by Allison Lane
Excitement stirred at the thought of Eden permanently in his bed. What a partner she would make! But convincing her would be difficult. If he pressed too hard, she might toss him out. His first order of business must be to eliminate her most pressing problem so she had time to consider his offer.
To keep his libido under control, he turned his thoughts to his surroundings. Sunshine had banished the winter rains, letting spring burst forth. Lambs gamboled in fields. Crocuses blazed along hedgerows. He forded a stream, then cantered across a meadow so green it hurt his eyes. Did deciding to wed Eden affect how he saw the world?
Yet his tension increased with each passing mile. Resolving this investigation was more urgent than ever, but Lady Debenham might have already left for town. The Season would officially begin in another week.
Lady Debenham’s knowledge of aristocratic families was second only to Lady Beatrice’s. Together the pair probably knew more than the College of Arms, official arbiter of title disputes. So she was his best source on the Duke of Travers and other Montagues, including Percy.
On the other hand, Alex did not want to direct her curiosity toward Percy until he knew the man was guilty. Nor could he raise suspicion about Eden and Olivia by revealing his residence under their roof, so he must hide his true purpose.
Lady Debenham pinned him with a disapproving glare as he entered her drawing room. “What are you doing in Leicestershire, Portland? It’s past time you were in London. You’ve not shown your face in society for two years.”
“Not London society,” he agreed with a smile. “But I’ve wandered the countryside from time to time. I was passing this way and decided to pay my respects.”
Her eyes sharpened. “Passing? To where?”
“Marwood Hill, then Graystone Manor.”
“Why?”
“Sir Richard’s brother recently died. Since John was a friend, I ought to pay a condolence call while I’m in the area. Graystone has a horse I wish to see. Hartford refuses to part with the one I want.” Graystone and Hartford were renowned breeders, particularly of hunters.
Her interest in his business died at this prosaic response. The country around Melton Mowbray offered the best hunting in England. Many men tested their skills there. Even more sought horses that had been trained there.
A footman appeared with refreshments. Alex accepted wine and the biscuits for which her cook was justly famous in London.
“Now tell me why you really called on me,” Lady Debenham demanded when they were again alone. “And no fustian about paying respects. I’ve seen you pass me in the street with nary a nod, so I can’t commend your manners.”
“I’ve apologized for that gross oversight a dozen times, my lady. Shall we make it an unlucky thirteen?”
“No, we shan’t,” she snapped tartly. “You wouldn’t mean it any more than the first twelve.”
He threw back his head and laughed. “I do sincerely regret the incident, if for no other reason than to avoid constant reminders of it.”
“Let that be a lesson to you – and you’ve still not answered my question.”
“What reason could there be beyond an hour of scintillating conversation?”
“With any other man, I might believe it. But you never do anything without a reason. Even talk.”
Witch. But he didn’t say it. She was too astute for his peace of mind. Matching wits with her was always a challenge. “Curiosity, more than anything. I overheard mention of the Duke of Travers while changing horses yesterday – nothing interesting; merely speculation about his health.” The man was ninety-five, so the tale was plausible.
“No surprise there. He suffered a bout of ague last month,” she said, handing him a glass of wine. “Considering his age, he recovered more quickly than anyone expected.”
“Just so. But the name rang a bell. My grandmother once mentioned him – something about his birth, though I can’t remember the details. I was barely out of leading strings so paid little heed. But travel is boring enough without curiosity making the hours drag. I am hoping you recall the tale.”
“Which one?”
“There is more than one?” He popped a cake into his mouth, letting avid interest show on his face.
Lady Debenham scowled. “I don’t know anything beyond rumor, myself, you understand. You would do better to ask Lady Beatrice”—her arch-rival for the title Most Knowing Gossip—“for her advanced years give her an edge when it comes to ancient tales.” Since her tone held a bite he couldn’t miss, he didn’t remind her that Travers had reached his majority before Lady Beatrice’s birth, so she would know nothing firsthand, either.
Instead, he shrugged. “She is in London, and we are not. I’m sure your great-grandmother must have mentioned the tale.” Or her grandmother, though naming that woman would imply that he knew Lady Debenham had passed the age of fifty some years ago. “I seem to recall something about twins.”
“Yes, the twins,” she said immediately. “I had that story from Lady Marlow – she was Travers’s sister, you know.”
“I thought she was a viscount’s daughter.”
“That’s Sir Richard’s wife. Sir George’s wife was a Montagu.”
“John never mentioned a connection,” he said inanely, head spinning as facts rearranged themselves into new patterns.
“That surprises me. Very close to his mother, he was. To both parents, really. He only wed because she demanded it on her deathbed – in ’94 that was. It was a mistake, by all accounts. The girl might as well have been a light-skirt. Came to a bad end.”
“So he said”—he interrupted before she could recall his own involvement in the events of ten years ago—“but what is the tale about the twins?”
“Travers is the eldest twin – maybe.”
“What? Surely the midwife marked them.”
