Lord Margrave's Secret Desire

by Samantha Grace

  “I won’t let Tommy hurt Miss Sophia and Aunt Beatrice,” Benny said. “They are kind to me.”

  As if sensing Crispin’s desire to leave Benny behind, Mr. Hawke said, “He will only follow if you go without him, and he can be an asset. He knows his brother’s habits and the farm’s layout.”

  Crispin’s resistance began to yield. “Very well, but it will not be an easy ride. How are you in a saddle?”

  “I don’t fall,” Benny said.

  Crispin’s lips twitched with a reluctant smile. He signaled the groom to retrieve the horses he’d arranged for last night before he’d returned home for a few hours of sleep. Mr. Hawke walked outside with him and Benny while the groom led the horses to the mounting blocks.

  The theatre owner passed a pair of saddlebags to Benny. “Godspeed, gentlemen.”

  “Good-bye, Mr. Hawke.” Benny moved to the mounting block and climbed onto the saddle. “Please tell Miss Claudine and Miss Rachel not to fret over me. I will be home soon.”

  “I will, and I would be remiss in my duty if I did not convey their wishes for you to be cautious.” Mr. Hawke waved before departing.

  As Crispin and Benny rode toward the outskirts of town, Crispin slanted a look at his insistent companion. “Who is Miss Rachel?”

  “My friend.” Benny’s round face turned as red as his lips. “She is real pretty and nice.” The bigger man appeared smitten, and an unexplainable hope that the woman returned his affection sprang up in Crispin.

  “She sounds like a lovely friend,” he said.

  “She is. I only had one until I came to London. Now I have a whole lot.” Benny looked him over from head to toe. “I think I like you, too. I promise not to let Tommy hurt you.”

  “You do realize I am capable of disabling a man with a quill, don’t you?”

  Benny’s broad forehead wrinkled. “Did you forget a firearm?” He pulled open his jacket to reveal two holstered flintlock pistols. “You can borrow one of mine.”

  “Thank you.”

  Crispin looked toward the heavens and shook his head, smiling slightly. Sophia’s actress friend had attempted to explain last night that Benny’s pure heart did not understand sarcasm, but Crispin hadn’t believed it until now.

  Patting his side, he pretended to find his own pistol. “I remembered to pack it. No need for that quill after all.”

  The worried wrinkles disappeared from Benny’s face. “That is good. Tommy, Wolfe, and Garrick always have firearms. A quill is a poor weapon against a pistol.”

  “Excellent point. You call your brother Tommy. Why?”

  Benny shrugged. “It is his name. He gets real mad when I forget, but he cannot hear me now, so he won’t yell at me.”

  No doubt, the poor man had suffered Farrin’s wrath a time or two. The Consul leader was not known for his patience or mercy, and he took umbrage at the smallest mistakes.

  “Why did your brother change his name?”

  “I think he doesn’t want anyone to know his real name.”

  Crispin chuckled under his breath. “That makes sense. I thought Farrin was a family name.”

  “It was Tommy’s boxing name. He never let me attend a match, because I had to help at the farm.”

  “I heard he was a pugilist at one time. He was the King’s favorite.”

  And still was, according to the Lord Chamberlain. King George IV, during his reign as Regent, had recruited Farrin to the Consul after watching him fight in a boxing exhibition. He had admired Farrin’s tenacity in the ring and ability to match him drink for drink after the fight. The King’s opinion of Farrin would not easily be swayed. Therefore, Crispin had promised to return with proof to support any accusation he would pose against Farrin. The letters Sophia was working to decipher held the answers he needed. Crispin was certain of it.

  “Tommy came to help on the farm for a while,” Benny said brightly. “I liked working in the field together, but he hated it. He said we would work ourselves into an early grave or starve unless he did something to improve our lot.”

  “Is that the reason he became a boxer?”

  “I don’t know. He always liked fisticuffs. Maybe he wanted to hit someone.”

  The prize money was simply a bonus.

  “He came home real mean like Garrick and Wolfe,” Benny said. “I wished he never came back.”

  “Are you certain you will be able to stand up to him if there is a fight? He is still your brother.” If Benny cowered in Farrin’s presence, Crispin might not be in a position to protect him.

