by Anne Gracie
“Of course, my lord.” Phipps made a note. “And what of the girls?”
“They should be safe enough in Bath with Aunt Dottie for the moment.”
“I strongly advise you visit them, my lord.”
Cal stood up. “Is that all?”
Phipps’s mouth tightened. “Where will you be residing, my lord, should I need to contact you?”
“I take it Ashendon House is closed.”
“Indeed it is, and has been since your father died—your brother preferred his own house.” He paused diffidently, then added, “He dismissed all your father’s servants.”
Cal’s brows drew together. Some of those servants had served his father for decades. “I assume he pensioned the older ones off, and gave the others character references?” He read the answer on Phipps’s face.
Damn Henry for a selfish louse. To dismiss a servant without “a character” was to condemn them to future unemployment. A poor return for years of loyal service.
Phipps cleared his throat diffidently. “I, er, took the liberty of penning character references for those few who came to see me. As for the others—I gather most of the upper servants found suitable positions quite quickly. Your late father was known among the ton to be an exacting employer, so people assumed—quite rightly—that any servant who’d worked for him and kept a position with him longer than six months would be well trained and reliable.”
Cal nodded. “Make inquiries of the remainder. Any of an age to retire, arrange a suitable pension, depending on their length of service. The others, discover their situation and let me know. I would not have my brother sully my father’s reputation for fair dealing.”
Smiling, Phipps made a note. “Do you intend to reopen Ashendon House, my lord? If you wish, I could make arrangements—”
“No, leave it as it is. I’ll stay at my club—the Apocalypse.” Ashendon House was his father’s London home, and too big and formal for Cal’s taste. A waste to open it and employ a dozen or more servants for the handful of nights Cal intended to stay in London. And he didn’t want to raise expectations.
“Your father was a member of Whites.” A hint, if ever Cal had heard one.
“The Apocalypse suits me well enough.” The Apocalypse Club had been started some years before for officers and former officers who’d been to war. It had a relaxed, slightly raffish ambience that perfectly suited Cal’s mood.
Besides, there might be men who’d served with the Rifle Brigade there who could help him in his quest for information.
* * *
The Apocalypse Club provided just the haven Cal had hoped for. He’d run into a few old acquaintances on the first night and spent a convivial evening catching up on news and gossip before making an early night of it.
The next morning he’d made a hearty English breakfast—a nostalgic pleasure after the continental breakfasts he’d become used to—then set off to Rifle Brigade headquarters to inquire about men who’d been dismissed after the war.
Rifle Brigade sharpshooters had proved so useful in the late war that the Rifles hadn’t been as drastically reduced in size as most of other regiments. Most of them were still in the army, which meant their every move was easily accounted for. It made the list of men he planned to investigate that much shorter.
By the end of the day, Cal had compiled a very useful list of names—men who were reputed to be able to take out a man’s eye from more than two hundred yards away but who were no longer in the army.
It was too long a list, however, for one man to investigate—the men were scattered across southern England. Reluctantly—because he wanted to catch this bastard himself—he took the problem back to Gil Radcliffe.
They divided the list into five geographical regions. Cal took southwestern England, which took in Bath, as well as Cal’s family seat, Ashendon Court in Oxfordshire—he ought to at least check on the place, now that he was responsible for it. And while he was at it, he could call in on Aunt Dottie and the girls.
Radcliffe assigned some of his best men to the other four regions.
With Radcliffe’s facilities at his disposal, Cal was quickly able to cross a number of names off the list. Four men had died by accident or disease. Another two had been killed in drunken brawls.
Three of the men on the list had been transported for poaching. Cal shook his head at that. Teach a man to shoot straight, then punish him for hunting to feed his family. The world didn’t make sense.
That night Radcliffe took him for a meal at his own club, Whites, and Cal ran into more old acquaintances there; a few fellows he knew from the army, and some from his long-distant schooldays. The first of the schoolfellows seemed remarkably pleased to see him, and insisted Cal dine with him the following night.
