The Lost Lord of Black Castle (The Lost Lords Book 1)

by Chasity Bowlin

  Mr. Eaves was small in stature but his posture was outwardly belligerent. Chin up, arms crossed, chest puffed out—the man was obviously angry.

  “Good evening, Mr. Eaves. I apologize for the delay. What news has brought you to Castle Black?” Graham kept his tone even and his expression, if not friendly, at least civil.

  “News of you, my lord. Your miraculous resurrection from a watery grave, that is,” the man answered with a smug smile.

  Graham raised one eyebrow at the man’s tone. “To my knowledge, Mr. Eaves, any talk of a watery grave was simply supposition. Therefore resurrection is an inaccurate accounting of the facts.”

  “Mr. Blakemore sent word you’d arrived, my lord.” The last was offered with a sneer of disbelief. “I’ll be needing some information from you to confirm that you are who you say you are. It could take some time, you understand, checking and rechecking all the facts.”

  “Ask your questions, Mr. Eaves. And mind your tone,” Graham said.

  “You’re not the lord of this castle yet! My employer has not exhausted the means at his disposal to have you barred from this house!” the little man snapped.

  “Because I am Lord Blakemore, I will allow your behavior to stand… for the moment,” Graham uttered in a soft warning. “Speak to me in that manner again, Eaves, and I will show you just how far from my gentlemanly birth I have strayed!”

  The man heeded the warning and his next question was couched in a much more civil manner. “What was the name of the ship that rescued you?”

  Graham sighed. He had no doubt the man was already aware of the information. He wasn’t looking for new information but confirmation of the facts he already had or, better yet, a slip up on his part. “It was the Marion Gale, captained by a man named Jasper Smith… I served as cabin boy on that ship for two years. I worked my way up through the ranks, but the ship foundered off the coast of Freeport after a pirate attack. From there I worked on numerous ships, some with more legitimate cargo than others. During a storm, the mast broke and I was struck on the head by one of the spars. I laid in a bed, senseless for days, at an inn in Freeport run by Captain Smith and tended to by Dr. Warner who is here now. That is when memory of my name returned. Once I had recovered, I began taking whatever positions were open on any ship that would bring me back to England.”

  Mr. Eaves withdrew a small journal from his pocket, made a series of notes. “And is Captain Smith still in Freeport?”

  “He remained in Freeport. He married a local woman, a widow, there and helped her take on the running of the inn that had been her late husband’s.” The facts were recited with little emotion. It felt almost as if he were speaking of someone else’s life. How strange it was that the short time he’d spent at Castle Black seemed more real to him than all the years before it.

  “So you are close to this Captain Smith, then? One might even say he’s a father figure to you?” Mr. Eaves asked, a challenging note in his voice.

  Graham would have laughed at the absurdity of such. Jasper Smith had been a harsh taskmaster, quick to bark orders and quicker still to punish at the slightest hesitation or anything he interpreted as disobedience. He’d also been quick enough to throw a young boy to the wolves to save his own thieving hide. The marks on his back were proof enough of that. “No. He is not. I was at his inn because they had a room and it was all I could afford. There was no sentiment involved in the choice. As to my time on his ship—Smith is now and always has been a bastard. Sadistic and quick with the lash.”

  Eaves didn’t look perturbed or even especially surprised by the description. “I’ll be looking into all of this… if it doesn’t add up, I’ll be letting Mr. Blakemore know! If you’re an imposter, sir, you will be found out and held accountable.”

  “You do that, Mr. Eaves. I have never claimed absolutely to be Lord Blakemore, only professed the belief that I may be. What others choose to believe is at their discretion for the time being.” Graham started to walk away, to let sleeping dogs lie. But some sixth sense prompted him to alter that plan. He turned back to Eaves and added, “What was it you were looking for in the library, Eaves?”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” the man denied instantly.

  Graham laughed. “I trust you as little as you trust me, sir. You’ll be closely monitored every moment you remain under this roof, now and forever more.”

