Most Eagerly Yours

by Allison Chase

  “Very well, but what shall we tell her about why I am intruding uninvited upon her morning?”

  Aidan hesitated. Beatrice would likely see through any lie they concocted. Could he trust her with the truth? He had always found her to be honest and straightforward, and not once had he ever doubted the sincerity of her concerns for her eldest brother.

  “Say nothing about the Home Office or the queen, nor mention Rousseau’s elixir. Tell her only that having detected a discrepancy in the pavilion records, I suspect fraud and have set my solicitor on the trail. We’ll tell her Fitz may be involved with dangerous men, and that I am resolved to help him if I can.”

  “Are you?” Laurel gazed up at him with solemn eyes. “Will you give him a chance to redeem himself?”

  It was a question he couldn’t yet answer.

  Chapter 25

  Despite the early hour, Fitz’s butler hardly blinked at Aidan’s arrival. The main staff, which followed Fitz from residence to residence, had grown accustomed to Aidan’s coming and going freely, and at any time of the day or night.

  Surprised to learn that Fitz was already out of bed and breakfasting in his library, Aidan saw himself up to the second floor. He would have thought Fitz too hungover to stir before noon, but he discovered him hunched in a wing chair placed close to the fireplace. Like Micklebee’s, his hair stood raggedly on end, and though he had donned breeches and boots as if intending a morning ride, he remained coatless and wore neither collar nor cravat.

  Chin in hand, Fitz stared vacantly into the coal- fed flames. A platter of poached eggs and a slab of ham lay untouched on the table beside him. Next to his plate, a crystal decanter reflected the firelight. Apparently, breakfast this morning consisted of brandy, and plenty of it, from the way Fitz’s head lolled in his hand.

  “A bit early for that, isn’t it?” Aidan said as he entered the room.

  Fitz lifted his face from his palm. “Aidan? What’re you d-doing here, old b-boy?”

  Reaching into his waistcoat, Aidan withdrew the documents he and Laurel had discovered last night. He slapped the leather-bound bundle against Fitz’s chest.

  The flap opened, but Fitz caught the papers before they scattered to the floor. The moment stretched, and he raised a red-rimmed gaze weighted by a liquor-induced languor. “So you’ve f-found me out, have you? C-clever of you. How did you ever m-manage it?”

  “How doesn’t matter, you sodding bastard. Whatever possessed you, Fitz? Why would you do such a vile thing to people who are your friends?”

  Fitz’s hand came up in a gesture of supplication, then slapped palm down on the documents resting in his lap. “I s-suppose you’re right. I’ve b-been a wretched shshithouse, n-not including you.”

  “Not including me?” Grabbing handfuls of Fitz’s shirt, Aidan hauled him from the settee, sending the king’s documents fluttering. “You believe I am here for my cut?”

  Fitz merely blinked and frowned and swayed on his feet. He might have fallen if Aidan hadn’t held tight to his sleeves. With a disgusted thrust he returned Fitz to his chair and fisted his hands in the air.

  “Haven’t I taken care of you? Seen to it you won at the gaming tables? Kept you out of scrapes and supplied you with more than ample pocket change?”

  “What are you g-going on about?”

  “Damn it, Fitz.” A current of rage sizzled beneath Aidan’s skin. Again he gripped Fitz by the shoulders and heaved him to his feet, venting his fury in a shove that sent the heavier man stumbling backward until he struck the desk positioned before the window. The mahogany piece shuddered on its legs. Fitz collapsed onto the leather-padded surface, his arms flailing. Ledger books, inkpots, and a silver box of quills clattered to the floor.

  In his oddly inverted position, Fitz gaped up at the ceiling. “Have you l-lost your mind? C-could have k-killed me.”

  The commotion having drained a measure of his anger, Aidan poured more brandy into the snifter and carried it to the desk. He offered his friend a hand to help him up. “Here, drink. It will help.”

  Perched on the edge of the desk, Fitz used both hands to bring the snifter to his lips. When he’d drained half the contents, Aidan took the glass and set it aside.

  “You’re up to your ears in hot water, my friend, and this time I might not be able to supply the lifeline to keep you afloat.”

