Destined to Last

by Alissa Johnson

  “Because I helped make you rich.”

  “That didn’t hurt. Neither did stepping in front of that bullet for me.”

  Hunter resisted the urge to shift in his seat. “Just a scratch.”

  “Sober up. Get to London.” Whit’s grin returned. “Give William my regards.”

  The ride from Pallton House to London took six hours by horseback. Hunter’s head throbbed as every hoof beat against the road. He’d averaged it out to be roughly three hundred sixty beats per minute, sixty minutes an hour, for six hours. That was roughly one hundred thirty thousand throbs. And he was going to bloody William’s nose for each and every one of them.

  It mattered little to him that William hadn’t been the reason he’d reached for the brandy, nor that it hadn’t been William he’d thought of while he’d spent half the day trying to undo the damage that brandy had done, nor that it hadn’t been William he’d thought of during the vast majority of the long ride. It was William who was going to pay.

  And now that he was perfectly sober, he decided to make Whit pay as well. The man had known of William’s treachery and not said a word until now. What sort of good friend kept secrets such as that? It was possible, of course, that Whit had only recently learned of the deception, but that minor detail wasn’t going to save him.

  Fuming, throbbing, and eager to make William pay for both, Hunter climbed the front steps to William’s town house, lifted a fist to pound on the front door, then paused.

  There were questions he wanted answered and if those answers turned out to correspond with what Whit had told him, he wanted satisfaction. The latter was easily obtained with his fists, but the first would be troublesome to acquire from an unconscious man. Even a man with a broken nose could be difficult to understand.

  He’d give William a chance to explain himself, he decided as he pounded on the front door. Perhaps he’d have a little fun with the man first—let him squirm a bit. Then he’d bloody his nose.

  A maid showed him in and ushered him down the hall to the study where William sat working behind a desk piled with paperwork.

  “Mr. Hunter to see you, sir,” the maid announced before taking her leave.

  “Hunter, my boy.” William barely spared him a glance. “You’re late. And you look like hell.”

  “I was drunk.”

  That got the man’s full attention. “Were you?”

  “Very,” he assured him and took a seat in front of the desk.

  “Any particular reason?”

  “None whatsoever.” He stretched his legs out before him. “Just fancied the idea.”

  “I see, and did this idea occur to you before or after your mission was officially over?”

  “Before,” he lied. “Well before,”

  “I see,” William repeated and narrowed his eyes. “Habit of yours?”

  “I wouldn’t call it a habit, not really. I’m more of a dedicated hobbyist.” He raised his brows. “Problem?”

  William set his pen down, hard. “Have you forgotten your obligation to me? To the War Department?”

  “No. But I have decided to no longer meet it.”

  “You’d risk the hangman?”

  “No,” he said clearly. “Apparently, I wouldn’t.”

  William opened his mouth, closed it, and sat back in his chair with a disgusted grunt. “Damn Whit. I should never have told him.”

  “Damn you!” Hunter snapped, straightening in his chair. “You lied to me.”

  William heaved the sigh of one very much put open. “Yes. Yes, I did. Extensively, in fact.”

  “You planted evidence that marked me as a traitor.”

  “Strictly speaking, it wasn’t planted. Never left my pocket. I just pulled it out—” He broke off at Hunter’s narrow-eyed glare. “Very well, I planted it.”

  “I thought I’d been an unwitting traitor.” That had eaten at him, the notion someone had gotten the better of him, that someone had used him. “I thought I’d hang.” That hadn’t sat well with him either. Nor did the realization that someone had used him sit well now.

  He jabbed his finger at William. “I should call you out.”

  “You’d certainly hang for shooting me.”

  He jabbed his finger again. “I should beat you senseless.”

  “Might want to hold off on that until I explain why. Or don’t you want to know?”

  Hunter snarled but dropped his finger. “Why, then?”

  “Because I wanted you as an agent and, at the time, it was the only way to gain your cooperation.” William gave Hunter a pointed look. “Would you have come to work for the War Department simply because I had asked?”