  Eaves’ eyes narrowed and his fists clenched tight around the journal he held. “You’ve taken to the role of lord of the manor quite well, I see.”

  “Some things one never forgets,” Graham answered. “Before a footman shows you out, you will empty your pockets.”

  Eaves bristled at that. “You’ve no right to demand such things!”

  Graham cocked his eyebrow and stared the man down. “I’ve every right. Miss Marlowe saw you pilfering through items on the desk in the library. Either you were taking something that didn’t belong to you or you were searching for information for reasons I cannot fathom. I’ll have the truth out of you one way or another. Pockets. Now.”

  “And if I refuse?” the man demanded. It was clear that he believed having the backing of Edmund Blakemore offered him some protection. He could not have been more wrong.

  A smile spread across Graham’s face, but it was not a warm expression. The events of the last few days had begun to wear on him and the idea of planting his fist in the man’s face held more than a little appeal. He took one menacing step forward and then another, until he towered over Eaves. He stood close enough to smell the brandy the man had no doubt filched. “Refusal isn’t an option, Mr. Eaves. You misunderstand me if you think it was a request and not an order. You empty them or I will empty them for you.”

  The investigator blanched. Whether it had been his tone, his expression or his proximity that highlighted the very different nature of their physiques, Eaves must have felt suitably threatened. He began emptying his pockets, producing little of interest until it came to a folded piece of paper that he tried too hard to make seem insignificant.

  “What is that?”

  “It’s only a letter,” he replied dismissively, his expression of false innocence patently obvious.

  “A letter from whom?” Graham demanded. At the man’s hesitation, he snapped, “Do not test me, Eaves!”

  “It’s a letter I wrote to Mr. Blakemore last winter,” the man admitted reluctantly. “It wasn’t very long after I was employed by her ladyship, at Mr. Blakemore’s discretion, to find the missing heir.”

  It wasn’t simply a letter or he would not have gone to such lengths to lay hands on it again. “Why did you take it?”

  “I didn’t!” he denied hotly. “I’m no thief!”

  “Give it to me.”

  When the man didn’t move to comply, Graham grasped his wrist. As the man flinched and cowed, he snatched the missive from his hand. Unfolding it, the information contained within changed everything.

  “Did you take this from the desk?” Graham snapped.

  “Yes. I was searching his desk for other letters we’d exchanged about all this.”

  “Damn you! Why?” Graham shouted.

  “I wanted more money,” Eaves admitted with a tremor. “I figured if I had proof that he’d known you were out there and that he’d done nothing about it, and in fact tried to stop it, I could get more money out of him. Figured Mr. Blakemore would pay me to be quiet. And I wanted him to know he couldn’t hang me out to dry for it all—that I had proof he was just as guilty as me of keeping secrets from the old woman!”

  Graham shoved the letter into his own pocket and met the man’s gaze with a chilly one of his own. “When you leave this house, you will not return. If you need to see Mr. Blakemore for anything you will do so while he is in London. Get out.”

  As Graham made his way through the kitchens, the housekeeper stopped him. “What shall we do about dinner tonight, my lord?”

  “Serve it,” he answered shortly.

  “We have guests, my lord,” sh
e reminded him and looked at him with expectation, as if he would have some great wisdom to impart.

  Assessing the situation, Graham provided the information he thought she wanted from him. “Mr. Eaves is not staying and Dr. Warner is not a guest. He’s here to treat Lady Agatha. He will be attending her this evening, so a tray sent up for him will suffice. Edmund has gone to London so it would only be Beatrice, Mrs. Blakemore and myself at dinner, and Christopher, if he bothers to show.”

  She nodded. “Yes, my lord. Master Christopher has gone out at any rate. I saw him ride out toward the village just moments ago… he likes to spend time at the inn there. It’s not a very nice place… lots of immoral goings-on there.”

