.”
He straightened the papers on his desk, adding, “Punishments as harsh as hanging are administered within hours. Then there are cases of guilty parties greasing someone’s fist, bribing their way out of prison, or living in luxury under house arrest for months, even years, on end.”
Roark angled his head in agreement. “Money, power, and position are used against the accused as often as they’re exploited to exonerate the guilty.”
He snorted in disgust. “Even suspected of poisoning our mother and stepfather, attempting to abduct and despoil Yvette, and betraying England, I fear Edgar may walk away a free man.”
He slapped his palm against the cabinet. The crystalware clinked and tinkled. “It’s the injustice of the situation that infuriates me.”
How was it possible the same blood ran in his and Edgar’s veins? Was Roark capable of such dark acts? He had the temper, though he kept a tight rein on it. Where did such corruption come from? He wiped his hand across his brow.
Asinine question, dolt.
Roark knew full well.
Their sire. Sherman Marquardt. Evil personified. He’d inherited the earldom when his older brother had broken his neck in a hunting accident. A suspicious accident. Sherman’s first two wives died young, one during childbirth, and one after throwing herself from an upper story window after one of Sherman’s terrible beatings. Maman had been seven and ten when she’d been forced to marry the three and fifty year-old despot.
And she’d died by her youngest son’s hand. May God forgive Edgar for Roark wasn’t sure he ever could.
Staring at the floor, he clenched his hands into tight fists. Rage and grief squeezed his chest in a sharp, unyielding vice. He couldn’t pull in any air.
God, he was suffocating.
Breathe. That’s it. Take a deep breath and let it out. See, the pressure is easing.
Maman’s whispered words of assurance carried to him across the expanse of time. The iron band around his ribs relaxed.
Roark gave himself a mental shake. He lifted his gaze to Yancy’s sympathetic one. Blister it, had he spoken his thoughts aloud? Heat crept across his face.
The secretary cleared his throat and directed his attention to the papers he held. “I’ll respond to these today.” He lifted the letters slightly. “Thank you for bringing them directly here. I know it cannot have been easy for you.”
Roark offered a cynical smile and shrugged. “We all make sacrifices.”
He set the empty glass on the cabinet. “I must be off.”
After shaking Yancy’s hand again, he left the secretary frowning over Ewan’s correspondences.
Stepping onto Horse Guards Avenue, Roark blinked several times against the sun’s unyielding glare. He set his hat on his head before taking Tenacity’s reins from the sweating groom. Poor sot. He handed the chap a shilling. “Here, get yourself something cool to drink.”
Wiping his dripping brow and face with a none too clean handkerchief, the groom bobbed his head saying, “Thank you, my lord.”
Roark swung into the saddle. The mare quivered and sidestepped, as eager to be away from the city as he was. If he left now, and paced the mare carefully, he’d make Cadbury Park by nightfall.
Turning in the saddle, he cast a cursory glance at the White Hall. He bent and smoothed a hand across Tenacity. A thick rope-like scar encircled her whisky-colored neck. “What say you, my beauty? Can we be home by nightfall? It’s not an easy ride.”
Tenacity tossed her head and nickered. Roark smiled. The Flemish mare would die for him. He’d saved her from brutal abuse. He’d come across her, bloody and beaten, too weak to stand, and being dragged by the neck. Her owner had been intent on delivering the young mare to the slaughter house, all because of a mild stifle injury, no doubt caused by another of the sot’s thrashings.
Roark hadn’t known if she’d live or die. He’d spent two weeks by her side. He slept in her stall, using every bit of medical knowledge he possessed to save her. She’d shown such tenacity in her will to live, Roark had named her thus. Her devotion to him was only outmatched by his to her.
He’d like to breed her, and several other mares, to that stallion of Adaira’s. They’d produce a splendid line of horseflesh. That’s why Roark had hinted a breeding partnership would do much to appease his ire.
Sir Hugh seemed amenable to the suggestion. Adaira had some exceptional young horseflesh Roark was determined to acquire. Somehow, he doubted the Scot’s saucy daughter would willingly oblige.
What was Ferguson thinking, permitting her to be involved in such a masculine endeavor? Horse breeding of all things? It was long past time someone curtailed Adaira’s uncultivated ways.
It’s none of your affair, whispered his conscience.
It became mine when she locked me underground.
Roark headed for home. He trotted Tenacity along the avenue, her hooves clattering over the cobblestones. An idea b
egan to bloom, burgeoning and growing along with his ever-widening grin.
By God, he’d do it. He would.
He touched his sore lip with his tongue. Her small tongue had touched there. His length hardened against his thigh. Confound it. Thinking of her had him aching to bed her.