“No need for formal dress, old fellow, just a casual affair, en famille.”
Cal was a little taken aback at the man’s delight in seeing him. He’d had very little to do with Frampton at school. Still, it wasn’t as if he had any other engagements, so he accepted.
To his surprise within the next hour or two he was invited to several more casual, intimate family dinners from men he barely remembered. Bemused, but seeing no reason why he should refuse, he accepted them all. He supposed it was their way of welcoming a returning soldier, even if the war was well in the past. They had no idea he was still on active service, and he had no intention of telling them.
The next day he continued working through the list of names, starting with the ones in London. He found two more former sharpshooters, one of whom had been a hero of Badajoz but was now a drunk, a skeletal wreck of a man whose hand shook so much he could barely hold the murky bottle he clutched to his chest like a baby.
The other he found, after some trouble, begging in the street. He’d lost three fingers of his right hand and couldn’t get a job. Former soldiers were everywhere, surplus to requirements. His wife and children had left him. They wouldn’t stay with a man who couldn’t feed them.
Cal gave the man a guinea and walked away, disturbed by what he’d found.
England had not done well by her brave soldiers.
* * *
That evening Cal found himself seated closely between Frampton’s two very friendly sisters. They gave him their undivided, enthusiastic, slightly competitive—and slightly unnerving—attention. Frampton and his mother smiled benevolently.
It had been years since Cal had sat down to a simple family meal—though there was nothing simple about this one. The table groaned with extravagant dishes. The sisters Frampton paid the food little attention. They lavished Cal with questions and compliments. Endlessly. His every utterance was treated as a gem of infinite wisdom, or an example of exquisite wit, provoking gales of feminine laughter.
It was very odd. Did all returned officers get this kind of welcome? While the common soldiers starved in the streets?
It was only when the servants placed a veritable feast of mouthwatering cream-filled puddings and jellies on the table, and the young Misses Frampton didn’t so much as lift their avid gazes from Cal, that he finally twigged.
He thought about the other invitations he’d received. Each one of the exceptionally friendly and hospitable fellows he’d met just happened to have unmarried sisters. The hair on his scalp lifted softly.
It wasn’t Major Cal Rutherford they’d invited to dine, it was the new Lord Ashendon—the rich, unmarried, damnably eligible Lord Ashendon.
Cal was well used to the attentions of women, but every one of his flirts and lovers had been women of the world, sophisticated and experienced—and uninterested in anything permanent. They wanted his body, not his name and fortune, and that suited him well.
Innocent-but-eager young ladies on the hunt for a rich and titled husband were a totally new experience. He didn’t have time for this sort of nonsense. He was here to do a job.
The el
der Miss Frampton ran her hand along his thigh. Cal jumped and almost spilled his claret.
The younger Miss Frampton snuggled closer and stroked his arm.
At the end of the dinner when the ladies retired, leaving the gentlemen to their port, Frampton said, “Lovely girls, my sisters. Best sisters in the world. Wouldn’t want them to marry just anyone, y’know.”
Cal nodded and gulped his port. As Frampton continued to wax lyrical about his sisters and their many virtues and fine qualities, Cal made a decision. It was time to investigate the men on the rural part of his list.
The minute the dinner was over, he returned to his club, called for a stiff brandy, and penned a series of apologetic notes, canceling all future engagements, claiming he’d been called away on urgent family business.
He sent a note to Radcliffe and also to Phipps, the lawyer, informing them of his intention to leave for Bath first thing in the morning. One of the men on his list lived near the village of Three Mile Cross, which was on the way, more or less.
The lawyer was efficient, Cal had to give him that, for as he was finishing his breakfast the next morning a servant arrived to inform him his carriage awaited him.
It was a traveling chaise, very smart, with the wheels picked out in yellow and the Ashendon coat of arms emblazoned on the gleaming black side panels. A team of four matched bays fretted and fidgeted impatiently. The driver grinned down at Cal and gave him a sketchy salute.
