by Isobel Carr
He slipped out from under Beau and tucked her in, twitching the bed curtains closed behind him. The best thing he could do for her at the moment was let her sleep. From beside the fire, the giant Newfoundland silently wagged its tail. Gareth crouched down and rubbed its head. Gulliver had earned his place, and he’d seemingly decided to transfer his trust of Jamie to the rest of them.
Dover was the most immediate concern. If he could get there before the next packet left, he could at least rule out a flight to France. If they’d fled to London, there was no catching them now anyway and finding them would be next to impossible.
Gareth left the dog to guard his wife and went to order Monty saddled. He dashed off a quick note for Beau and instructed Peebles to give it to her should she wake while he was gone. He claimed the reins from a groom, checked the girth out of habit, and swung into the saddle.
It was getting dark already. He was in for one hell of a dismal ride. Gareth loosened the reins and gave Monty his head. The gelding lengthened his stride, breaking into a flat-out run.
He reached Dover well after dark. Monty was slick with sweat and breathing like a bellows. Gareth reined him in, and the gelding dropped into a walk.
By the time they reached the docks, the horse had cooled. Gareth handed him over to an ostler at the largest inn and went inside to question the innkeeper. The man shook his head. No one-eyed man, and no one with a small boy in tow. The results were the same at every other inn.
All the same, Gareth waited at the quay and watched as the passengers piled aboard the morning packet. No sign of Granby, Nowlin, or Jamie.
Bloody-holy-fucking-hell.
Dover had been his best hope. They could be anywhere. Traveling to anywhere. They could have run for London, the largest city in the world. A city rife with almost impenetrable slums. Or they could be bound for Nowlin’s own country. Ireland might as well be the moon. He’d have no chance at all of tracing them there. Or they could simply disappear into the English countryside.
A sick feeling roiled through him. He couldn’t turn to his family. Souttar had seen to that. Gareth’s mouth was suddenly dry. He was trapped in a web of half-truths and necessary lies.
The precariousness of his exile hit him like a physical blow. It had burned like salt in a wound, but he’d convinced himself that it wasn’t as serious as it seemed. That there was time to fix it. But there wasn’t. He needed The League, and he needed them now, which meant he needed to somehow get Beau’s brother to not just forgive him but to stand with him.
When he finally arrived back at the Hall, it was well past noon, Monty being unable to sustain a second mad dash across the countryside. The house was utterly quiet. He handed his hat and coat to Peebles.
“Lady Boudicea?”
“Still abed, sir.”
Gareth took the stairs two at a time. He found his wife’s maid darning stockings in his room. She took one look at him, scooped up her work basket, and whisked herself out the door. Smart girl. Beau was unlikely to take the news of his failure well.
He pulled the bed curtains aside just enough to peer inside. There was nothing but a lump under the coverlet to tell him Beau was there. The dog was curled up protectively beside her, its giant head resting on top her.
“They weren’t at Dover,” Beau said, not bothering to emerge. The flat conviction of her statement was like a slap.
“No, they weren’t at Dover.”
Beau didn’t respond. She didn’t rail at him or demand what he intended to do next. She didn’t declare that she, herself, was going to find them. If anything, she disappeared further into the mattress.
Gareth felt a stab of concern. He’d been expecting to return to the warrior queen, to hell and brimstone and demands for action. Something was very, very wrong, and he hadn’t the slightest idea how to go about fixing it.
“Beau?”
“It’s my fault. My fault. Mine. All of it. All of this. My fault. Leo warned me.”
Gareth put a knee on the bed and attempted to roll her over. She shrugged him off.
“Don’t touch me!”
The dog whined, looking at him anxiously.
“Beau.” Gareth knew he sounded exasperated, but he couldn’t help it. She was being ridiculous. This was no one’s fault. Least of all hers.
She flipped over, pushing the covers back as she did so, and glared at him. “I should never have married you.”
