Did the man just mention ale?
Cautiously opening one eye, Devlin stared at the stranger in his home. The action caused a searing pain behind his left eyeball.
“Did I mention the estate has brewed ale for centuries?” Higginbotham asked.
Good God, he is talking about ale.
“I daresay the estate could prosper with the influence and guidance of Your Grace,” Higginbotham continued. “Not to speak poorly of the dead, but it has been said the earl was never much interested in Bellewyck Abbey. He died in Bath, you know.”
“Lucky bastard,” Devlin mumbled. Unfortunately, the impulsive remark brought closer scrutiny by his mother and Higginbotham. He managed to maintain a sober mien throughout their respective inspections, but could well imagine what he looked like after a night of excessive delights and lack of sleep. Despite the fact he still wore evening attire from last night, his head felt as if caught in a vise. And if his eyes looked as bad as he felt, they were blood red.
“Mr. Higginbotham,”—he cleared his throat—“is there a particular matter you wish to discuss regarding the earl’s estate? Assuming, of course, the reason for my being summoned home was not to discuss ale.”
The solicitor’s already ruddy complexion turned a deeper shade of red. “Your Grace, I merely wished to convey although Bellewyck Abbey is a modest property, the ale brewed by the estate has an excellent reputation.”
“A bullet to the brain would be less painful, man.”
“Please excuse the Duke of Pemberton.” His mother commented in a gentle, somewhat embarrassed manner. “He is out of sorts this morning.”
Devlin blinked at her apology. Granted, his condition and surly manner might be deemed inappropriate for this meeting, but she knew he rarely got foxed. Besides which, a man does not celebrate thirty years of life without indulging in some form of celebration.
Ironically, last night’s revelry proved an epiphany of sorts. He wasn’t sure of the precise hour, but some time during the gaming, the drinking, and the requisite debauchery, he’d made a startling discovery.
He was bored.
On the heels of that realization came the decision to put away his bachelor days and end his wicked ways. Not that he was all that wicked, but the things he’d enjoyed before seemed nothing more than mundane rituals now.
He wanted a family. He needed a wife.
Out of sorts? Without question, the Duke of Pemberton was out of sorts. Not only had he come to the daunting decision to find a bride—reason enough to get foxed for any gentleman—but for the better part of an hour he’d been sitting and listening to a corpulent solicitor torture him with nonsensical ramblings about ale and some isolated abbey.
“Enough,” he all but growled, surprised his thoughts emerged so harshly from his throat. And there was no mistaking the incredulous, disappointed look on his mother’s face.
He made a concerted effort to ignore the painful pounding in his skull, gentle his voice, and sound more agreeable. “The duchess is quite correct, Mr. Higginbotham. I am, for wont of a better word, most decidedly out of sorts. Although I appreciate you have traveled a great distance in rather unpleasant weather to inform me of the earl’s death, this meeting is over. Be assured, I shall take into consideration your views on Bellewyck ale and its importance in the lives of all Englishmen.”
“Mr. Higginbotham.” His mother bestowed a kind, encouraging smile at the solicitor. “Perhaps the Duke of Pemberton should now be informed about the other matter?”
“Yes, indeed,” the solicitor agreed.
Devlin narrowed his gaze at Higginbotham. “What other matter?”
“Your Grace, this inheritance involves more than property and ale. Put simply, there is a ward.”
“Why, pray tell, was this ward not mentioned before?”
“There is a reason for my reticence, Your Grace.” The solicitor nodded toward papers resting on the desk. “Lord Bellewyck’s Last Will and Testament has but a vague reference to the ward. The child is not mentioned by name or gender. Although you have no legal obligation of responsibility for the child, I felt you would wish to know about the ward—from a moral standpoint, if nothing else. In situations such as these, a child’s guardianship is not transferable. The Lord Chancellor must be consulted. However, before that is done, I most strongly feel the matter requires your immediate, personal attention.”
Devlin tensed. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. “I have the distinct impression I am not going to like what you are about to say, Mr. Higginbotham.”