“Mornin’, Master Cal—m’lord, I should say. Delighted to see you back in England safe and sound.” It was his father’s old coachman.
Cal nodded, trying desperately to recall the man’s name. Hawkins, that was it.
Hawkins’s grin widened as Cal greeted him by name. “Grand day for a run to Bath, m’lord. Horses are mighty fresh—needin’ a good run, they are.”
Cal glanced at the horses. “A fine-looking team.”
Hawkins nodded. “Your brother’s ’orses. Kept an eye on ’em, and when I got the message from your pa’s lawyer, well, I knew where to get ’em.”
Cal frowned. Had Hawkins been kicking his heels all these months since his father’s death?
Hawkins laughed at Cal’s question. “Oh, bless you, no, m’lord. I been driving them London hackney carriages.” He paused and spat. “Rubbish they are. Very happy I was to hear you were home and needing a coachman again.”
“You mean you quit your job to take me to Bath?”
“A’course,” Hawkins said indignantly, as if no other choice were possible. “Served the Rutherford family all me life, I ’ave.”
Cal climbed into the carriage. Hawkins’s rash decision disturbed him. From the little he’d seen so far, jobs in London were in short supply.
The forces of family and societal expectation were closing in around him, but Cal was determined to fight free of them. He wasn’t one to shirk his duty, but he was determined, nevertheless, to live his life the way he chose to.
He liked the adventure and uncertainty—even the danger—of his current life. Elevation to the peerage was the last thing he wanted. But he’d do what he had to—once he’d caught the Scorpion.
He would get that bastard or die trying. He owed it to Bentley.
Cal had met Bentley at school. Several years older than Bentley, Cal hadn’t come across him until he’d turned a corner one day and found a scrawny young boy doing his best to fight off three larger boys. He obviously had no idea how to fight, but that didn’t stop him from trying. His fists were flying, but not connecting, and though he was being thrashed, he wouldn’t give up.
Admiring the lad’s courage, if not his skills, Cal had waded in, sent the bullies packing then turned to inspect the damage. Bentley was a sight—probably the most unprepossessing youngster Cal had ever seen, with a too-big head balanced on a long skinny neck, and ears that stuck out like bat’s wings. Dripping blood, he had a black eye and a swollen nose and was covered in scrapes and bruises, but he was grinning from ear to ear as he thanked Cal profusely for his help. And asked would Cal give him boxing lessons.
That kind of courage had to be rewarded. Cal and his friends had befriended and protected the boy, and they’d remained in sporadic contact ever since.
Beneath the unpromising looks, Bentley turned out to have a brilliant mind. He’d taken a first at Oxford and joined the diplomatic corps. He’d made his mark in the negotiations at the Congress of Vienna, and the last time Cal had seen him, he’d just been given a responsible diplomatic position in Portugal.
Bentley’s widowed mother had also kept in touch. She’d written to Cal when Bentley was first posted abroad and asked Cal to look out for her son. He’d promised he would.
And then the Scorpion had shot Bentley down, right in front of Cal.
Cal still had nightmares sometimes, seeing Bentley’s head explode, seeing the lanky young body crumple like an old rag, his blood spilling out on the pale Portuguese tiles. That fine brain, the dauntless spirit snuffed out like a candle—all the lad’s hopes and dreams and plans for the future, shattered by a bullet.
And Cal’s promise to Mrs. Bentley, broken.
Bentley’s death haunted him. Catching the murdering bastard was Cal’s first priority. After that? Who knew?
He couldn’t imagine living a settled, domestic life in a quiet corner of England, having dull meetings with estate managers, going over account books, talking to tenants about repairs and leaking roofs. And drainage. And sheep.
Or the even duller duty of sitting in Parliament listening to long and dreary speeches. And worse—having to make them.
Cal shuddered.
