Michael tilted his chair upright again and began scribbling on his notes some more. “Perceval didn’t care much for his younger brother, but he refused to believe him capable of treason. He did grant that his brother might be involved in lining his pockets since their father had essentially cut him off from Anglesey.
“Dismouth and Perceval’s brother worked together in the war ministry. Before you leap to any conclusions...” Michael held up his hand to keep Gavin from jumping to his feet. “There is no hint of Neville’s involvement in his father’s affairs. He was too young.”
“But he would do anything to protect his father’s name,” Gavin growled, leaping to his feet anyway.
“His father left him nothing, not even family papers. Neville didn’t even know who Dillian was until recently. Accuse him of attempting to murder Blanche, if you like, but not Dillian.”
Gavin growled and returned to stalking up and down the library. “Dismouth, for certain. But why did he wait this long? The journals have been around for years. Why did he wait until now to go after them and Dillian?”
Reardon stirred uneasily. “I returned to England about six months ago and started looking for Dillian. I’d ordered Whitnell’s personal effects sent home after his death, and I thought to ensure she had received them. I asked at the last place I knew she stayed, and they couldn’t tell me, so I started asking some of the others who knew her. Dismouth might have got wind of it and started putting two and two together.”
Even Michael frowned at the implausibility of this. “He wouldn’t know the journals contained anything of interest. If he had, he would have traced them years ago.”
“Winfrey!” Gavin shouted from the far end of the room. “Where did Winfrey go after he left me?”
“He’s taken offices near King’s Court. He went there,” Reardon answered with a puzzled frown. “What does a useless old man have to do with anything?”
Gavin stalked back down the length of the library and slammed his fist against the table. “He had the journals and probably the files, too. Blanche said she’d given him the books and left the papers in the vault. What do you want to wager those papers are the incriminating invoices?
“Neville gave him everything in the vault. That gave Winfrey access to all the material he needed to blackmail anyone listed in those books.”
Michael whistled. “I didn’t find the invoices. He must hide them elsewhere. There’s no telling how long he’s been blackmailing Dismouth, maybe Neville, too. Only they didn’t know who was behind the extortion. Reardon must have revealed something about Dillian’s inheritance when he returned, and they decided Dillian was the culprit. And one or both of them decided to get rid of her and the evidence.”
“Without those lists and invoices, we have no proof of anything,” Reardon cautioned.
Gavin ignored the warning. “Michael, put those journals into the hands of the prime minister. Make copies of your translations. Send one to the war ministry, one to the Gazette, and put the other in a damned bank vault if you must.
“Reardon, either keep Winfrey under observation or lock him up somewhere. Michael, work your magic with the duke. Don’t let him out of your sight. Both of you find men to back you up. Have them follow anyone suspicious attempting to meet with either of them. I’m going after Dismouth.”
“Winfrey is an old man! Let me go after the earl,” Reardon protested.
“Dismouth is mine.” Grabbing his cloak from a nearby chair, Gavin swung out of the room without a backward glance.
Cursing, Reardon stood up and glared at Michael. “I can have Winfrey locked in his rooms inside the hour. Who else should I go after?”
Eyes sparkling with mischief, Michael picked up the papers he’d been ordered to copy. “Gavin has no imagination. I think we can make much better use of Winfrey. Let’s have him visit the duke.”
* * * *
Gavin had no difficulty learning Dismouth’s direction. He expected resistance when he arrived there and had his speech prepared, but the butler let him in without a word once he produced his card.
“His lordship is not at home, my lord,” the man announced ponderously. “He gives his apologies and asks that you accept this, sir.” He handed Gavin a sealed letter on a silver platter.
An icy chill swept through him. Dismouth shouldn’t have expected him unless he thought Gavin had uncovered his involvement in Dillian’s abduction. The letter lying there in its pristine splendor screamed of guilt— and desperation.
But Dismouth couldn’t have Dillian. Dillian was safe at Arinmede. The earl could threaten and bluff all he liked, but Gavin had Dillian. Knowing that, he tore the seal and swiftly read the letter beneath the butler’s stoic gaze.
