by Scott, Tarah
Kiernan went to the sideboard. He set the pistol on the cabinet, then lifted the stopper off the decanter of port. “I wasn't expecting guests.”
“Then you’re due for another shock.”
Kiernan paused in pouring the drinks to look at Regan. “What does that mean?”
“Your wife is here. I assume,” he added, “given that you're staying in a brothel, you didn't bring her with you.”
“Phoebe? Here?” Kiernan shook his head and finished pouring the drinks. “Impossible. She’s back at Brahan Seer, and she would have no idea I’m here—speaking of which, how did you know I was here?”
“Your horse.”
“The Andalusian?” Kiernan picked up the two drinks and crossed to Regan. “So, you happened to be in Dornoch and spotted my horse?” He handed a drink to Regan, then sat down in his chair.
“Right.”
"Not many Englishmen happen to be in Dornoch, Scotland, Regan."
"I had no idea you were here."
"Then why are you here?"
Regan sipped the port. “It’s been far too long since I’ve had good port." He met Kiernan's gaze. "It was, indeed, Phoebe I saw."
“She has no way of knowing I'm here. Not to mention, my father would never let her go.” The memory of how both he and his father had ‘let her go’ the last time they had been at Brahan Seer came to mind.
“She wore no bonnet,” Regan said. “Never does, as you know. There is no mistaking that golden hair.” He took another sip of port.
“Why hasn't she already stormed Madame Duvall's?”
The earl laughed. “How many wives expect to find their husbands at a brothel two days after their wedding?”
Kiernan narrowed his eyes. “You know a great deal too much about my life these days."
He rose, crossed to the secretary and scribbled a note to his cousin to discreetly search for a newcomer, a woman with golden hair and…how did he describe her figure? He decided against the extra description. If Phoebe was in Dornoch, Androu would pick her out of the crowd without any trouble. If she was here, he would congratulate her on her excellent tracking skills—then paddle her pretty bottom. He had a great deal more to learn about his wife than he thought. Kiernan paused while signing the note. What if he wasn't the reason she was here? He cast Regan a glance, then went to the door and called for Phillip. The butler appeared a moment later and Kiernan gave him the note.
"Please have this delivered to Androu immediately." Phillip gave a small bow and started to turn, but Kiernan said, “Oh, and Phillip, please inform Mather we will meet at our friend's place. We've had too many unexpected visitors today for my liking. You will find him at Rhoda’s. He may stay there until our appointed meeting time. He's likely to murder me in my sleep if I ask him to leave her before necessary.”
Phillip bowed and left the room.
Kiernan closed the door, then returned to his seat and said to the earl, "Start at the beginning.”
Regan took another drink, then said, “I know my turning up here is odd—odd enough, I suppose, that I do owe you an explanation. Though, after I’ve told you my story, I hope you’ll see your way to show me the same consideration. I find it just as strange finding you here. First, I must ask you keep this information to yourself, and don’t interfere.”
“Has this anything to do with me?”
“No.”
“Then, I can't see a problem. I don’t make a habit of interfering, you know.”
Regan cleared his throat and Kiernan scowled.
“You’ll never let me live down my matchmaking debacle, will you?” Kiernan asked.
“Neither will Phoebe,” Regan laughed. “Though it didn't turn out all that terrible for you."
No, he had to agree, it hadn't turned out badly at all.
"Now, as to my being here," Regan said. "I’m on the trail of a criminal.”
Kiernan paused with his glass halfway to his lips. “What criminal would that be?”
Regan grinned. “Hard to believe, isn’t it? Who would have thought of me as a doer of justice, righter of wrongs?”
Kiernan took the forestalled sip. “Not I.”
“Well, you would be right. The long and short of it is, I’ve been commissioned by the government to keep an eye on Lord Ronald Harrington.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Harrington is being investigated on matters of national security.”