And then, because he owed it to the title to beget an heir—and the whole blasted world knew it—he would be hunted endlessly by the likes of the Misses Frampton. And their mothers. And brothers.
And finally he would give in, and make a dutiful marriage to some highborn lady. Even then it wouldn’t stop—there would be the obligatory social rounds, the meaningless, endless politenesses. Morning calls. Balls. Soirées. Almack’s. Ratafia.
Conversation over breakfast.
He shuddered again. He was only twenty-eight, dammit. He had years before he needed to provide the estate with an heir. He had neither the time nor the inclination for petty family matters.
The carriage swept smoothly along, the hooves of the horses beating a rhythmic tattoo on the hard, even surface of the toll road—English roads were better than those on the Continent.
Cal watched the scenery slip by. England was so green; he’d forgotten that. Green and peaceful. And dull. He stretched out his legs, leaned back against the padded leather squabs and dozed.
* * *
It was dark as they drove into Bath, the moon hidden behind a thick blanket of cloud. Three Mile Cross had proved to be a wild-goose chase. Cal had found a former sharpshooter, but he wasn’t the Scorpion. This man was employed as gamekeeper on a local estate, and his movements over the last few years were fully accounted for. He hadn’t left the village, let alone the country.
Still, he’d shared some suggestions with Cal and brought him up to date on the whereabouts of some of the men on Cal’s list, so the visit hadn’t been a waste of time. And at just after seven o’clock, Cal was knocking on his aunt’s door.
It was opened by an elderly, white-haired man with a familiar-looking face that Cal couldn’t for a moment place. Then it struck him. “Logan, isn’t it? I didn’t expect to find you here. How are you?”
Logan had been a groom at his father’s estate when Cal was a boy. Unusual to find a groom acting as a butler, but hard physical work would be beyond the man now—he must be sixty-five or more. Aunt Dottie always did have a soft heart.
Logan grinned. “I’m very well, thank you, sir—my condolences on your loss. Losses.” He took Cal’s coat and hat. “We were expecting you, of course, only not quite so soon.” He must have seen th
e surprise on Cal’s face, for he added, “Mr. Phipps sent word you’d be coming, though he didn’t say when. Miss Dottie was that thrilled when she got his letter this evening. You always were her favorite.”
It wasn’t quite the thing for a butler to be so confiding, especially of his employer’s feelings, nor yet to refer to her familiarly as Miss Dottie, but Cal supposed an ancient retainer groom-turned-butler couldn’t be expected to know the finer points of servant-mistress etiquette.
“You’ll find her in the back parlor—that being the warmest room in the house—she does feel the cold these days. It’s second on your right, down the hall, sir—my lord, I should say.” He gave Cal a rueful grin. “Hard to get used to it.”
Cal couldn’t agree with him more. “Lord Ashendon” still sounded to his ears like his father.
When Cal opened the parlor door he felt a sudden pang. Aunt Dottie was as small and plump as ever, but her famed peaches-and-cream complexion was now like softly crumpled silk, and her hair, once a charming, unruly froth of amber curls, was now the purest silvery white.
“Aunt Dottie?”
She jumped up with a small squeak of excitement, sending balls of scarlet wool and knitting flying, and embraced him fervently. ”Dearest boy, let me look at you—so tall you’ve grown—and so handsome! And will you look at those shoulders!” She tilted her head critically, scanning him from head to foot, then gave a small decisive nod. “By far the best looking of all the Rutherford men! I shall be the envy of every lady between the ages of fifteen and a hundred when you escort me to the Pump Room in the morning.”
Cal laughed and bent to collect her scattered needles and wool. “A hundred, Aunt Dottie?”
She settled herself back in the armchair and said earnestly, “Dear boy, some of them are even older than that! You have no idea. I feel like a spring chicken when I go there—such a delightful feeling. But even though some of them are ancient—positively antediluvian, I do assure you—they still ogle any passably good-looking man without the least shred of shame.” She gave him a mischievous smile. “Quite heartening, really.”