  “No.”

  William nodded. “I needed you. You are one of very few who can move about in every level of society as if it was his own, because at some point, every one of them was your own. You’ve been, among a multitude of other things, a pauper, a thief, a merchant, and by the time you were brought to my attention, a guest at some of England’s most elite tables.”

  “Is that why you didn’t confiscate my wealth?” Hunter demanded. “Because you knew I’d need it to find any level of acceptance in the ton?”

  “Well, that, and because I do have some sense of fair play. It was never my intention to punish you, merely make use of you.”

  “Do you expect me to express gratitude for that?”

  “For that, no. For giving you the opportunity to prove yourself, yes.”

  “Sanctimonious ass,” Hunter snarled. “Prove myself to whom? You? The Prince Regent?”

  “To yourself,” William informed him. “Admittedly, it wasn’t for your own well-being that I planted the letters, but it worked out to your benefit all the same. Your obligation to me—”

  “There was no bloody obligation.”

  “Your perceived obligation, then,” William corrected. “It gave you time away from your less savory pursuits. It gave you a chance to become the man you believe you’ve only pretended to be.”

  Hunter gave himself a moment to try to decipher that last bit. “What the devil does that mean?”

  “It means you’re a good agent, Hunter. One of the most reliable I’ve ever had.”

  “I haven’t had a choice, have I?”

  “Certainly you have,” William countered dismissively. “You could have left. Nothing stopped you from simply disappearing years ago.”

  “And have your men hunt me down like a fox run to ground?”

  William waved that argument away. “You know how to stay hidden, how to evade.”

  “From the likes of McAlistair?” The man had been an assassin. A highly successful assassin.

  William seemed to think about that, scratching at his nose before his face split in a sudden grin. “I’d have paid good money to see a contest such as that. It would have been epic.”

  It would have resulted in the death of one or both of them. “You’re positively macabre, aren’t you?”

  William shrugged. “It’s the nature of the business. Speaking of which…I’m retiring from it.”

  “I…” Hunter bent his head to pinch the bridge of his nose. Just like that, the man wanted to change the subject. “I’m delighted for you. Or I express my deepest condolences, whichever you prefer. May we return to the matter at hand?”

  “It is the matter at hand. I’m naming you as my successor.”

  His head snapped up. “What? Me? What the devil for?”

  “Because you’re a good man, a trustworthy agent. Didn’t I just mention that?”

  “I…” He held a finger up. “A minute.”

  He needed a damn minute to wrap his throbbing head around the bizarre conversation. William had planted evidence, misled and used him, and was now offering him a position of exceptional prestige and power. There were, he decided, only so many surprises a man could absorb in a short amount of time. William, no doubt, was aware of this.

  “Make no mistake,” Hunter said in a cool tone. “We’re not finished with the
matter of the planted letters. But to address your attempt at changing the subject—Whit, Alex, and McAlistair are fine agents as well.” They were also better men, but he wasn’t about to begin a discussion on that. “Ask one of them.”

  William shook his head. “This isn’t a job for a peer. It requires one be a mite…flexible, shall we say, in one’s morals.”

  “McAlistair’s flexible enough.”

  “He lacks diplomacy.”

  The years McAlistair hadn’t been an assassin, he’d been a hermit. “He does that.”

  “You’ll take the position, then.”

  “No. I…The offer is…” He dragged a hand down his face. He had no idea what the offer was except astonishing, and unacceptable. “No. I can’t do it. I’ll not risk…” He wanted to say he’d not risk leaving Kate by staying with the War Department. But he wasn’t hers to leave, was he? “I’ll not risk it.”

  “Not so much of a risk, to be honest. The vast majority of it is paperwork.” William nudged a stack on his desk, and curled his lip. “Bloody lot of paperwork. But my Mrs. Summers has insisted she’ll not have another husband employed by the War Department. I have promised to retire.”