  It had been uttered with disapproval and no doubt with the notion that he would do something about it. It was, at the moment, the very least of his concerns. But rather than offend the woman, Graham nodded. “Thank you for letting me know. Given the small number, prepare trays and have them sent up. We will all dine in our chambers tonight.”

  With his head whirling with what he had learned, Graham went in search of the one person who could help him make sense of it all—Beatrice.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The meeting with the female staff had gone predictably if ineffectually. She had no real authority in the house and everyone knew that. Still, Beatrice had attempted to be firm in regards to maintaining propriety with Dr. Warner and not appearing to be a house in chaos. Her admonitions had been met with blushes and giggles hidden behind hands. They would do what they wanted and there was little she could do about it. And who was she, after all, to take someone else to task for their loose behavior when she was carrying on so herself?

  Entering her chamber, she did not shriek in surprise. Even before her gaze settled on him, she knew that she was not alone. His presence filled the chamber. But as she observed him, it became immediately clear that he was more troubled than he had been before. He looked very much as if the weight of the world were pressing in on him. It was a feeling she recognized well. She closed the door softly and walked toward the man who awaited her.

  “What is it, Graham?”

  “Must it be something other than the desire for your company?” he asked, his lips quirking upward in a half-smirk. The expression was simply a mask, but the truth was revealed in his gaze. He was hurting.

  “You would not risk coming here at this time of day if there was not something afoot. Did you learn something from Mr. Eaves?” she asked. There was something in his expression that had alerted her to the truth. He had discovered something and it was deeply disturbing. “Tell me.”

  “He knew where I was. All along,” Graham admitted. “For the past five years, they knew where I was.”

  “Who did?” she asked, horrified at the notion.

  “Edmund and Mr. Eaves. They had spoken with the captain I sailed under for all those years. Five years ago, while we were in port at Antigua. He relayed the entire tale to them then and gave them my direction, told them which inn I was lodged at while we were there, where we were to sail to next and when we were expected to return… and they never sought me out.”

  Beatrice sank down onto the edge of the bed. That kind of willful cruelty was alien to her. She could not fathom it. “All this time, when Edmund has been badgering Lady Agatha to have you declared dead, he knew that you were not?”

  “Precisely,” he answered.

  “How did you discover this? I have to assume that Mr. Eaves was complicit in all of it!” Her dislike of Mr. Eaves had been immediate, but Edmund had offered the sensible argument that information was often traded in shady places and who better to ferret it out than a slightly shady character. She’d had no cause to gainsay him, but it had not changed her opinion of Mr. Eaves.

  Graham stepped forward, a letter in his outstretched hand.

  August 14th, 1817

  Mr. Blakemore,

  I spoke with a man in the port of Antigua, Captain Jasper Smith, who reported fishing a young lad from the sea in the winter of 1804 off the coast of England. He stated that the boy was badly burned from the sun and wind, nearly dead of thirst, fevered and had been struck on the head. He could recall only his first name which he reported to be Graham. The captain described him and he does meet the description provided of the missing heir at the time of his disappearance.

  It should also be mentioned that this captain, after stumbling across new sheets advertising the boy’s disappearance, around 1807, became interested in the reward offered. He sent word to Sir Godfrey Blakemore who was acting as Lord Blakemore’s agent at that time, to inform him about the boy. He was paid by Sir Godfrey to keep word of it to himself and spare the family the ordeal of an imposter as Sir Godfrey relayed his certainty that the boy was dead. I include this information, which you may already have, in case Sir Godfrey did not keep a record of it.

  The man reputed to be Lord Graham Blakemore is working as a sailor now aboard this captain’s ship. They are to set sail for America in a week’s time, but will be returning to Antigua afterward. I’ll await further instruction from you if you wish for me to pursue this further.

  Eaves

  “How could anyone be so dishonest?” Beatrice asked. “Sir Godfrey knew… and so did Edmund. He listened to your account, when you shared these very details and challenged the truth of them! What could he have been thinking?”

