To Love a Scandalous Duke (Once Upon a Scandal)

by Rosa, Liana De la

  He ambled aimlessly before settling in the drawing room, with its towering windows that overlooked Berkeley Square. He sank onto a damask wingback chair, careful to not upset the rum in his glass.

  Peering at the room around him, memories of earlier times spent in the space washed over him. His mother used to arrange a tripod and canvas in the corner across from the windows to paint every morning, when the light was the best, she said. His father would sit on the settee under the window, estate and investment reports in hand, so he could watch her paint while he worked. A flashback of the secret smiles they’d exchange made grief lodge in his throat.

  Declan took a long draw of the dark liquor, the burnt caramel taste reminding him of the island. For years he’d yearned to come home to England, to finally lead the life he’d been born to, and now that he’d returned, his thoughts strayed to St. Lucia more than he’d anticipated.

  Perhaps because his life there was what he made of it. Here, in Darington Terrace, everything was imbibed with memories of days past. Responsibilities and expectations lurked in every corner. Declan peered hazily at the elegant chairs across from him, remembering when Finlay and Alethea Swinton had come to call the day before he was to sail to France. The awful words he’d flung at them still haunted the space.

  “My father may be dead, and he may be the one everyone blames for stealing the money, but we all know who the real thief is. If it weren’t for your father, we never would have let that horrid vicomte into our lives. He never would have been able to destroy everything. Don’t bother defending the earl, Allie. You’re his daughter, so of course you think he’s innocent. But I know the truth. And so do my brother and mother.”

  Alethea had tried to defend her father. Tried to explain how he’d been fooled, too, but Declan refused to listen. He’d needed someone to blame, and Lord Rockhaven was a convenient target. Even now, his heart pounded as he remembered the all-consuming rage he’d felt toward the earl. He regretted how his words had hurt Alethea, but he did not regret saying them.

  “Excuse me, Your Grace.”

  The longtime Darington Terrace butler stood just inside the room, his hands clasped behind his back.

  “Yes, Lockley?” Declan asked.

  The man took a step closer and cleared his throat. “I thought you might like to know Thomas, his late Grace’s groom, works at Tattersall’s now.”

  Why Declan was supposed to care about this information, he didn’t know. He offered the man a bland smile. “Does he? Good for the lad.”

  “Indeed,” Lockley agreed, taking another step forward and spearing Declan with a direct look. “He left to work there, I suspect, because he was quite upset after witnessing His Grace’s tragic death.”

  It seemed as if all the air was abruptly sucked from the room. “I wasn’t aware anyone had witnessed it.”

  Lockley nodded. “The Bow Street Runners never interviewed him, so I doubt many are aware he did.”

  He stifled an overwhelming urge to run directly to Hyde Park Corner to find the lad.

  Lockley, bless the man, seemed to understand his thoughts, for he said, “I can have your horse brought around midmorning so you can pay him a visit, if you’d like.”

  “I’d like that very much.”

  Perhaps helping ghosts to find rest would be easier than he expected.

  Chapter Three

  December 1803

  When I finally stared truth in the face, I couldn’t say I was surprised. I’d suspected it all along.

  -The Diary of Margaret Gordon

  The scent of fresh hay and manure permeated the air, and Declan tapped his cane against the ground in a steady rhythm as he maneuvered through the crowd gathered at Tattersall’s. Bidding had begun in the center arena on a set of handsome chestnut bays. He positioned himself near the rail to watch the auction, affecting an air of casual interest. He’d come to the popular locale under the guise of looking for a high-stepping pair to match the bright-red curricle he’d inherited with his title. However, his real interest lay in flushing out the witness to his brother’s death, and he hoped the young man could still be found among the muck and the rabble.

  Even with Lockley’s description of the lad, Declan was unsure how he’d possibly locate him in the sea of people who crowded the grounds of the famed horse trader. Nevertheless, he strolled to the inner stables. Rows of stalls lined both sides of the walkway. He meandered, sometimes stopping to admire one horse or engaging a passing groom in conversation about another horse’s behavior. A stableboy inadvertently aided his cause.