  “You’re willing to make this sort of sacrifice for her?”

  “It’s not a sacrifice, to be honest. I’ve been planning my retirement for some time. But yes, were it a sacrifice, I would make it, happily, to be with the woman I love.” He tilted his head. “I imagine you know something about how it feels to be in love.”

  “I don’t,” he snapped instinctively.

  William snorted derisively. “You bloody well do. And saying otherwise won’t change the fact. I can see it in your eyes. They’re bloodshot.”

  “I was drunk.”

  “Bah. You’ve fallen in love with our Lady Kate.” William winced sympathetically. “Hurts a bit, doesn’t it? I hadn’t expected that, myself.”

  “Sanctimonious ass and an idiot.”

  William appeared to ignore him in favor of twisting his lips in thought. “It’s worked then.”

  Forget bloodying noses. He was going to strangle the man. “What worked?”

  “Right.” William nodded and heaved his put-upon sigh once again. “I cannot adequately express how tired I am of telling this, but…” He heaved yet another sigh. “Almost twenty years ago, the late Duke of Rockeforte tricked me into a deathbed promise. A promise that I have spent a number of years attempting to fulfill.”

  Again, Hunter wasn’t certain he wanted to know. “The nature of this promise?”

  “That I help the children of his heart find love.” He laughed suddenly. “Your expression is no doubt very near to the one I gave Lord Rockeforte.”

  “That is the single most preposterous deathbed promise I’ve ever heard.”

  “So I thought at the time, and for many years after. Even Lord Bucknam’s request to have his sixteen hounds looked after seemed reasonable in comparison. But now…well, it’s still damned unreasonable,” he admitted. “But Rockeforte wanted happiness for the children he loved, and there’s nothing preposterous about that. Kate, as I am sure you have guessed, was one of these children. And you are her match. You may thank me for that at your leisure.”

  “I could beat you now and get the details later,” Hunter growled. “What did you do?”

  “Nothing too extreme, I assure you. I merely exaggerated the possibility of Kate becoming embroiled in the smuggling operation and assigned you to watch over her. Lord Martin was no threat to her. Boy thought he was bringing in a bit of brandy and a love letter over, that’s all. No idea Miss Willory was using him to smuggle a message containing the whereabouts of a French saboteur. We’ve caught them, by the way, Miss Willory and her contact. I’ll let Martin’s father see to his son.”

  Hunter spoke around a clenched jaw. “Miss Willory nearly killed Kate by sabotaging her tack in a bid to remove Kate from Lord Martin.”

  “Whit mentioned that in his letter.” William dragged a hand down his face. “No wonder, really, that Whit sought his revenge now. In my defense, I hadn’t expected Miss Willory to be involved.”

  “Whit knew of this…of everything?”

  William winced. “Yes, and no. He knew of the matchmaking business. I was less forthcoming with him in regards to the mission. He believed it entirely fabricated.”

  That certainly explained Whit’s reluctance to spend the night on Smuggler’s Beach, his surprise at finding actual smugglers, why he’d allowed Kate to attend the house party to begin with, and why Mr. Laury was given orders to keep his mission secret. Bloody hell.

  “Who else knew?”

  “My Mrs. Summers, Lady Thurston, and the Dowager Lady Thurston, though the last two were less…enthusiastic, shall we say, in my choice of match for Kate.”

  “Sensible women.”

  “Cautious women. They don’t know you as Whit and I do.”

  He wasn’t going to have a discussion on that topic either. He could barely comprehend the one he was having now. “You do realize your entire ridiculous ruse was utterly pointless? I’d been planning to acquire Kate’s hand for some time.”

  “Some time,” William repeated with a roll of his eyes. “Hell, man, you do overthink things. Can’t fathom why you bother, as you always plow straight through the obstacles in your path as if you don’t see them. By the look of you, I’d venture to say that strategy mucked things up a bit this time, didn’t it?”

  “I—”

  “Well, I said you were a good man. Never said you weren’t an arrogant, shortsighted fool.”