“National security?" Kiernan blurted, then cursed the government official who had commissioned Stoneleigh in hopes he would stumble upon the secret other real British spies had failed to find. When Kiernan discovered the idiot's identity, he would whip him for throwing Regan in his path. "Lord Harrington has an unimpeachable reputation," Kiernan said. "Not to mention, you're no spy.”
“No, I'm not. But it came to the notice of a certain someone in the government that I'm an acquaintance of his and," he shrugged, "well, he asked me to help out.”
“And out of the goodness of your heart you agreed?”
“It's something of an adventure.”
“I’ve never known you to apply yourself to anything for longer than a month.”
“Not so. I did graduate Cambridge with honors.”
“Only because your father threatened to enlist you in the military.”
“Can you imagine?” Regan looked aghast. “Not even a commission.”
“What’s behind this, Regan? I don’t believe you would follow a suspected spy all the way out here for the Crown.”
“No. I wouldn’t.” Regan leaned forward. “I have a particular interest in Harrington, or, rather, a friend of his. I’m of the mind that Harrington is involved.”
“Involved in what, the treason he's suspected of?”
“Well, as to that,” he laughed, “I can't say. No, this involves my father.”
"Your father? How is the marquess involved in this?”
Regan shook his head. “No, not Stoneleigh, my real father.”
"Your real father? Regan, you've gone mad."
“I know, it’s a devil of a mess. About two years ago, I discovered some letters written to my mother from a Lord Henry Ballmore. Quite personal, love letters, in fact. Seems she was to marry Ballmore, and she was pregnant at the time.”
“Bloody hell,” Kiernan whispered.
“Quite right,” Regan agreed. “Of course, I confronted her and found out that Ballmore was my real father. They were, as I said, to be married, but Ballmore was killed outside a theatre in York before the marriage took place. She met Stoneleigh, who, despite her condition, wished to marry her.”
“I’m sorry, Regan,” Kiernan said.
“Never mind about that. I never knew the man, though, it was a shock, and I was furious with Mother for keeping it from me.”
“I don’t know that she had a great deal of choice.”
“No, I suppose not. And Stoneleigh has been good to me. Still, I couldn’t help being curious about Ballmore, so I did some investigating and discovered he had a little actress on the side.”
“Common enough," Kiernan commented.
“True, but he wasn’t the only one. Lord Niles Mallory was in love with the girl as well. Sarah—” Regan snapped his fingers lightly “—some obscure woman, no one we would have heard of—Hazelton, yes, that’s it. Anyway, Ballmore and Mallory were both chasing after her.”
“Mallory, isn’t he the fellow who made all that racket about the labor laws in the House of Lords a few years ago?” The same man who, so many years ago, accused Phoebe's father, Mason Wallington, of being a traitor to the Crown?
“That’s him," Regan said. "What do you think of this? I found that Mallory was in York when my father was there.”
Kiernan studied him. “What are you saying?’
“I read the reports. Ballmore's death was no ordinary mugging. He was beaten.”
“Muggers often beat their victims.”
Regan shook his head. “This sort of beating was fueled
by rage, the kind of beating one gets in a brawl.”
“Those records would have to be over thirty years old. How did you manage to glean so much detailed information? Don’t you think perhaps you’re reading into this what you wish to find?"
“I knew you would think so. But God help me, it’s true. I spoke with the young officer—he’s not so young now. He was, by his own word, ‘the embodiment of all an officer of the law should be.’ He went to great lengths to document and investigate all crimes under his jurisdiction.”
“If he suspected foul play of a different nature, why didn’t he investigate?’
“He did, only he didn’t connect Mallory, and hit a dead end.”
“How did you connect Mallory?”
"It wasn't well known that Mallory was in love with Sarah. When Ballmore was killed, Sarah kept quiet about Mallory. He set her up with a stipend. But, she died a few years ago and, of course, the money stopped. She has a daughter, Harriet, who threatened to bring Mallory’s involvement in Sarah’s life to the attention of the authorities, but something happened to scare her into silence.”
“Mallory threatened her?”