He read it again, cursed, and shoved it into his pocket. He glared at the servant for a moment, trying to gather his shattered thoughts. Heart pounding, he could only focus on the danger to Dillian. Surely, the earl couldn’t have located her yet. The letter was all a bluff. But he couldn’t take chances.
Aware that his sinister appearance frightened many, Gavin slammed his hat back on his head and scowled at the butler. “Did the earl take his carriage?” he demanded.
“Not that I’m aware, my lord,” the man said with a degree of uneasiness as Gavin continued glaring at him.
“I need to know his direction. Who is most likely to know it?” Aware that he insulted the servant by assuming he didn’t know, Gavin watched the man draw himself up haughtily.
“I’m sure if I don’t know, no other will,” the butler replied with disdain. “He had a spare horse sent to the Doulton Inn. That is all anyone can tell you.”
The Doulton Inn, on the Hertfordshire road. Gavin’s insides froze. Leaving the butler with a generous gratuity, he stalked down the wide stone steps to his waiting horse, his mind churning with possibilities.
At Gavin’s appearance in Parliament with the satchel of journals, the earl must have assumed himself undone. Dismouth couldn’t know Dillian was at Arinmede, but he could discover Arinmede belonged to Gavin. Dismouth would know by now that his hired kidnappers had failed and where they’d lost Dillian. The earl had taken a wild chance, but a successful one.
And Gavin had left Dillian alone, unprotected, unsuspecting. His first instincts were to ride hell-bent for Arinmede. This time, however, he decided to err on the side of caution.
He stopped at Mellon’s town house, and finding Michael and Reardon already gone, he left messages in the hands of the servants with instructions to deliver them. Then he borrowed another of his cousin-in-law’s expensive steeds and took off flying into the evening gloom.
Chapter Thirty-seven
Concealed by the grove of pines and the shadow of dusk, Arinmede hid its secrets well. Gavin’s need to see Dillian safe demanded a mad dash straight up the lawn and through the front door, but he’d learned caution. If he rode in there without care, anyone in the house would see him. Dismouth was clever enough to take advantage of that fact.
Gavin dismounted, tied his horse behind a tree, and vaulted the crumbling stone wall to the manor lawns. He knew every inch of the limited land he’d inherited. Overgrown hedges, weeds, and trees sprouted from seed covered almost the entire area that had once been elegantly landscaped lawn. He had no trouble slipping through the shrubbery unseen.
When he saw the first soldier mounted on guard duty at the drive, Gavin fought the urge to roar bloody murder and attack. Instinct demanded he defend his home and the woman inside with his hands and his life. The sight of the second soldier off to the right stilled that insane flight of fantasy.
Dismouth had brought a troop of soldiers.
How could this happen? On what grounds could the earl enlist a troop of soldiers and post them on private property? How could Dismouth even know for certain that Dillian was here?
He couldn’t. Dismouth had made assumptions. He knew Arinmede belonged to Gavin. He knew Gavin possessed the journals. The earl would want to trade the journals for Dillian, but he would much prefe
r keeping his secrets.
That would mean destroying Gavin, the journals, and quite possibly, Dillian. In his position of power, the earl could forge lies and manufacture evidence that Dillian and her father acted treasonously, that Gavin protected a traitor. Few would question a man they knew and respected over a woman and stranger they knew nothing about. Michael was quite right. The English were too predictable.
Gavin returned to the road. He hated leaving Dillian, but he had to trust she could take care of herself—as she had trusted him to do the same.
He needed help and couldn’t wait for Michael and Reardon. He knew of only one place to find it.
A few weeks ago wild horses couldn’t have dragged him into the village for any reason. With Dillian’s life at stake, wild horses couldn’t keep him away.
Shedding his concealing hat and cloak, Gavin rode into town and straight to the inn. He entered the bright glow of lantern light, and stood before the crowd inside without cringing at their startled stares.
Smoke from pipes and a badly ventilated chimney choked the air. The scent of fear reeked even stronger as the crowd recognized him and inched away.