  Fitz looked thoroughly confused, which might merely have been due to the continuation of his drunken state from last night into this morning. “I d-don’t understand. Rousseau and I have m- merely taken up where our f-fathers left off. It’s exciting, old b-boy, the p-potential in this elixir. W-we will add y-years to people’s lives.”

  Was he serious? Looking him up and down and finding no sign of artifice in his manner, Aidan very nearly believed so. Could Fitz have been duped by Rousseau? Perhaps, but there was too much at stake for carelessness . . . or for misplaced pity.

  “If you and Rousseau meant no harm, why have you denied having anything more than a casual association with the man?”

  “That was R- Rousseau’s idea. He s-said the f- formula should appear n-new, and not s-something dug up from d-decades ago. He said p-people nowadays want m-modern, fresh ideas, especially in the sc-sciences.”

  “The elixir is a fake. A fraud,” Aidan said bluntly, narrowing his eyes to observe Fitz’s reaction.

  He gave an adamant shake of his head. “No, no. We f-followed the recipe exactly, except to m-make improvements. The h-herbs, Aidan. The herbs have m- made all the d-difference.”

  “It was not the herbs, damn it.” Frustration again curled Aidan’s hands into fists. He began pacing back and forth to spend the energy rather than vent his anger on the other man again—at least for now. He couldn’t promise himself he wouldn’t throttle Fitz soundly before he handed him over to the authorities.

  He halted near the hearth, temptingly close to the iron poker. “It’s the absinthe Rousseau has been mixing into his elixir that has people convinced their ailments have been cured. It’s the absinthe that has persuaded them to invest their fortunes.”

  “Absinthe? N-no, that’s im-p-possible. . . .”

  Aidan felt himself losing the battle with his rising temper. “You have been bringing the supplies in through the warehouse you swindled Melinda into purchasing—”

  “No one has s-swindled Lady F- Fairmont. You h-have this all wr-wrong.”

  “Oh? And I suppose you’d have me believe she handed over the land for the Summit Pavilion without the mind-altering persuasion of absinthe.”

  Fitz didn’t so much as blink as he replied, “She donated the p-property before the first b-batch of elixir had even been m-mixed.”

  “Don’t lie to me, Fitz. So help me—”

  “I s-swear it’s true, Aidan.”

  “Why would a levelheaded woman like Melinda do something so foolhardy and pointless?”

  “It isn’t p-pointless. The elixir is w- working. Lady Fairmont was m-much more ill before she began t-taking it.”

  Aidan’s insides ran cold. “What are you saying?”

  “The elixir is k-keeping her alive.”

  “Don’t, my friend.” His steely whisper quivered with fresh rage, this time threatening to erupt beyond his control. “Do not dare use my godmother’s name to lie your way out of this.”

  “She’s d-dying, Aidan.”

  Propelled by a firestorm of indignant fury and stubborn denial, Aidan rushed his friend. A right hook caught Fitz beneath his flaccid chin. Aidan heard the crack and felt the sting in his knuckles. He saw shock and then pain register in Fitz’s bloodshot eyes. The man blinked and toppled, taking the desk lamp with him as he crumpled to the floor. The glass shattered, spilling oil onto the parquet floor and soaking Fitz’s sleeve.

  The ensuing silence filled Aidan with a chilling and undeniable truth.

  She has been poorly several times since the New Year. And once or twice before that, sir. Mrs. Prewitt, Melinda’s housekeeper, had told him this the last
time Melinda fell ill.

  “She’s dying?”

  Blinking away the stupor caused by Aidan’s punch, Fitz slowly sat up. With a groan he cupped a palm to his chin. “A d-disease of the blood, according to D-Dr. Bailey.”

  With his other hand Fitz held the edge of the desk and struggled to his feet, and Aidan realized his friend would not have weathered the blow so well if he hadn’t been deep in his cups. That, and the fact that, at the last minute, something had caused Aidan to restrain the force of the blow.

  “She didn’t w-want you to know, old boy. D-didn’t want anyone to know and gave Bailey s-strictest orders to k-keep it hush-hush.”

  “Good God. Melinda . . .” A sinking helplessness seeped through Aidan. He wanted to shout at the injustice of it, smash things, and destroy the room . . . yet the knowledge that he was powerless to change the situation wrapped around him like shackles and held him immobile.