“I don't think it was Mallory. I think it was Harrington.”
“Harrington? Why would he concern himself with Mallory?”
Regan shrugged. “Damned if I know, but I would bet a month's allowance he did.”
But Kiernan was suddenly certain he knew why. Here was the answer to how Harrington had coerced Mallory into falsely denouncing Wallington.
“But you have no real evidence the two are connected,” Kiernan said.
“No.” Regan sat forward, his expression a combination of excitement and sober speculation. “But it’s obvious Mallory despises Harrington, and the hate goes deep. Harrington passes it off as Mallory being angry the labor bill didn’t pass. Harrington opposed him on it. Yet, you find the two men in one another’s company a great deal.”
“And you have found yourself in their company of late? Just as you were the other night at the Halsey ball,” Kiernan said.
“I was acquainting myself with Mallory, which, of course, had me in Harrington’s company. Hence the reason I was recruited.”
“How is it this mess has brought you here?”
“Harrington is here.”
“Harrington? What is he is doing here?” Kiernan demanded, but knew the answer—and didn't like it.
“I have no idea," Regan said. "I'm not even sure what prompted me to follow him."
Kiernan cursed again. "Stoneleigh, I might have you whipped after all."
*****
The Andalusian. There was no mistaking the horse. Phoebe had seen the creature while at Brahan Seer. It was unlikely there was another like it in all of Scotland. The animal belonged to the Marquess of Ashlund. Her husband. She nodded to the stable master, who was saying, “The hotel is just a little ways down the main street.”
“Yes,” she replied. “I rode past it.”
The man smiled. “Aye, then, ye know where you’re going.”
“Indeed,” Phoebe said, and smiled despite the fact her heart was breaking. She knew exactly where she was going.
Her dear husband was holded up in a brothel. Phoebe had worried that asking the stable master where she could find the owner of the Adulusian would raise suspicion, so she had begun her search where Robbie's trail had ended: at Madam Duvall's. It was dark, but she leisurely strolled along the boardwalk and kept her hood over her hair, both unnecessary precautions. As she neared the brothel, a man turned, stared, then hurried into Madam Duvall's. Phoebe realized that the Marquess of Ashlund was at the brothel. She also knew that Kiernan was being apprised of the fact that his wife was in town. In another moment, he would also know she stood across the street from his hiding place.
With a sigh, Phoebe drew back the hood of her cloak and crossed the street to the house. She started to knock, but changed her mind and opened the door, then stepped inside.
A hulking monster of a man stood a few feet from the door and turned. "Beg your pardon, Miss," he said in a heavy Scottish accent. "But you must be in the wrong place."
Oh how she wished that were true. "I'm here to see my husband."
Annoyance flashed in his eyes. "We don't allow ladies at Madam Duvall's."
Of that she was sure.
He took a step toward her and Phoebe pulled the pistol from her pocket. He halted.
“Micah,” called a woman as she stepped out from a room to the right.
“Madam Duvall, I presume?” Phoebe asked without taking her eyes from the bodyguard.
“There's no need for the weapon, madam,” she replied.
"That remains to be seen," Phoebe said. "Please inform Lord Ashlund that his wife is here.”
“Wife? I wasn't aware His Lordship had married."
Her heart lurched. He hadn't told anyone he was married. Her reaction was stupid, she knew, but she wasn't going to deny the hurt.
"Where is he?" Phoebe demanded of Madam Duvall.
Uncertainty flickered across her face, but she nodded toward the hallway. “Upstairs. Come with me.” She started down the hallway.
Phoebe gave the bodyguard a wide birth, then pocketed the gun and followed Madam Duvall down the corridor, up two flights of stairs, and down another corridor. Madam Duvall stopped before a set of double doors, gave a perfunctory knock, and entered.