  “S’cuse me, sir, I’m sorry to be interrupting when you be admiring Samson ’ere, but I need to get ’im to the arena for auction. T’omas will have me ’ide iffen I’m late,” the boy explained, his hands nervously worrying the brim of his dirty hat.

  Thomas. Albert’s former groom was named Thomas.

  “Well, perhaps I’ll walk with you, lad. I’d like to ask…Thomas a question or two about this lad’s behavior in traffic.” Declan patted the horse’s neck before he allowed the stable hand to lead him out of the stall.

  They approached the southside arena, and a young man, no more than a handful of years older than the stable hand, exited the grandstand box and hustled over. The stableboy transferred the lead to the other man’s hand and scampered back to the stalls.

  Declan watched his actions until the man brought his head up. “Is your name Thomas?”

  The man crooked a brow. “Who’s asking?”

  “The Duke of Darington.” He leaned casually on his cane.

  Thomas’s mouth fell open before skepticism narrowed his eyes. His gaze roved over Declan’s face, no doubt looking for the physical similarities between the brothers.

  “The late duke was my brother.” The man frowned, and Declan clenched his jaw in frustration. No one seemed to recognize the litany of physical characteristics he and Albert had shared, and despite experiencing a lifetime of dubiousness, it still chafed. “My half brother.”

  Thomas nodded his head curtly and turned back to the horse. His strokes against the animal’s neck were halted and agitated.

  “I was hoping I could ask you some questions about the night my brother was killed,” Declan began slowly.

  “It’s been a year since I worked for the duke,” Thomas said. “I’m not sure what information I could give you, Your Grace.”

  Declan bit back a sigh. This was the same answer he’d heard from everyone regarding Albert’s death. But he was sure, to the marrow of his bones, someone, somewhere, knew what had happened to his brother. His patience snapped like a sapling in a thunderstorm.

  “I will only take a few moments of your time.” His words were clipped, and he breathed deeply through his nose lest he vent the full force of his frustration on the man. “Would you like me to speak to your employer and let him know you’re refusing to assist the very wealthy Duke of Darington, who happens to be in the market for a pair?”

  Thomas’s brows disappeared into his hairline. “No, Your Grace, that won’t be necessary.”

  “Very well.”

  “I can’t talk much now,” Thomas rushed to say as he brushed the horse’s mane. “I have to get this fella into the ring.” Under the weight of Declan’s glare, he added, “But you’re right that I was with him when he was set upon.”

  “By the footpads?”

  “They didn’t seem like footpads, Your Grace.” Thomas stopped grooming the horse and met Declan’s gaze.

  Declan’s hand curled into a fist. “What do you mean?”

  When he first learned Albert had been killed, he’d assumed, like everyone else, his brother was the victim of an attempted robbery. The Bow Street Runners had classified it as such and had been unable to determine the identity of his attackers.

  And yet, since Declan learned of his brother’s death, suspicion had taken root in his gut. For good reason, it seemed. He closed his mouth when he tasted bile in the back of his throat.

  Thomas furrowed hi
s brow. “They were too well dressed for common rookery footpads.” After a moment, he continued in a quiet voice, “They weren’t English, neither.”

  “Were they French? Scottish?”

  “No,” Thomas mumbled. His arm slipped from Samson’s back and hung limply by his side, all pretenses of grooming the stallion forgotten. “Russian, maybe.”

  “Russian?” A stone seemed to fall into the pit of his stomach. “Are you certain?”

  “No, I’m not. Your Grace, I only heard them say a few words because I was holding the horse’s head. The duke had just returned to the carriage after meeting with some bloke and he yelled out.” He rubbed his temple. “It all happened so quickly.”

  “I’m sure it did.” Declan closed his eyes as images of his brother’s final moments played out in his mind as if he’d been there to witness it, instead of traveling in South America. Guilt choked him. While Albert had lain dying on the dirty, wet streets, he’d been on the other side of the world, where he was of absolutely no use to him. That knowledge taunted him.