  A crimson blush swept over the bigger man’s face, and his eyes blazed. “He has hurt too many people. I won’t let him harm Miss Sophia or Aunt Beatrice.”

  “I believe you,” Crispin said, and he did. He changed the subject. “You probably know every nook and cranny at the farm. Tell me how the house is laid out.”

  Benny obliged. Once he had recited all the rooms in the farmhouse, Crispin inquired into outbuildings and the surrounding area. He had a good mental map of their destination by the time they left the city and urged their horses into a trot.

  Benny proved to be a decent traveling companion. He was not graceful in the saddle, but he offered no complaints. When they changed horses, he only spoke when asked a question and mounted his fresh horse when given the command. His reticence provided Crispin with ample time to formulate a plan for when they reached the farmhouse.

  Their final stop was at the coaching inn at Harlow. He and Benny ate a small meal, and Crispin questioned the barkeep, his wife, and two older men who were identified as local farmers. He learned that he and Benny were the first strangers to stop in the village for a week, but a lamp had been spotted burning in one of the farmhouse’s windows a couple of days earlier. Otherwise, the farm appeared to be abandoned.

  Before Crispin and Benny left the coaching inn, Crispin offered his companion another chance to bow out. Benny grunted, shoved his hat on his head, and stalked toward the coaching yard.

  “I will take that as a refusal,” Crispin said.

  They rode in the direction of the farmhouse on fresh horses. As they neared the farm half an hour later, Crispin explained the plan.

  “I will approach the house from the southwest. The thick undergrowth will provide cover. You search the outbuildings. Do not come in the house until I tell you it is clear.”

  “What if you yell for help?”

  “I won’t.”

  Benny’s scrunched face said he lacked faith in Crispin’s strategy, but he did not offer further argument. He led them to a neglected apple orchard at the edge of the property where they tied the horses and approached the farm.

  “If you call for me,” Benny said, “I will come to your aid.”

  Crispin didn’t bother with a response.

  Benny ran toward the barn, fast as a streak of lightening, and Crispin headed for the house.

  Just as Benny had described, overgrown juniper bushes partially blocked the windows facing southwest, and the upper story window on this side of the house was boarded up. Crouching on the ground, he crawled toward the house. Anyone inside would be blind to his approach.

  When he reached the stone structure, he stood and pressed his back against the wall. He listened for evidence of someone in the room. He heard nothing. Slowly, he leaned to peek through the window. The drawing room was vacant. No movement was spotted beyond the open doorways leading to a dining room and study.

  Benny had been right about the windows as well. There were no locks. Crispin pushed up the lower sash, and the window opened a sliver before resisting. He retrieved the knife from his boot, found a flat rock for leverage, and pried the bottom sash high enough to get his fingers beneath it. With a bit of muscle, he was able to force the window open and climbed inside.

  A layer of dust coated the heavy, dark wood furnishings and dulled the colors in the woven carpet. Spider webs were thick in the corners and draped the threshold like garland.

  With pistol drawn, he listened at e
ach doorway before proceeding with his search. He found no evidence that anyone was residing at the home. No embers smoldered in the hearths. No muddy footprints at the backdoor. Nevertheless, the hair stood up at the back of his neck. His instincts insisted someone was in the house.

  After insuring the ground floor was clear, he eased up the staircase, taking care with his footing to minimize creaking on the treads. Each bedchamber he encountered along the dark corridor was empty. As he neared the end of the passage, a cough came from the last bedchamber. His heart slammed into his throat, and he froze, straining to hear movement in the room. A low groan carried on the air. On silent feet, he traveled the last few steps to the chamber.

  The pungent stench of infection wafted into the corridor. A quick survey of the room revealed a large lump in the bed—a man with covers pulled over his head. He was alone and shivering hard enough to shake the bed.

  “Garrick?” he called.

  An answering moan came from beneath the quilt.

  Crispin cocked the hammer on the pistol and aimed it at his adversary. “Show me your hands, slowly.”

  The blackguard didn’t move. Crispin barked the order.

  “I am unarmed,” Garrick mumbled. “I need... a... doctor.”