“Lord Ashlund—”
“Yes, Letty,” Kiernan interrupted. He sat across the lavishly furnished bedchamber at a secretary, his back turned. He confirmed Phoebe's suspicions when he said, “Show my wife in.” He continued writing as Phoebe entered, and Madam Duvall left, closing the doors behind her. He laid down his pen and rolled his chair around to face her. He wore a kilt, as he had for their wedding. She couldn't halt the flick of her gaze to his muscled calves. The man could drive a woman wild. He had driven her wild.
“You never cease to amaze me.” He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. "Where does my father think you are?"
"On my way to London to see Adam's family."
Kiernan nodded. “And how did you find me?”
“The Andalusian.”
"That horse is likely to get me killed." Kiernan rose and strode to her. Once at her side, he caught her hand and raised it to his lips. “Things aren't what they appear, my dear."
Ah, Phoebe reflected with a stab of sadness, if only they were as simple as they appeared. “I suppose it's my fault you’ve sought solace in a brothel," she said. He gave her a questioning look, and she added, "I wasn't a proper bride on our wedding night."
Amusement flickered in his eyes. "I will have to remember your love of brandy, but I doubt you believe the fact we didn't consummate our marriage is why I'm here."
"What else am I to assume?”
“What indeed?” he murmured.
Kiernan reached up and she stilled when he undid the clasp on her cloak. His warm fingers brushed her collarbone and gooseflesh raced down her arms. He swung the cloak from around her shoulders and tossed it onto a nearby chair. Then, with a firm hand on her elbow, he directed her to the couch that faced the fireplace. She sat down and he lowered himself onto the cushion beside her.
“I should have told you the truth," he began, "well…before now, at any rate.”
“What truth would that be, my lord?”
"You recall the Highlanders who have been displaced from their homes these past years? You may not be aware of it, but many are wanted criminals.”
Phoebe lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “When one plans the assassination of noblewomen…”
A corner of his mouth lifted. “I felt sure you hadn't forgotten.”
“It is difficult to forget when one is threatened at gun point.”
"Desperate people do desperate things,” he replied. “But, if you recall, it was you who pointed out that Robbie's pistol wasn't loaded, and you stopped me from beating him to death."
"I remember," she said—
and she also remembered a line from her father's letter. You cannot comprehend the fine line between reason and desperation when all choices have been eliminated.
“Desperation does not excuse murder,” she told her husband.
“Surely, you understand how those in power might manipulate others' desperation for their own means?” Kiernan asked.
It is shocking to learn that one’s leaders are willing to sacrifice their countrymen for money and power came another startling salvo from her father's letter.
Then it seemed Kiernan had read her mind when he asked, "How does a man take back that which was stolen from him by his betters?”
“He-there are channels one goes through." She clamped down on the strange sense of indecision that muddled her brain. "Protocol. Not murder.”
Kiernan gave a gentle smile that caused her chest to tighten.
“Ahh," he said. "And the men who have been trampled upon should trust those in power, those who robbed them, cast them from their homes like animals—and worse—to follow this protocol?”
The words were barely out of his mouth when her mind flooded with those few rich and powerful men who rule supreme in our society have stolen our rights.
Anger shot through her. “You condone murder under any circumstances?”
"I should ignore the innocent who are murdered by their masters, yet bring to justice those men who strike back at their murderous overlords?" he said, but might as well have repeated her father's words, Ironically, had I known then what I know now, I would be guilty of their accusations.
The tears she'd held in check since discovering Kiernan was in Dornoch burned the corners of her eyes. It was as if he had read her father's letter. But that letter lay in the bottom of a drawer in England.
“How can you understand?" she demanded. "You’ve never faced hunger, cold, the prospect of no home.”
“Perhaps not,” he agreed. “But Ashlunds are also MacGregors, and MacGregors live under threat. You will remember Zachariah and his men.”
Phoebe drew a sharp breath. She had taken Zachariah for a man who double-crossed an employer, who had masterminded the kidnapping of a wealthy marquess. But Kiernan inferred that the employer wanted Kiernan MacGregor the man, not the British nobleman.