“Of course. And Travers was first. But was that what nature intended?” Her eyes gleamed. “Now you must recall that Lady Marlow was younger by several years, her mother being the old duke’s third wife, so she knew only what she’d overheard the servants whispering. ’Twas the duke’s second wife who birthed the twins, his first having died following her fourth stillbirth. And the second seemed destined for the same end. Labor was well advanced before the midwife arrived to find the child positioned badly.”
“Yet both boys lived.”
“Because the midwife acted against nature – on the duke’s direct orders, but against nature nonetheless.” She paused to sip tea, leaving Alex raptly staring. “When it was obvious that the duchess would expire, the duke ordered the midwife to rescue the babe. He wasn’t about to accept another stillbirth. So the midwife reached into the womb, shoved the obstruction aside, then grabbed the feet and tugged. But she could not say which feet they were, those of the child nature intended to be first or his brother.”
“Does it make a difference?”
“Not to most, but it was debated in the family for years. Who was the rightful heir? Was it the younger by only two minutes? Did it matter?”
“It is always difficult when the heir is a twin,” he conceded. “The younger often questions fate.”
“In this case, it was the duke who questioned fate, despite that his own orders produced the conundrum. He was superstitious and feared that tampering with nature would send his house into decline. When he remarried, speculation abounded that a new son might lead to untimely accidents for the twins. But the babe was female. When that wife also died – all the babes were unusually large – he took it as an omen and accepted his fate. Or seemed to. His own death proved otherwise, for his will split the dukedom as much as law allowed. The eldest received the title and entailment, of course, but everything else went to the younger, who ended with more than his brother.”
Alex whistled softly. “That must have grated.”
“It produced the very schism the old duke had feared. The new duke was left with land he couldn’t sell and little else. He’s rebuilt a modest fortune in the sixty
years since, but he and his twin last spoke at their father’s funeral.”
“Does the younger twin care? He inherited a fortune.”
“But Lord James lacks the power of a title – dukes are a bare two steps below God, but younger sons remain commoners. And his life has been haunted by ill luck. His wife died tragically, leaving a single son. That son died a month before his own son was born. The grandson must be forty-five by now, but has never wed, so that branch of the family will likely die out. Lord James is determined to survive Travers, no matter what it takes, and he gloats at every hint of Travers penury. As for Travers, he must pray daily that at least part of the family fortune will somehow return to him when his brother dies. His own line is prolific – too prolific, some would say. Five sons, sixteen grandsons, and eleven great-grandsons to date. Plus a score of girls requiring dowries. So while the succession is in good hands, the family coffers remain strained.”
“A lesson to beware of large families,” he quipped. But as he turned the conversation to the latest gossip and the prospects for the coming Season, his mind fretted over her revelations. He saw a quite different explanation for the Montagu imbalance.
After the shock of his father’s will, Travers had made sure his twin could never have the title, too, producing son after son after son. And if the younger twin believed he should have been first, the schism gave Percy a motive for pursuing the Sarsos relics. They were reputed to mend injustice.
Now that he thought back, he’d once heard a garbled tale about a night Percy Montagu drank himself into near oblivion, raging about stolen birthrights and cousins who didn’t know their place. The situation could easily have left him susceptible to fantasy. So if his great-aunt had mentioned her husband’s collection, which included the Sarsos staff…
It was enough. Alex would confirm his theory by showing the sketch to Sir Richard, but the pieces fit too well to doubt his conclusions.
He endured an interminable half hour of trivia before he could return to Ridley to collect the drawing.
A letter from Sir Michael awaited him in the study. He frowned.
“Is something wrong?” asked Eden from the doorway.
“I don’t know.” He broke the seal, skimmed, then handed it to her. “Further confirmation that X killed Sir Harold.”
“I see what you mean.” She frowned in turn. “Sir Harold had no interest in antiquities. Lady Iverson claims he was summoned to London to collect an unexpected inheritance.” She shook her head. “He must have been very gullible.”
“Or desperate. We know his finances were strained. Why else would he seek to buy a sugar plantation?”
“But why would he go to London in person instead of asking his solicitor to deal with it? He ought to at least have questioned why a man he didn’t know had left him a fortune.”
“He was the head of the family, and the deceased was supposedly a cousin.”
She snorted.
“Very well. He was gullible. But if you received such a notice, would you question its authority – assuming you knew nothing of Sarsos?” he added as she opened her mouth to protest.
“Perhaps not. Ignorance leaves people woefully unsuspicious, so we should pity him.” She handed the letter back.
Alex skimmed it a second time. “Lady Iverson is looking for the original letter so Sir Michael can pursue the inheritance. I’m amazed she said nothing earlier.”
“I’m not. Sudden death drives mundane details into hiding. And since Sir Harold seemed to be returning home when he drowned, she would not realize the business was unfinished. Few ladies consider the fine details of finance.”
He rested a comforting hand on her shoulder. “You managed far better than most ladies. Better even than many gentlemen.”
“I doubt it.” She shivered.
“Believe it, Eden. You are intelligent, capable, and level-headed in a crisis.”
“Only because I have no choice. Megrims and hysterics never solve problems.”