  “Show me your hands, and we will talk.”

  Garrick slid the covers from his head, weakly pushing the quilt down to his waist. The back of his hair was matted and damp, and a dark stain had ruined his shirt.

  Crispin rushed the bed, prepared to disarm the villain, but Garrick told the truth. He was without a weapon. His arms were splayed limply on the bed, and his face was pale and slick with sweat. Red splotches on his neck were the most telling sign. Crispin had seen it before. Garrick had blood poisoning from the wound he had sustained when he made an attempt on Sophia’s life.

  “Lord Margrave?” Someone was calling his name from the ground floor. “Are you still in the house, Lord Margrave?”

  It was Benny.

  “Above stairs,” he shouted. When the big man lumbered up the stairs and appeared in the threshold, Crispin frowned. “I told you to stay outside until I gave permission.”

  “You found Garrick.” Benny entered the room. “There is only one horse in the stable, and she hasn’t been cared for in a while. I gave her some oats. I knew whoever was here was alone. Why is he in bed?”

  “He is dying.” Crispin saw no reason to soften the blow. Garrick had to know his condition was dire. “Ride into Harlow and retrieve the doctor. Tell him to bring laudanum.”

  “Yes, milord.”

  While Benny set off on the errand, Crispin made a trip to the well for water. When he returned with the bucket, he helped his adversary take a drink from the dipper. Garrick gulped the water then glowered at him before collapsing on the pillow.

  If their positions were reversed, Crispin wouldn’t receive the same treatment, but the ability to show mercy set him apart from monsters like Garrick. Without it, Crispin’s conscience would become too heavy to bear.

  He pulled a chair close to the bed. Garrick drifted in and out of sleep, as well as reality. Sometimes his answers to Crispin’s questions were clear, but more often his words were slurred and made no sense. He refused to speak of Farrin and Wolfe. Soon, he fell into a deep sleep, and Crispin couldn’t rouse him.

  He gave up. Perhaps the house held clues to where Farrin and Wolfe had gone. Crispin stood with the intention of searching the house. Garrick jerked awake with a loud snort. He blinked; his clammy forehead wrinkled as if he didn’t know where he was. When his gaze landed on Crispin, signs of awareness filtered across his face. He sneered.

  “Yer too late, Margrave. Everyone you love will die while you play nursemaid.”

  Dread seeped into Crispin’s gut, acidic and icy. “Tell me where they have gone. Do they know Sophia’s location?”

  Garrick stared toward the ceiling with glassy eyes, lips parted.

  “Garrick!” Crispin grabbed the front of his shirt and shook him, but he had lost his ability to focus. “Answer me. Where are Farrin and Wolfe?”

  The blackguard slipped under and did not wake again.

  Benny arrived with the doctor a short while later. Crispin handed the doctor a purse full of coin. “See that he does not suffer and bury him in a pauper’s grave.”

  He stalked from the room, heading for the stairs. Benny was on his heels. He kept stride with Crispin as they exited the house. When he broke into a run, Benny followed.

  “Where are we going, milord?”

  Crispin didn’t answer. He ran faster, pushing himself until his lungs burned. When they reached the orchard, he forced himself to walk and lock away his fear. The horses would spook if they sensed his state of mind. He gathered the reins and mounted the gray mare.

  “I believe Farrin and Wolfe have gone after Sophia and Beatrice,” he said, still breathing hard. “It is another hard ride to Finchingfield, but I must reach them tonight.” He tapped the horse’s sides.

  “I am coming with you.” Benny swung into the saddle and urged his horse to follow.

  Twenty-seven

  As Sophia had poured over Shakespeare’s Sonnets and Lord Geoffrey’s letters earlier that morning, she had come to realize Crispin and the Duke of Stanhurst had underestimated the man. The cipher was more complicated than it appeared. In some instances, the first number coincided with the sonnet number—not the page like most book ciphers. Other times, it did refer to the page.