Gareth slipped into bed beside her, displacing the dog, which got down with a grumpy sigh and went to flop beside the hearth. It was well after midnight, and this was the first she’d seen of him since she’d made her cutting pronouncement. She hadn’t gone after him because she’d meant it. She should never have married him. Should never have used him to solve her own problem. But she had, and this was the result. Three lives ruined, and no going back. No fixing things.
She didn’t think that she could bear it. She’d wanted to make him happy, wanted to be happy. But happiness seemed an impossibility under the circumstances. A hollow bubble of panic and worry was slowly expanding inside her chest, choking off reason and logic.
He locked her to him, chest to back, arm clamped across her waist as though she might float away. “I don’t know what’s going on in that head of yours, brat. It’s not your fault Jamie’s gone. It’s Granby’s. I’ll get Jamie back. Promise.”
Beau grasped his hand with both of hers and held on tightly. She wanted to believe him. “You were right,” she said quietly. “I should have left Jamie alone. He’d be safe and sound in the nursery if I had.”
“That’s neither here nor there.” Gareth smoothed her hair back from her shoulder and rested his cheek along hers, the faint burr of stubble reminding her what a very long day they’d both had.
“It’s me Granby wants, not Jamie.” Everything that had happened was her fault. There was no other way of looking at it. It all came down to her.
“Which is why you’re not to leave the house. You’re going to stay here, with an army of servants guarding you, while I go to London for help.”
“I can’t stay here and do nothing, Gareth.” She’d go mad locked inside the house with nothing to do but fret and wonder what was happening.
“Against your nature to do so, I know. But I’m asking you to all the same. Please, Beau? I can’t do what needs to be done if I’m worried that something might happen to you.”
Beau pushed his arm away and climbed out of bed. She paced across the room, wincing as her feet touched the icy floor. Why wouldn’t he listen? Her fault. Her responsibility. She couldn’t sit idly home like a princess in a tower. She’d done enough of that already.
Gareth threw off the bedclothes with a huff and came after her. Beau dropped down into a chair before he could manhandle her back into bed. It would be so easy for him to make her forget everything, at least for a short while. But she didn’t want to forget. She’d done enough of that already.
“Do you even want your son back?” Beau said, horrified by the accusatory tone of her own voice. The question had been lurking in the back of her mind all day, and it had slipped out of its own volition.
Gareth’s expression hardened, but he didn’t answer her, and she couldn’t be sure if he was repulsed by her asking, or if it was self-loathing, because she’d come too close to the truth. He just spun on his heel and stalked into his dressing room.
The clink of glass was followed by the distinctive sound of splashing liquid. The squeak of a door was next, and then the sound of his valet’s sleepy voice. Gareth’s reply was impossible to make out, but the rustle of a man getting dressed was unmistakable.
Beau tucked her freezing feet up under her and worried her thumbnail with her teeth. She’d gone too far. True or not, she should never have said it. Gareth deserved better from her.
Gulliver put his head in her lap, and she smoothed her hand over the tangled fur. Beau yawned and let her head rest on the winged back of the chair. Gareth might not have embraced the addition of Jamie to
the household, but he’d done his duty by him. Accusing him of being glad the boy was gone was unjust. Unjust, and unkind.
She woke stiff and shivering in the wee hours of the morning. The predawn glow illuminated the windows, casting hazy shadows across the room. Beau glanced at the bed, but there was no sign of Gareth. She grabbed her wrapper and slippers and went in search of him. She owed him an apology.
Like as not, he’d got drunk as David’s sow and was sleeping it off in his study. She hurried downstairs, but when she got to his study, there was no sign of him. He’d not been in the drawing room or Great Hall either, both of which she’d had to pass through.
She ran back upstairs to check the warren of bedchambers. He was not in her room, nor any of the spare bedchambers. Taking a deep breath, she forced herself to check the nursery. Quiet, dark, and stone cold.