  “I can’t very well be both.”

  “Certainly, you can. I’m a sanctimonious ass, aren’t I? I lied to Whit. Lied to you—planted false evidence so I could use your unique position in society for my own ends, and I feel quite justified in having done so. And yet I am a good man.”

  He was, in fact. It stunned Hunter to realize it. William Fletcher was a right bastard—particularly just then, to his mind—and a good man. He was a lying, manipulating, schemer…Who’d spent years fulfilling a promise to a friend, and his whole life in service to his country. Hunter found himself at a loss for words.

  William, bastard that he was, had no difficulty taking the ensuing silence for complete agreement. “Delighted you concur. It’s never a good idea to mistake minor imperfections for gross deficiencies of character.” He reached for his pen with one hand and pointed to the door with the other. “Now, go smooth over whatever mess you’ve made with Kate. I want my obligation to the late duke to be at an end.”

  Still reeling, Hunter tossed his hands up in a combination of disbelief and defeat. “Certain there aren’t any other confessions you care to make before I take my leave?”

  William looked at the ceiling for a moment as if considering. “No. No, nothing comes to mind.”

  “You’re absolutely sure?”

  “Yes, I believe I am quite done.”

  “Splendid.”

  Hunter arrived home feeling bewildered, rather discontent, and exceedingly annoyed with himself for having let William distract him from the aim of administering a bloody nose. Leaving his horse to the care of a groom in the mews, he walked to a side door, scowled at it a moment, then walked round to the front of the house to stand on the sidewalk in the last light of a long summer’s day and take a good look at his home.

  Taking up a significant portion of the block, the house was far and away the largest building in the neighborhood. Which was the very reason he’d bought it. In fact, it was the only reason he’d bought it. He’d wanted the grandest, the most impressive, the most imposing. He’d certainly gotten the last. The house appeared impenetrable, wholly indestructible. Napoleon’s army wouldn’t be able to beat down the massive front doors.

  “I don’t like it,” he announced to absolutely no one. “Don’t like a damn thing about it.”

  He didn’t like the dark color, didn’t care for the top-heavy look of the attic, didn’t understand why there were so many chim
neys sticking out of the roof. Surely he didn’t have that many fireplaces. Why would anyone need that many fireplaces? The house looked like it had the bloody pox.

  “Beggin’ your pardon, sir, but is everything all right?”

  “What?” He blinked, lowered his gaze from the roofline and found a maid waiting at the open front door, a concerned expression on her young face. “Yes. Yes, everything’s fine, Anne.”

  Except that everything felt very wrong, he thought darkly, and climbed the steps to follow Anne inside. He absently handed her his gloves and hat, absently declined refreshments from a waiting footman, and then absently returned the greetings of the staff that arrived in the front hall to welcome him home. He had an inordinate number of staff, he realized after a time. Perhaps it was they who used all the fireplaces.

  Eventually, when the last had come and gone, he stood there in the gigantic front hall of his colossal, pox-ridden home, and wondered what he was supposed to do with himself.

  For the first time in his adult life, he felt utterly devoid of purpose. Which was absolutely ridiculous, he assured himself. He had his fortune to cultivate, investments to tend, businesses to watch over, and Kate to win back with charm, thoughtful presents, and…Bloody hell, he must have been stupendously drunk to have believed that strategy would work. It was the same strategy he’d tried at Pallton House. And what had it gained him? Nothing more than a rejection of his offer of marriage, a magnificent headache, and a nagging ache in his chest.

  He rubbed at the ache now. It had been there while he’d sobered up, while he’d ridden to London and while he’d spoken to William. But now, with nothing to distract him, it was beginning to spread into the tight ball of pain it had been before he’d drank a vast amount of coffee and gone to London.

  Perhaps the key to easing it was simply to distract himself with…with what? His fortune? His investments and businesses? How was that to work when he couldn’t scrounge up even an ounce of enthusiasm for the idea?