  “That he means to make Christopher a puppet and run this estate himself, bleeding it dry. Or perhaps, he’s more devious still. Perhaps, once I have been declared dead, Christopher will meet a similar fate and the title will go to Sir Godfrey and eventually Edmund will take it for himself,” Graham suggested. “Could Sir Godfrey be the mastermind behind all of this?”

  Beatrice shook her head. “At one point, I would have said yes. Sir Godfrey has always been a supremely selfish man. Even now, he continues to rack up debt after debt and has all the bills sent to Edmund. But for all that Edmund dotes on him and takes care of his every need and whim, Sir Godfrey was not even bothered to attend Edmund’s wedding to Eloise.”

  Graham sighed. It was one obstacle after another in determining who the true culprit was. “Edmund is headed for London even now to petition the House of Lords and, no doubt, to begin the necessary measures to have Lady Agatha committed. If he continues to spend money at the rate indicated by the false entries in the account books, the entire estate will be bled dry within the year.”

  Graham began to pace the length of the room, his long strides eating up the small space. She could feel the anger emanating from him, rolling off him in waves. What Edmund had done to him, to Lady Agatha, to all of them, truly, was unpardonable. As the truth of it began to sink in, other ugly notions crept forward in her mind.

  “To put a fine point on it, that means Edmund was likely responsible for the attempt on my life, as well, and for the shot you took coming home… but you dismissed that, thinking he was incapable. Then, of course, there was Christopher who had clearly been out that night and was armed! And I have to say I do not think you are wrong! Yes, Edmund is devious, and lies and deception are clearly within his repertoire. But you said yourself that he is unlikely to dirty his own hands and that is an assessment that meshes very well with all that I know of him,” Beatrice protested. “But if what we are dealing with is not simply one villain and one agenda, but multiple ones all working toward different aims but with common interests? Namely eliminating all of those who would stand in their way.”

  He settled beside her, the bed dipping beneath his weight. With his elbows resting on his knees and his hands steepled, it was apparent to her that the strain was taking a toll. “I cannot say, Beatrice. I only know that there are many plots afoot here. I cannot accurately assess who is and is not a villain. I did not expect it to be easy to return to this life, assuming that all this is true and it is mine and I am entitled to it, but I did not anticipate this.”

  “We must speak to Crenshaw… I do not want Lady Agatha to know any of this, at least n
ot until she is well enough. But Crenshaw needs to be aware. If Edmund, Christopher or Eloise attempts to see her they should be sent away. Aside from the two of us, no one else should have access to her.” The very idea of it, given the woman’s current weakened state and vulnerability incited panic in Beatrice. “Lady Agatha is the only mother I have ever known.”

  “How old were you when your mother died?” he asked.

  “I cannot say for certain, but no more than two or three I think. I was young enough not to fully understand that it was permanent. I kept waiting for her to return.”

  “And your father?”

  She smiled sadly. “Old enough by then to know it meant forever. I no longer looked for my mother and understood that I would not see either of them again in this life. I was six… I came here—well, my father had been a school chum of Lord Blakemore’s at Eaton. They did not have to take me in, yet they did and were undeniably generous. I couldn’t bear it if something happened to her… or to you.”

  He looked at her then, his eyes locking with hers. “Nothing will happen to her, or to me, or to you. Whatever comes, I will take care of you both… and if they mean to kill me, they’ve had little enough luck with it already. I don’t expect that to change.”

  “Do not jest about such things,” she said sharply. “It isn’t at all amusing.”

  “It is not. Sarcasm is just a way of making a difficult situation seem less daunting… I do not take it lightly—not the attempt on my life, not the attempt on yours, and certainly not the slow and devious poisoning of Lady Agatha. Whoever is ultimately responsible for this, whether it be Edmund or Christopher, will pay dearly for it.”

  “I’m less concerned about making them pay than I am about maintaining your safety. Lady Agatha does not need you to be a hero, Graham. She simply needs for you to be here!”

  He looked at her steadily, his gaze potent and unsettling. “And what do you need from me, Beatrice?”