  His attention snagged on a detail. “My brother had met with someone?”

  “I suppose so. That’s why we were in Spitalfields. Ain’t never been there before.”

  Declan wondered who Albert had met with and could that person be why he was attacked? “Do you remember anything else?”

  “After the footpads fled, another man arrived and took something from the duke’s coat.”

  “Did you see what he took?”

  Thomas nodded slowly, his eyes unfocused. “Not real well, but…”

  “Yes?” Declan prodded.

  “Well, it looked like he took a book.”

  “A book?”

  “That’s what it looked like. A book with a red cover.”

  A red book. “Did you tell anyone about the book?”

  Thomas pressed his lips together. “No one asked, and I didn’t think it my business.”

  Perhaps not, but Declan couldn’t help but wonder what was so significant about the mysterious book to have been taken from Albert’s dying body. Could he have received it from the person he’d just met with in the pub? “Do you remember anything else?”

  The groom frowned before his eyes went wide. He opened his mouth—

  “Thomas, where in God’s name is that bloody stallion?”

  The irate voice of the auctioneer cut through the tension blooming between Declan and the groom, and Thomas jumped.

  “Mr. Hardy, my apologies.” Thomas grabbed Samson’s reins and pulled the beast in the direction of the ring. “Your Grace, I’m sorry, but I have to go.”

  Declan nodded even as he followed the pair. “Can you meet another time?”

  “Umm…” Thomas handed the reins to the auctioneer, who scowled fiercely at Declan. “Tomorrow morning?”

  “There’s an alehouse across the street. Shall we meet there, at say ten o’clock?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  Declan watched silently as the young man disappeared into the grandstand, his heart pounding in his throat. What had the groom been about to say? What had Albert been up to before he was attacked? His brother had always been proper. Decorous. The perfect duke. What had made him a target?

  He had so many unanswered questions and he hoped whatever additional information Thomas had to share would finally allow his lungs to fill with air.

  With an irritated swipe of his cane, he forced himself to consider his next move.

  He had an appointment with several stewards later in the afternoon to discuss the books for the Darington estates in northern Yorkshire and Cumbria. He suppressed a groan as he admitted that perhaps he should visit Hoby to be fitted for a new pair of boots. Edwards, his valet, despaired over his current pair. The business of being a respectable peer of the realm was more time-consuming than he’d ever imagined.

  A swell of laughter brought Declan’s head around. A group of men stood against the rails on the far side of the ring, their attention not on Samson, who had just been brought into the arena, but on a gentleman in their midst. His interest piqued, Declan walked in the direction of the gathering.

  As he moved closer, his eyes alighted upon a familiar blond head. Finlay Swinton, Lord Firthwell. Declan found himself standing outside the circle of men surrounding the viscount, who appeared to be acting out a story with elaborate facial expressions and hand gestures.

  “I fear this story grows more theatrical upon repeated recitations.”

  Her smoky voice teased his ears like a siren song, and heated sensations tripped down his spine.

  “Many would argue it’s the storyteller that truly makes the story,” Declan answered, unable to stop himself from glancing down at her.

  Alethea, resplendent in a blue walking dress, pursed her plump lips and considered her brother, even as another roar of laughter rose up from the group. “In Fin’s case, I think you may be right. Lord knows there’s nothing interesting about this story.”

  “I confess I haven’t heard it all. What’s it about?”

  “Me.” Her tone was clipped, and when Declan raised a questioning brow, she waved a gloved hand. “He delights in sharing how I shocked a game warden in Scotland by riding bareback.”

  A chuckle escaped his mouth. “That poor warden. I’m confident he’d never seen the likes of you before.”

  “Indeed,” she said primly, angling her head away. The brim of her bonnet shielded the majority of her face but couldn’t mask the fleeting smile that danced across her mouth.

  That small smile made Declan’s breath catch. It was dangerous. She was dangerous.

  “I saw you speaking with a groom. You appeared upset. Is everything all right?”