Gavin used the silence to his advantage. “A man who sold inferior guns to Wellington’s army has my lady trapped in the manor,” he announced, his voice carrying through the low-ceilinged chamber.
He watched as some backed to a far corner, no doubt in the direction of the kitchen exit. Gavin held his temper and his pride, standing straight and tall for their inspection, reciting his tale without pleading.
“This villain has brought soldiers to Arinmede. They have the manor surrounded so I cannot reach my lady. He wants the evidence I hold against him in exchange for her life, but I don’t think he’ll let her live once I give him what he wants. I must rescue her, and I need help.”
The room remained silent. Sweat beaded on Gavin’s brow, and his fingers rolled into fists, but he couldn’t command their help. He had to ask for it.
“What’s in it for us?” the innkeeper asked.
“’Enry, that ain’t polite,” another reprimanded. “If ’is lady is the one what ’elped save Emagene’s young ’uns, we orter ’elp.”
Gavin could see the argument forming. He didn’t have time for argument. He appealed directly to their pockets. “I have been looking for the owner of the lands that once belonged to the manor, so I can put them back in production. Help me save my lady, and I’ll use every power in my possession to buy back those lands and find work for anyone needing employment. No one will go without again.”
Startled into silence, his audience stared at him. A low hum of speculation followed the silence. Wild promises needed careful consideration, but eagerness shone in every eye.
“What can we do?” the innkeeper asked, apparently acting as spokesman.
“I don’t want anyone hurt. The soldiers have muskets, so you will have to stay out of their range and hidden as much as possible. If you take the old farm road behind the stable, the building and darkness will conceal you.
“I need a distraction that will give me time to get inside the manor. I suggest you carry torches and tinderboxes, light them when you reach the stable, and set fire to the haystacks, screaming and hollering like lunatics. I want them to think I’m leading the entire village to the attack. Once the soldiers start running after you, hide in the woods. I just need time enough to get inside.”
Despite his elegant frock coat and cravat, Gavin felt more at home with the men around him wearing dirty smocks and pieces of leather wrapped in string for shoes than he did with London gentlemen. He hadn’t words to explain. He just knew what appealed most to their hearts.
“You say the man inside is a traitor to His Majesty?” the innkeeper asked, again with suspicion.
“I lost my son in Wellington’s army,” someone else interrupted.
“I lost my damned arm in the army,” a man shouted from the rear. “We ate weevils and dirt because the bloody nobles wouldn’t spend their blunt on us.”
“You had faulty muskets because of that man in the manor now,” Gavin said, his voice reaching over the grumblings in spite of the noise.
It took more persuasion, some coercion, and a great deal of wild promising, but little by little, the men in the tavern picked up their coats and hats, sought out their fellows, rounded up pitchforks and knives, and torches and tinderboxes, and slipped silently into the night after Gavin.
He’d never thought of himself as lord of the manor. He hadn’t been raised to it. But he had some understanding of what it meant as these men looked to him for direction, not only for this moment, but for the future he promised them. He held their lives in his hands. He had a duty to protect them as he had a duty to protect Dillian. He’d never shirked responsibility before. He wouldn’t now.
* * * *
Neville Perceval, Duke of Anglesey, stared in dismay at his hired investigator. “You are telling me Dismouth and my father were the traitors, not Whitnell,” Neville repeated in disbelief.
“Correct, Your Grace.” Michael showed no sign of impatience as he swung his ebony walking stick and took a seat without invitation. The soldier who had entered with him stood near the door, saying nothing.
“And Whitnell’s journals are your evidence, and they didn’t burn in the fire?”
Michael smiled graciously. “Thanks to myself, of course. I can also tell you where Lady Blanche is, but not until you’ve satisfactorily proved yourself innocent of recent occurrences. That’s why we are here, Your Grace.”
“Innocent!” the duke said with irritation. “Innocent of what, may I ask? And who are you to act as judge and jury?” He shot a look to the soldier at the door. “Reardon, isn’t it? Is the man mad?”