Furious and worried, she was headed to the barn when Peebles, nightcap askew on his bald pate, musket in hand, stumbled into her path. He lowered the gun with an expression of horror.
“My lady? I thought we were under attack.”
“No. I was just looking for Mr. Sandison.”
Peebles’s brow furrowed. “The master left for London several hours ago.”
CHAPTER 39
He was going to lose her. Gareth circled the block for the third time, worry over Beau clouding his mind, making it impossible to formulate a proper argument to put to her brother. The wind picked up, and he turned up the collar of his coat.
If he didn’t find Jamie, Beau would never forgive him. She’d withdraw even further, cut him out, perhaps even leave him outright. They could never go back to how things had been before.
And Jamie, poor unwanted boy, deserved better from everyone. He certainly deserved better from the uncle who had conspired to deny him his rightful place in the world. If he wasn’t to be the future Earl of Roxwell, at least he could be the cosseted son of Gareth’s household. Beau hadn’t been the one to deny Jamie that—he had.
His circuit brought him back around to Lord Leonidas’s house. Still unsure of what he was going to say, Gareth grasped the knocker and employed it several times. The door opened, and the butler’s expression slid from impersonal disinterest to unmistakable hostility in an instant. It was a subtle shift. A hardening of the eyes. A downward pinching of the nostrils.
Gareth held out his card. “I need to speak with Lord Leonidas.”
The butler took the card and shut the door in his face. Clearly Vaughn had made no secret of his feelings about Gareth and his sister’s marriage. To be left kicking his heels on the steps was beyond insult, especially from a household that he’d treated nearly as his own not so long ago.
A long quarter of an hour later, the door opened again. “His lordship is not at home,” the butler said, before shutting the door upon him a second time.
Gareth knocked again. Hard. The door opened, and the butler stared at him as though he were a sewer rat. “When Lord Leonidas returns, please tell him I’m at The Red Lion, and that what I have to say concerns Lady Boudicea’s safety.”
Gareth didn’t wait for the door to shut on him a third time. He spun on his heel and marched off. If he was lucky, he’d be able to find Roland Devere or Anthony Thane and run the situation by them. Someone had to listen to him. He couldn’t take no for an answer.
The League might think him a villain, but their concern for Beau could only help his cause today. They might not want to help him, but they would help for Beau’s sake.
When he entered The Red Lion, all conversation stopped. Most of the faces were familiar, but none belonged to his particular set. Damnation. He’d been hoping to find someone to help him tackle Vaughn, though at this time of year, it was impossible to predict who would have returned to town already.
One of the younger members stood up from his card game. “This is a private club, sir,” the boy said. “I’ll ask you to leave.”
Gareth finished shrugging out of his greatcoat and hung it on one of the hooks beside the door. “A private club in a public house,” he said, stuffing his hat down on the hook as well. “And I’ve an appointment with a member.”
“We all know what you did.” The boy dropped his cards on the table. “You’re not welcome here. Not anymore.”
“Leave him be, Kettleston,” Devere said from a dark corner at the rear of the pub. “If Mr. Sandison is to be evicted, there are others who’d claim the right before you.”
“Yes, sir.” The boy glared one last time and reclaimed his seat and his cards.
Gareth wove his way through the staring crowd to join Devere. The most jovial member of his set watched him without so much as a hint of a smile. Not exactly the welcome that he’d hoped for. He’d expected it from the others, but not from Devere.
“In your black books too now, am I?” Gareth said, taking the seat across from him.
“Vaughn’s likely to horsewhip you in the street,” Devere said. “And I’m inclined to let him. No, not just let him.” Devere flicked his gaze over him as though picturing it. “I’m inclined to hold you down while he does it.”
What the devil? Devere hadn’t been nearly this severe the last time he’d seen him. He’d been the person Gareth had thought most likely to stand with him today, in fact. He’d been counting on his help.
“Did you honestly believe nothing has consequences?” Devere said, clearly warming to his subject. “That no one would find out?”