“To be certain.” Higginbotham nodded. “The Will states information about the ward is reflected in a codicil. But the codicil could not be found amongst Lord Bellewyck’s papers. Neither could I find the original guardianship arrangement. Thus, I have no information whatsoever regarding the child.”
An annoying nerve pulsed in Devlin’s jaw. “How is this possible? You were the earl’s solicitor.”
“No, Your Grace, I was not his lordship’s solicitor when these documents were prepared. I only made his acquaintance when summoned to his deathbed.”
“Then contact the Lord Chancellor forthwith. Obtain his record of the original arrangement.”
Higginbotham’s mouth opened and closed several times, absurdly reminding Devlin of a codfish gasping for air. “Is this not a family matter, Your Grace? The ward could also be another relation. And without the child’s name or information concerning its present whereabouts, eyebrows will be raised, questions asked for which I have no response.”
“What do you mean—its present whereabouts?”
“As I said, I do not know the name of the ward, its age, or where it resides. I should hate to contact the Lord Chancellor when I do not know if the child is living, dead, or simply missing.”
Devlin glanced at his mother, noting the heartfelt concern in her brown eyes. No wonder she’d summoned him home. The solicitor mentioned Bellewyck’s ward to her. As a diligent advocate for children, especially orphans, nothing would hold more importance to his mother than learning the unknown fate of Lord Bellewyck’s ward. Still, he saw no need to upset her further.
“The codicil is likely kept at the family seat in Kent,” he suggested. “No doubt, the ward is there as well.”
Higginbotham shook his head. “I traveled to Kent before notifying you of his lordship’s death. I, too, thought the ward must be at the estate. And that I could accompany the poor child to London and thence your temporary custody.”
Unable to remain seated, Devlin strode to the elegantly draped windows of his library. Hands clasped behind his back, he looked out the window. A black cat playfully pounced upon a huddle of fallen leaves whirling on a gust of wind. “I take it the child and codicil were not found at the estate.”
“No, Your Grace, and the situation has made me increasingly suspicious, especially after my visit to the estate.”
“Why? What happened at the estate?”
“Put simply, the servants claimed his lordship never had a ward. Indeed, they were most emphatic on the matter.”
Glancing over his shoulder, Devlin stared hard at the solicitor. “They are obviously mistaken.”
Higginbotham removed his wire spectacles and cleansed the lenses with a wrinkled handkerchief. “Yes, well, the more I questioned them, the more adamant they became. Even more peculiar, I could not find one piece of evidence to support his lordship’s claim to the contrary. None of the estate’s accounts reflect monies paid for the care of a child. There was no record of a nurse or governess being engaged. And no school received funds for educating a child.”
Devlin’s gaze returned to the view outside his library. He studied the sky, noting how much it had darkened in a matter of moments. The wind whistled and whined; the small pile of leaves firmly lodged at the base of his neighbor’s ornate wrought iron fence. He didn’t see the cat. Perhaps it had sought shelter. At once, the thought of any child lost, alone, hungry, or possibly sick in such weather gnawed at
his insides.
“There must be a logical explanation.” He scratched prickly, budding whiskers on his jaw. “Perhaps Bellewyck intended to make a new Will but, being too near death, was unable to make his wishes known. The ward could have died years ago, thus explaining why the servants know nothing about the child.”
“His lordship was near death but still lucid,” Higginbotham commented. “When asked, he did not want his Will changed. As for the estate servants, most have been with the family since Lord Bellewyck’s father held the title.”
Facing Higginbotham, Devlin folded his arms across his chest. “What then is your opinion?”
“I am hesitant to say, but in good conscience I cannot remain silent. I found the reaction of the servants to questions about the ward most troublesome. By claiming the child never existed, and with no evidence to contradict them, it is their word against the word of Lord Bellewyck. I do not believe an earl would lie about such a serious matter.”
“Nor do I,” Devlin agreed.
“Something is gravely amiss, Your Grace. If the child is dead, there should be some record of its existence. And I believe there was.”
“The missing codicil.”