  “That’s l-like her, though, isn’t it? Plucky old d-duck, Lady Fairmont is. She b-believes the elixir is helping her, and s-so do I.” Fitz actually smiled despite the swelling on his chin. “Th- think of it, old man. A miracle cure. B-bottled longevity. What m- might men achieve with the extra y-years we provide them?”

  “Bloody hell, Fitz . . .” Aidan’s bellowed response shook with the emotion he couldn’t contain. Bone-crushing weariness dragging at his limbs, he circled the desk and sank into the studded leather chair. His head fell into his hands. Swallowing, he continued more quietly, “The elixir is an illusion. So is the Summit Pavilion. The financial records, the initial shareholders, the investment firm—it’s all a sham.”

  When several moments passed and Fitz didn’t speak, Aidan glanced up at him. The change in the man took him aback. Staring openmouthed into thin air, Fitz looked crestfallen, beaten . . . crushed.

  “That c-can’t be . . . ,” he whispered. “The p-pavilion is m-my dream. My l-legacy.”

  His head sagging between his shoulders, Fitz made his way back to the wing chair and fell into it. “All we w-wanted . . . all I wanted . . . was to c-continue my father’s dream. To b-build a legacy for when I am g-gone.”

  His gaze drifted to the flames in the hearth. “D- damn it, Aidan, my f-father let the dream s-slip through his hands. When Victoria’s f-father died, my father gave up. And now he’s d-dead, too. What will he b-be remembered for? An undistinguished reign and a p-passel of illegitimate brats. As for m- me . . . I’ll be n- nothing more than a smudge in the h-history books. Illegible . . . b-bloody inconsequential.”

  Eyes burning, he raised his face. “I am n-nothing, Aidan. Neither r-royal nor common, neither here n-nor there. And I am g-growing old. Old and worn-out and b-broken. And this—” He spread his hand wide, then bunched his fingers in a fist. “This s-seemed a way to redeem a w-wasted life.”

  “You went snatching at shadows,” Aidan said, sympathy and repugnance at war within him. “Shadows have no substance, Fitz, only a darkness that sucks you in and destroys whatever hope there might have been for you.”

  In a staggering flash of understanding, he realized he might have been speaking of himself. For years now the darkness of his parents’ fates had been the driving force of his existence, his work for the Home Office fueled not by altruism but by a kind of twisted, backdoor revenge, both on people like those who had swindled his father and on himself. All these years of putting his own life second, of denying himself a proper home, family . . . love. Had it all truly been in the name of duty, or self-punishment for his failure to recognize a scam and save his father?

  His answer came not in words but in the image of a beautiful face framed in wild golden curls. The image wrapped itself around his heart so tightly that a bolt of panic shot through him. To love so deeply, so painfully, meant risking loss, heartache, despair . . . such as his father had known.

  Apprehending criminals was easy. Was he strong enough for love?

  Fearing the question as he had never feared an adversary, he forced his attention back to the man slumped before him. Crossing the room, Aidan perched on the settee opposite Fitz’s chair. “Did Rousseau murder Roger Babcock?”

  With a slight shrug, Fitz shook his head. “All I know is that Babcock w-wanted to see me the day he died. His message said it was urgent, but we n-never did meet. He was found d-dead that morning.”

  “He must have discovered Rousseau’s deception. Or he knew of it all along and decided he wanted out. Though I don’t quite see Rousseau as a murderer . . .” Aidan considered for a moment, then asked, “When did Rousseau first approach you about resuming the project begun by your fathers?”

  “He d-didn’t. I approached him.”

  Aidan frowned, not at all liking the implications of Fitz’s admission. He would have preferred to fix the blame squarely on Rousseau. “He didn’t put you up to stealing your father’s documents?”

  “I didn’t s-steal them.”

  “Then how did you obtain them?”

  “My sister g-gave them to me.”

  Like a tremor from the ground, the revelation rattled Aidan’s bones. “Which sister? Not Beatrice.”

  “Of course, B-Bea. She d-discovered them when F-Father died. But she is a w-woman. What could she have d-done with them? N-naturally, she gave them to me.”

  “Beatrice . . . and Devonlea. Good Christ!” Aidan surged to his feet. The answer had been staring him in the face, taunting him, all along, but he had allowed his personal feelings to blind him. He had overestimated Beatrice and underestimated Devonlea.