  Once she made that discovery, she spent another couple of hours detecting a pattern. The first number in the first three groupings referred to sonnets, the fourth indicated the page, and the fifth reverted to the sonnet again. The repeating pattern of 3 sonnets, 1 page, 1 sonnet, 3 pages, 2 sonnets, 2 pages carried through all of the letters. Other times, the numbers seemed to correspond to the letters of the alphabet. It was an arduous task, but she was finally making progress. Unfortunately, the contents so far did not reflect favorably on the Duke of Stanhurst’s kin, but she didn’t wish to alarm him by speaking prematurely.

  Thoughts of Stanhurst seemed to summon him. He strolled into the study where she was working at the large desk. “Your aunt is a delightful woman, Sophia. Her unpredictable conversation kept me entertained on our turn about the pond.”

  Sophia abandoned her task briefly. “I hope she did not say anything too shocking. She tends to speak her mind.”

  “It is a refreshing quality.”

  The duke perched on the edge of the desk. His cheeks were pink from exercise, and the apprehension that had seemed to weigh heavily on him, slumping his shoulders, was absent—at least temporarily. She expected his burden would become thrice as heavy soon.

  “What progress have you made?” he asked.

  “Only a little,” she lied. Until she finished deciphering Lord Geoffrey’s correspondence and was certain no mention of Stanhurst’s father was contained in the letters, she didn’t want to reveal too much. “I learned the identity of the letter writer. His name is Ulysses J. Roth. Lord Geoffrey encountered him in Geneva on his Grand Tour.”

  “It is a name not easily forgotten. Roth was Geoffrey’s old classmate. I am surprised they corresponded after the chance meeting. I do not recall them being chums at school.”

  “Perhaps they found they shared more in common than they had previously realized,” Sophia said.

  The corners of Stanhurst’s mouth curved down. “I heard rumors Roth made a fortune during the war smuggling goods into the British Isles and France. The magistrate suspected smugglers were responsible for Geoffrey’s death. What if my brother was murdered because he reported on Roth? He could have been on the docks to gather evidence.”

  The duke seemed more hopeful than he had been since his arrival. Sophia hated to shatter that hope, but Lord Geoffrey’s reason for being at the docks had been far from noble.

  “Perhaps,” she hedged.

  Someone banged the knocker at the front door. Stanhurst tensed. “Stay out of sight. I will find out
who is calling.”

  Curiosity pulled Sophia away from her task, and she moved toward the threshold to peek around the doorjamb. The duke blocked her view, but when he stepped aside, she spotted the housekeeper greeting a middle-aged woman. Two young ladies—adorned in their Sunday best, pretty bonnets, and shy smiles—flanked her.

  “I have come to look in on Mr. Ness.” The older woman smiled sweetly and lifted a basket she had brought with her. “It is an assortment of sweet breads.”

  Sophia suspected the trio was composed of mother and daughters. All three shared the same shade of auburn hair and high round cheeks that loaned them an air of robust health.

  “The Nesses are indisposed, Mrs. Evans,” the housekeeper said. “Shall I deliver the basket in your stead?”

  When Mrs. Poindexter reached for the handle, the woman jerked the basket close to her chest and a glimmer of hostility flashed in her eyes. “Do not be ridiculous. Mr. Ness is in no condition to consume sweets. Would you have him choke to death?”

  “No ma’am, but Mrs. Ness—”

  “Oh, hush,” Mrs. Evans snapped. “You know we have come to see Lieutenant Locke. Sweet breads are his favorite.”

  She barged into the house; the housekeeper quickly shuffled backward before her toes were trampled. The woman’s eyes flared when she noticed the duke standing to the side of the foyer. Her hostility vanished and was replaced by the sweet smile she had initially aimed at the housekeeper.

  “Oh, my! Forgive the intrusion. It must have slipped my mind that the Nesses were entertaining guests.”

  Stanhurst came forward to greet the ladies, supplying a false identity and stripping away his title. The woman’s pleasure dimmed at hearing he was a mister, and a poor relation at that. She reluctantly introduced her daughters and barely suppressed a snarl when he lifted their hands to kiss the air above their knuckles.

  Anne and Jane were less displeased by his attentions and grinned widely at him, showing too much teeth. The Duke of Stanhurst was a handsome man, and the girls were too young to realize they were not free to love whomever they chose—at least not if their mother had a say.