“Perhaps not, but many find them easier than girding their loins and heading into battle for themselves. I admire your ability to do so, even when I cringe at the danger you court.” He squeezed her shoulder, letting one finger caress her neck, then released her to again skim the letter. “Sir Michael is hoping to recover the funds since none of his accounts contain such a sum. He hopes the cousin’s solicitor set up a separate account.”
“You must tell him it was a ruse.” She walked to the window. “Write to him today.”
“Not until we apprehend X. We can’t risk him discovering how much we know.”
“I suppose not.” She stared outside. “But it seems cruel…” Another pause. “There’s one aspect of this I don’t understand. X was here, seducing Christine. So how did he intercept Sir Harold? The route from the Isle of Mann to London does not pass Marwood.”
“I suspect Sir Harold was abducted when he landed in Wales, then incarcerated while X came here to seek the staff. Once he had it, he killed Sir Harold, dumped the body at sea, then returned to watch Higgins. After Higgins corroborated the maid’s story, X disposed of him, then blithely headed home.” What a fool he’d been to miss the significance of those rope marks.
“So evil. We have to stop him.”
“We will. I’m reasonably certain that Percy Montagu is X.” He told her about Lady Debenham.
“John was Percy’s cousin?” she exclaimed. “No wonder Richard and his sisters are so high in the instep. Their grandfather was a duke.”
He nodded. “I need to show the picture to Sir Richard to be absolutely sure Percy impersonated Sir Harold.”
“I have no doubt at all,” she said. “Everything fits.”
“Quite likely. But I cannot tolerate another mistake. Since it seems odd that no one of Barclay’s acquaintance has the slightest idea where he is – aside from visiting an unnamed cousin at an unknown location – it occurs to me that Percy might also be the false Oakdale.”
“You mean he paid Peterson twice for the same information?”
“That is one way to make sure his agent doesn’t cheat him or seek the relics for himself. Such distrust might also explain why he’s after you. I can’t believe I let him pull the wool over my eyes,” he growled, voice rising.
“Are you still wallowing in guilt?” she demanded. “I don’t see that your mistakes are particularly onerous.”
“Mistakes cost lives. Mine have already cost four, starting with your father, and the tally may yet rise. If he employed both agents, then Jasper is certainly in danger, as is Emerson once he carries out his commission.” He turned away.
“You’ve already done everything humanly possible to protect Jasper,” she reminded him, then parroted his own words. “You cannot accept the blame for a madman’s acts, Alex. Hold yourself to high standards, certainly, but don’t cling to self-pity because you can’t predict the future. And don’t whimper because your father is foolish enough to hate you,” she added. “That isn’t your fault, either.”
“But it is,” he swore. “Oh, not his latest complaint, which is only perversity. But I gave him every reason to hate me. It was no surprise when he threw me out to starve.”
Chapter Seventeen
Eden stared. “Starve?” Tweed hadn’t mentioned starving.
“Just about.” He grimaced, obviously wishing back his words.
“What happened?” she demanded.
“This isn’t pertinent to the case.”
“But it is, for the memories distract you. Tell me the whole story this time. From the beginning.” She couldn’t stand to see him in pain.
“I can’t remember the beginning. Stratford has always hated me.”
“Why?”
“He didn’t need a third son, especially one who ignores orders and asks impertinent questions. I don’t believe anything without proof.”
“Which is why you are a good investigator—”
“—who follows wrong trails and convicts innocent men.”
; “Never!” She punched his arm, furious at his obstinate self-flagellation. “One mistake made in the flush of youth does not condemn you. Stratford should be proud of you. The quest for truth is exemplary.”
“Not when I asked him why my seventh great-grandfather was given an earldom for saving the king’s life in a battle he did not attend.”
She raised her brows.
“I found his memoirs in the muniments room. It’s not a pretty tale.”
“So why did he receive the earldom?”
“For wedding the king’s pregnant mistress and accepting the child as his own. He’d been the king’s bard until then, a man of minimal birth, who sang entertaining songs but never carried arms in his life.”
“Which means nothing, since the child was royal.”
“The child was a girl, so the earldom descends from the bard. Stratford was furious – I don’t think he’d known before I brought it to his attention. He destroyed the memoirs, then turned off my tutor for letting me run wild.”
She stared. “He blamed your tutor because you’d learned a truth he wished to hide?”
“Of course.”
“That isn’t fair!”
“Life isn’t fair. Surely you know that by now. Punishing others for my transgressions was how he forced obedience. Every time I rebelled, someone else suffered. Tutors never stayed long. Servants likewise moved on quickly. He made sure I knew it was my fault that they couldn’t find new posts.”
She couldn’t believe anyone could be that cruel, but it had to be true. Alex kept his voice light, as if commenting on the latest gossip, but she could hear the pain beneath it, twisting a knife in her heart.
“I left for school with threats ringing in my ears of who would suffer if I was sent down,” he continued.
“Were you?”
“No, but I came close. Stratford’s influence is all that kept me there. He wasn’t pleased that he had to exert it.”