  Even now he hoped, prayed, he was wrong. He clung to the possibility that Beatrice knew nothing about the fraudulent nature of Bryce-Rawlings Unlimited, or of Rousseau’s trickery, or if she did, that she had been coerced by that pompous, patronizing husband of hers. Indeed, that must be the source of their current marital discord.

  But what if Beatrice was involved . . . what if she and Devonlea had only feigned their estrangement in order to deflect suspicion from themselves? Even with the abridged story he and Laurel had agreed upon, Beatrice would know that Aidan had gone to question her brother, and she would easily guess that Fitz would link her to their father’s documents and the Summit Pavilion fraud.

  How might she react?

  He took off at a run, heading for the stairs. “Stay here. Do nothing until you hear from me.”

  “Where are you r-rushing off to?” Fitz called after him.

  From the top of the stairs, Aidan shouted, “Queen Square. I walked Laurel straight into danger.”

  “My dear Mrs. Sanderson, you mustn’t take anything Aidan says seriously. I told you he and my brother would come to blows over you. I simply never imagined Aidan would stoop so low as to invent such ridiculous slander about poor, hapless George.”

  Having dismissed her maid, Lady Devonlea crossed her boudoir, a room designed explicitly to a woman’s taste with its feminine florals and bright striped chintzes. She threw open her wardrobe doors and selected an ivory morning gown, its frilled oversleeves and tiered skirts the very latest rage from London.

  “Your brother is far from hapless, Lady Devonlea,” Laurel replied as she helped the woman on with the dress, tugging it down over corset and crinolines. The viscountess’s hauteur rankled, but then she knew only a fraction of the story and Laurel was not yet at liberty to reveal the rest. “And neither is Aidan inventing tales. In his pursuit of quick wealth, your brother has involved himself with dangerous men and dastardly deeds.”

  Turning her back to Laurel, Lady Devonlea laughed, a cynical burst. If she had been slightly flustered by Laurel’s sudden appearance earlier, she had recovered her aplomb quickly enough. “Lace me up, please. I believe

  I know both men far better than you. For whatever reason, Aidan has you fooled, just as he has fooled countless other women in the past. Perhaps he seeks to hide his own illicit dealings. Perhaps he merely wishes to coax you into his bed.” Peeking over her shoulder, she smiled coyly. “Has he succeeded, my dear?”

  Any fondness L
aurel had ever felt toward the woman evaporated instantly. She gave the coral satin laces a firm, final tug and tied a bow at Lady Devonlea’s nape. “Aidan would never betray my trust.”

  “I see he has seduced you.” She waggled a finger back and forth in her face. “You should have heeded my warnings. Poor thing. Did he manipulate you into believing the seduction was all your idea? That is how he operates. Typically, though, he preys upon married women. That way his affairs are always fleeting, with no threat of commitment. Congratulations. I do believe you are his first widow.”

  A snippet of truth in the woman’s mocking words made Laurel’s heart contract. Aidan hadn’t manipulated her into his bed; she had gone willingly, joyfully. But neither had he offered her any form of commitment. In fact, he had made his intentions perfectly plain. There would be no proposal, no future together.

  He had admitted to wanting her. He cared for her, perhaps deeply, but not deeply enough to change his life. Perhaps he loved her, but not as much as he loved his work.

  In the foyer below, the door knocker clanged. The continuing clamor drove all other considerations from Laurel’s mind. Could Aidan have returned so quickly from his confrontation with the Earl of Munster?

  Over the maid’s protests, a man’s shouts rose up the staircase. “Beatrice? Come down here. I demand to see you this instant.”

  Lady Devonlea released a breath. “How exceedingly tiresome he is.” But her face blanched as she spoke, and a kernel of fear sprouted in her gaze. “Wait here.”

  Laurel lingered long enough for the viscountess’s footsteps to recede down the stairs. Then she hurried out to the landing in time to hear Lord Devonlea say, “You are my wife and you’ll do as I say.”

  Laurel tiptoed down the first few steps and leaned over the rail, straining to hear. She caught a glimpse of the couple. The viscount had wrapped a hand around his wife’s arm and was towing her none too gently down the hall, toward the salon adjoining the dining hall. The maid was nowhere in sight.