“Yes.” Higginbotham again directed his gaze to the papers on the desk. “Does it not seem an odd coincidence such an important document is now missing?”
“Were you able to question Lord Bellewyck about the codicil?”
“His lordship was in great pain, but insisted we speak in private. When asked about the codicil, he became most agitated. With great urgency, he bid me to go to the abbey. He also said something before he died that haunts me.” The solicitor looked off into the distance, as if drawn back in memory. “His lordship said, ‘Death will not silence me’.”
“Such a cryptic remark.” The dowager duchess spoke in a near whisper, a delicate hand resting against her throat.
“There is something else, Your Grace.” Higginbotham donned his spectacles once more. “When I arrived at the abbey, I made other disturbing discoveries. As I mentioned earlier, Lord Bellewyck made his residence in Bath. Consequently, the estate’s servants were given a great deal of freedom over the years. And, well, servants in such situations have been known to take liberties with an absent employer’s home.”
“You believe they have done this?” Devlin asked.
The solicitor nodded. “The condition of the estate is nothing short of scandalous. The property is all but in ruins. Stripped of valuables. And there is a disturbing rumor about the servants amongst neighboring gentry.”
“What kind of rumor?”
“They entertain,” Higginbotham replied. “It seems they have an extravagant masked ball at the abbey each Yuletide.”
Devlin snorted at the notion. “You cannot be serious.”
“I confess it sounds absurd, but when one takes into consideration the missing codicil, the claim by servants that Lord Bellewyck never had a ward and the deplorable condition of his lordship’s estate—”
Devlin held up his hand, and stopped Higginbotham from continuing. Rubbing the back of his neck, he returned to his desk then started looking over the papers regarding Lord Bellewyck’s estate.
A resounding clap of thunder announced the breaking storm. Rain descended from the heavens with tempestuous ferocity, slashing against windows with violent force. Yet the riotous weather outside Pemberton House compared little to the turbulent temperament the Duke of Pemberton now felt as Lord Bellewyck’s heir.
Later that evening, a quiet hush of rain lingered in Mayfair. Seated in the drawing room of his town residence with his four closest friends, Devlin enjoyed a spot of brandy. The purpose for their presence had been to inform them of his journey to Kent in the morning. He’d decided to personally investigate Bellewyck Abbey. Honor permitted no other choice, not when the welfare of a child was concerned.
“I daresay your suspicions are sound.” Howard Mitchell flicked a piece of lint off the sleeve of his dark blue superfine coat then scrutinized his immaculate appearance in a gilded mirror. “One simply cannot leave servants to govern themselves. God knows what these wretches have been up to without the Earl of Bellewyck in residence.”
“Well, ‘tis damn inconvenient.” Auburn-haired Walter Duncan poured himself another drink. “What’s to become of our four-in-hand racing? Not to mention I have that match with Reggie Simmons in a fortnight. Your absence leaves me without a sparring partner at Gentleman Jackson’s. Have you perchance seen the betting book at White’s of late? I’ll not be bested by Simmons. There would be no end to that bloody rooster’s crowing.”
“Hardly an appropriate comment to make at this time,” Viscount Lyndon said in a quiet manner, his gaze focused on the crackling hearth fire.
“Just what do you think to accomplish with this visit?” The youngest of their group by ten years, Michael Stevenson, Earl of Wessex, made every effort to compensate for the differences in their ages by being one of London’s most notorious rakes with an alarming penchant for gaming. Still, he had a keen mind.
“I mean to say,” Wessex continued. “You must have someone in your employ capable of unearthing the truth. These servants will not be any more forthcoming with you than they were with that solicitor chap.”
“What then?” asked an incredulous Mitchell. “You propose Pemberton remain in town?” Using only his left hand, a gesture sanctioned by none other than his fashion idol Brummell, Mitchell deftly removed and manipulated a bejeweled snuffbox from a coat pocket.
“Someone must be held accountable,” he continued with a sniff. “If you ask me, sounds like the servants have been stealing from Bellewyck for years. While the cat’s away, the mouse will play.”