“What are you—”
“It’s all over town that you’ve foisted your bastard on Lady Boudicea. The meaner spirited among the ton are even claiming the reverse. That it’s Beau’s bastard you’re housing. How could you have let this happen? What the hell were you thinking? A runaway marriage wasn’t enough to contend with?”
Gareth ground his teeth. Explanations were risky, if not impossible. Every detail could lead to a fatal slip. “It wasn’t my idea, believe me. Souttar brought the child, and Beau walked in on us. The decision to keep the boy was hers. And you know Beau. There’s no stopping her when she has the bit between her teeth.”
“Why would Souttar do such a thing? Couldn’t he have taken care of matters? He must have known bringing the babe to you would be disastrous.”
“You know what Souttar is,” Gareth said with a shrug, striving to keep his answer simple. “He’d been inconvenienced as it was, taking care of the matter himself to spare me would be entirely beyond him. And pointless. I exist to serve him, not the other way round.”
“You’re still alive only to serve my sister,” Vaughn said from behind him. “And for no other reason. Souttar be damned.”
“Agreed.” Gareth met his oldest friend’s gaze and saw nothing there to engender hope. “But at the moment, I need your help to do so. Yours and The League’s.”
Vaughn frowned but didn’t reply. He slid into the seat beside Devere. He hadn’t bothered to take off his greatcoat, but he did pull off his gloves and stuff them into one of its pockets.
“Help you? With what?” Devere looked leery, as though he were being offered a meat pie of questionable origin.
“To keep Beau safe, for one,” Gareth replied.
A derisive snort from Beau’s brother was all the reply that he got. Devere shot Vaughn a disbelieving look and shook his head.
“What does Beau need protecting from?” Devere said.
“Besides you,” Vaughn added.
Gareth ignored the jibe. “Granby. She needs protecting from George Granby. Because her family didn’t take care of the bastard the last time round.”
Vaughn shot to his feet, and Devere yanked him back down by his coat. He landed hard enough that the chair squealed in protest. Vaughn shoved Devere’s hand off of him.
“What is he talking about, Vaughn?” Devere said, pitching his voice low. “Who the hell is George Granby?”
“The only person Beau needs protecting from is Sandison here. Granby is no one. A ghost.”
“A ghost who pitched your sister off a cliff
and nearly drowned her not two days ago.”
Beau’s brother flinched, and Gareth pressed his advantage. “I know you don’t believe me, but I really wasn’t the one who abducted Beau. It was some creature of Granby’s. Beau saw them together when Granby attacked her.”
“Was it really?” Vaughn said, his voice shaking with anger. “What do you want, Sandison? I’ve no time—and no inclination—for your tales.”
“From you? I want you to fetch Beau home. Do whatever it takes to convince her. Hate me, disbelieve me, distrust me, just keep her safe.”
“Gladly,” Vaughn said, rising and pulling on his gloves. “But don’t expect me to return her.”
“That will be up to her,” Gareth said. “Won’t it?”
“Not if my family has anything to say about it. And the duke can be very persuasive when he wants to be.”
Gareth nodded. If a full estrangement was what was necessary to keep Beau safe, so be it. There were no grounds for a divorce, and he could worry about winning her back once Granby had been dealt with. Assuming he could get near her.
“What did you need The League’s help with?” Vaughn asked as he turned to go. “Or were you implying that my family isn’t capable of keeping Beau safe without their assistance?”
Gareth shook his head. “It needn’t concern you. Just keep your sister safe.”
“Done.” Lord Leonidas looked down his nose at him, and Gareth swallowed down the sudden urge to simply pound the stiffness out of him. Somewhere behind that icy façade was the man whom he’d known and called a friend for more than twenty years.
With one last disdainful look, Vaughn turned and left.
Devere let his breath out in a dramatic gust. “And what do you need the rest of us for?”
“Tracking down Granby and getting Jamie—the boy, my neph-son,” he added at Devere’s blank look, “back from him.”