Reardon stood at attention. “No, Your Grace. The lady and her companion have been attacked on several occasions. One resulted in severe injuries to Lady Blanche. The most recent caused Miss Whitnell to fire a pistol to save herself. We have reason to believe the journals were the cause of the attacks, but the fact that many of the attacks involved Lady Blanche leaves your culpability in question, Your Grace. I apologize for the disrespect, sir.”
“He apologizes for the disrespect,” Anglesey muttered to himself, dropping back against his chair seat and covering his eyes. “Is my cousin safe and well?” he asked, without looking at the intruders.
“Safe and as well as can be expected,” Michael answered coolly. “The fire has left some disfigurement, you will understand.”
The duke uncovered his face and glared at his visitor. “And you think I’m crude enough to have her so cruelly burned?”
“Someone did,” Michael pointed out logically. “You stand most to benefit.”
Neville’s eyes widened, and he rose from his chair. “Damn, you say! And how do you figure that? She’s worth a great deal more to me alive than dead.”
Michael’s expression didn’t reveal a flicker of surprise. “It is quite common knowledge that the lady’s possessions revert to Anglesey in the event of her untimely demise, Your Grace.”
“It is also quite common knowledge that if she marries me, all her possessions come to Anglesey,” the duke retorted. “I’d much rather have the lady than her possessions.”
“The lady doubts that, but that is not my concern. Who else benefits from her untimely demise besides yourself?”
The duke stiffened, but he considered the question. “No one, directly. You understand that as a considerable heiress, Blanche is responsible for immense amounts of property as well as wealth. She has control over manufactories, borough seats, vicarages …. The list is extensive. Many people might prefer seeing that power in my hands rather than hers.”
“Manufactories,” Reardon repeated from the door.
“Borough seats,” Michael said at the same time.
“Dismouth,” the duke agreed in astonishment. “Dismouth inquired into the munitions factories once, and expressed interest in influencing Blanche in the matter of the borough seats
. When I told him she refused my advice, he said no more, but he did express irritation. I believe he thought I lacked the backbone for dealing with my cousin.”
“Doesn’t Dismouth have a daughter in town for the Season?” Reardon inquired.
“Lady Susan,” he muttered. “But there’s any number of females who hope to capture a duke,” he continued defensively. “I sometimes feel like a particularly fine specimen of trout.”
At that point Michael relaxed enough to grin. “Lady Blanche would appreciate the comparison. Reardon, bring in our friendly family solicitor.”
“Winfrey?” The duke sent Michael a questioning glance. “Who in hell are you, anyway? And don’t tell me O’Toole because I won’t believe it. No damned Irishman would have troubled himself to dig so deeply into my affairs.”
Michael’s smile disappeared, and he shrugged. “No one of import, Your Grace. The lady required assistance, and I was happy to be of help. You wouldn’t have received any extortion letters recently, would you?”
The duke didn’t have time to reply before Winfrey stumbled through the open doorway, his hands tied behind his back. From behind his glasses, the solicitor glared at Michael. “Of course not, you impertinent jackanapes. The duke has been all that is gracious. One does not extort money from benefactors.”
Winfrey jerked from Reardon’s grasp, straightened, and met the duke’s startled look with pride. “Dismouth destroyed your father, Your Grace. I could only watch helplessly as he became more deeply involved with every passing day. I did not know his acts were treasonous until I translated the diaries. I do not know what I could have done if I’d known. The Percevals and Winfreys go back centuries, Your Grace. I could not have reported him.”
“But you could destroy Dismouth by extorting everything the earl owned,” Michael said with delight. “A man after my own heart. Now, let us get down to business. There is the small matter of Whitnell’s lists. And the deeds, Winfrey? What have you done about Whitnell’s deeds? I believe you handled that matter also?”
Winfrey looked guilty for the first time. “I should have told the lady as soon as I discovered her identity, but she introduced herself as Miss Reynolds. There was some doubt in my mind, you understand, and I feared letting her have anything so dangerous as those diaries. She could have destroyed the family, sir. I couldn’t allow that.”
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