“Bah,” Duncan grumbled. “Left to their own devices, all servants steal. Besides which, Pemberton’s rich as Midas. He hardly needs Bellewyck’s wealth to line his pockets.”
Mitchell turned and looked at Duncan as if the man were a half-wit. “Whether or not a man is wealthy has no bearing. Have you heard nothing Pemberton said? The manor is in shameful disrepair, stripped bare of its possessions for God’s sake.”
Devlin softly cleared his throat. “Gentleman, let us not forget the more pressing matter. A child is missing.”
“Yes, well, ‘tis a pity about the child.” Duncan’s freckled brow furrowed. “You don’t suppose they murdered the tyke and buried it ‘neath the roses?”
“What roses?” Mitchell demanded.
“Bloody hell,” Duncan swore then drained his glass. “There’s always roses in Kent.”
With a soft laugh, Lyndon stood then stretched his long arms over his head. “I once saw an amusing play about this very thing.”
“The devil you say,” Duncan scoffed. “A missing ward murdered by servants?”
Lyndon rolled his eyes heavenward with obvious exasperation. “No, Duncan, the play involved a nobleman being robbed by servants whilst away from his country estate. Wanting to spy on the culprits and catch them at their dastardly game, he disguised himself as a servant and took up employment in his household. There they were, drinking his wine, wearing his clothes, stealing from his ancestral home. Justice prevailed. He exposed their treachery at a party, revealed his true identity, and had the lot of them put out.”
“Unscrupulous bastards,” Duncan snarled.
“It was a play, Duncan,” stressed Mitchell. “A work of fiction.”
“Makes no difference,” Duncan continued. “Miss Drummond says the theatre is but a mirror of life. To quote the fair lady, ‘all the world’s a stage’.”
Lyndon rested a hand on Duncan’s brawny shoulder. “My friend, contrary to your lofty opinion about Miss Drummond’s dazzling intellect, Shakespeare penned that observation. Still, there seems to be an absurd similarity between that bloody play and what could be happening at Pemberton’s new holding.”
Devlin sipped his brandy and nodded thoughtfully. “High Life Below Stairs.”
“There you have it,” Lyndon announced. “
And a highly amusing farce, I recall.”
“Well, this is neither amusing nor a farce,” Devlin warned. “Entertaining guests in an employer’s home is scandalous. Stealing from one’s employer demonstrates an inclination for dishonesty that is unacceptable. But claiming a ward never existed is nothing short of treacherous.”
“By God, I have a clever idea.” Lyndon grinned with a gleam in his eyes. “Why not borrow from that bloody play? Let them think Bellewyck’s heir cares nothing for the property, preferring to remain in London. In truth, you shall live amongst them as a servant of the duke. To make it more interesting, we could wager on the outcome.”
“The Duke of Pemberton posing as a servant?” Mitchell snorted. “A hundred pounds he’d not be able to maintain the facade a fortnight.”
“Done,” Lyndon replied. “Yet I shall double that wager and go a step further. I say Pemberton will maintain his masquerade, but will not be able to discover the truth. Sorry, old chap, you are quite inept when it comes to scandal or intrigue. Even should they not see through your disguise, those servants will never trust a stranger—particularly one sent by the Duke of Pemberton.”
“Hah.” Wessex laughed. “Pemberton would make a perfect spy. Come now, gentlemen, let us be bold. I wage five hundred pounds Pemberton will fool the lot of them, and expose their crime.”
A stunned Devlin stood. “Have you all gone mad?”
“I have the utmost faith in you, Pemberton,” Wessex replied.
Disgust soured Devlin’s stomach. “This is absurd. Apart from the impropriety of making such a wager, you expect me to disguise who I am and live amongst possible criminals as a servant?”
“Well, you’re going there anyway,” Lyndon argued. “Arriving as Pemberton and ordering people about will not win you their confidence. And, if nothing else, this will make your inconvenient absence from town interesting for the lot of us, eh?”
Devlin arched a brow at his boyhood friend. “And what, pray tell, do I gain from this charade?”
THE SENSE OF HONOR Page 2