  Oh, she was very dangerous, he thought as he looked down into her big green eyes. She gazed at him curiously, and before he could stop himself, he said, “He was Albert’s former tiger.”

  Alethea pressed a hand to her chest. “Was…was he with Albert when he was killed? Did he tell you what happened?” she asked.

  He could simply say no, and leave it at that. He didn’t know her anymore, and sharing Thomas’s speculation would be like spreading a trivial piece of gossip. And she could easily funnel the information back to her father. Despite the years that had passed, Declan doubted he would ever fully trust the man.

  He allowed his gaze to trace the alabaster curves of her face, and decided he wanted her to know. “The groom’s not convinced the fiends were simple footpads.”

  “Oh, Dec, is he certain?” Alethea laid a hand on his forearm.

  “I wish I could say he was.” He refused to look at her hand, which was as hot as a flame, even through his sleeve. “But in the fracas of the attack, he’s dubious of what he saw.”

  “I didn’t buy the robbery explanation.”

  Her firm tone caught his attention. “You didn’t?”

  Alethea snorted. “Of course not. I doubt my father did, either. What business did a duke have in a neighborhood such as that?”

  Declan clenched his jaw. Her question matched one of his own.

  “I’ve long thought he was lured there.” She dropped her hand from his arm, and he immediately missed it.

  He inhaled deeply. “If only you were a Runner, perhaps there would be no mystery for me to solve.”

  “I can help.”

  “Help?” He took in her earnest expression.

  “Discover what happened to Albert. My father would be willing to assist you, but there are ways I can help, as well. Your time away has made you a stranger to London.”

  “I can hire men who know London.”

  “I’m positive you can. But will they know the ton? Will they be privy to the gossip that circulates through Mayfair ballrooms?” When he didn’t respond, the corner of her luscious mouth lifted. “I know, and I am.”

  He found it hard to argue her point. He could hire all the private investigators he wanted, but none of them had the access to the aristocracy Alethea had. Perhaps she could help him. But
did he want her to?

  “Darington,” Firthwell interjected, “or may I call you Declan?”

  He tore his gaze away from Alethea to focus on her twin, who’d appeared covertly by her side. “If you address me by my title, I’ll blacken your eye.”

  The viscount’s eyes twinkled in merriment. “We can’t have that. Although”—he tapped a finger against his mouth—“such an injury might endear me to the ladies.”

  “I’m sure the so-called ladies you fraternize with wouldn’t care, Fin,” Alethea said, her tone dry but her gaze affectionate.

  “Let’s not test it, shall we?” Firthwell grinned at his sister then looped her arm through his.

  “Did you find what you came for?” Alethea asked.

  “Sadly, no.” The viscount looked to the arena and his countenance twisted in disgust. “I missed out on the stallion.”

  So did I, Declan thought. He followed the man’s glance and saw the gray stallion, Samson, being lead from the ring, a sold horse. “He was a fine piece of horseflesh, but his gait was slightly off.”

  Firthwell straightened his cuff. “Perhaps he had a pebble in his hoof.”

  “I checked.” He lifted a shoulder. “A natural gait, I’m afraid.”

  “Well, then perhaps I saved myself the hassle.” Firthwell exhaled and pinned Declan with an assessing look. The man seemed intent on taking his measure, and Declan patiently waited for him to do so. He wasn’t sure what had precipitated such a response, but he had a strong suspicion it could be traced back to his interaction with his sister.

  Pity that.

  Declan debated his next move. Alethea had offered to help him discover what happened to Albert, and perhaps Finlay would as well. The man’s popularity and connections would supply him with ears on the ground while simultaneously easing Declan’s reintroduction to society.

  Gripping his cane, he offered the pair a smile. “I was considering a stop at Gunter’s on my way home. I haven’t enjoyed an ice since my return, and I am remiss. Would you care to join me?”

  Alethea beamed her assent, but Firthwell seemed to hesitate, a muscle ticking in his jaw. After a pregnant pause, he said, “We thank you for the invitation, but I’m afraid we have an appointment. Another time, perhaps?”