Heartless

by Jaimey Grant

  “Interesting,” Prestwich muttered, sounding as if he cared little for the machinations of the previous king. “Suppose Martin is the one responsible. What do you think he’ll do when he finds out Leandra’s enceinte?”

  “I know. I’ve been thinking about that, too. We simply have to catch the scoundrel before he has a chance to harm her.”

  “Easier said than done, don’t you think?”

  “We’re missing something,” said Greville, ignoring Prestwich’s comment. He stared hard at the desktop. His face suddenly cleared. “Harwood!”

  “Leandra’s brother?” Prestwich asked in disbelief.

  “Of course. He is the one that links everything together. He is the reason Hart and Gabe are still alive. He needs them alive to get his father’s will back. Once he has it, he will let St. Clair kill them.”

  Prestwich shook his head. “It doesn’t make any sense. Harwood is a sniveling milksop. How can he force a St. Clair to bend to his will?”

  “He must have found out Martin’s plans and offered to help. Or, stupidly, he threatened to expose Martin’s plans. In which case, we’ll probably find his body as well.”

  “There’s another missing piece to the puzzle in there somewhere,” Prestwich insisted, tapping his finger on the desktop. “There has to be another person involved in all this.”

  “But who?”

  Nearly admitting defeat, Greville returned to Derringer Crescent a week later to at least inform Leandra of what they knew.

  She took him to her little morning room, where she was normally found, and bade him sit. She sat beside him on a pretty little sofa and asked what he had learned.

  Instead of answering right away, he asked, “Where’s Aurora?”

  “With the children in the nursery. We spend most of our time there now, considering.” She blushed slightly with pleasure at the thought that she would be having Derringer’s baby. But, as always when this thought occurred, she was nearly overwhelmed with sadness at the loss of her husband.

  The earl smiled. “I see. I wonder if you might be able to tell me anything about your brother’s friends or associates. Adam and I are in a bit of a quandary.”

  “So you have decided Lee is involved. I wondered when you would grasp that.”

  “If you already knew, why didn’t you tell us?” he asked, indignation pinching the corners of his mouth.

  “I am a woman. Would you have listened?” She shrugged. “And I didn’t know. I merely suspected. He is after my father’s will and he knows my husband has it.

  “As to his friends, the one that comes to mind first is Fraser D’Arcy. Monsieur D’Arcy visited Harwood House often and Hart mentioned seeing Lee in France recently with D’Arcy. He said the Frenchman was dangerous and quizzed me then about what I knew of him.”

  “Hart mentioned him to me. And I recall the man has a grudge against Hart. He may be the one that ties this all together.”

  “What else do you know?” she asked, her hand coming to rest on her belly in an unconscious gesture of protectiveness.

  Greville shrugged. “Not much. We’ve received missives from Captain Taverner, but the man writes in a rather convoluted fashion. Adam and I had trouble making heads or tails of his message. But we determined that either Gabe or Hart, perhaps both, are still alive.”

  Leandra’s forehead creased. “How did you receive word? Where is he that he can know of Hart and Gabriel? Where are they? Surely he knows that if he can tell you that they live.”

  “Derringer has an associate known as Tiny Boy. Adam found him. Tiny indicated he was on some sort of errand for his current employer. He handed Adam a message and walked away.”

  “Do you have it with you?” she asked. At his nod, she held out her hand. “May I see it?”

  Greville handed over the foolscap sheet. “Perhaps you will understand it better.”

  Leandra opened it and studied it silently for several minutes. A slow smile curved her lips. “Captain Taverner either hates France with an undying passion or he would like us to know that he was made to sail to France, Vi. I do believe Monsieur D’Arcy is indeed our key.”

  Despite all objections, Leandra insisted on accompanying Greville to London. Smiling to himself, he wondered how his friend felt about finally meeting his match in sheer stubbornness.

  “Adam has probably not uncovered anything new, you know,” he told her for the tenth time. She only smiled and returned her gaze to the dreary countryside passing the carriage window.

  Greville gave up. Aurora smiled at her husband, amused, he knew, at his own stubborn determination to sway Leandra’s determination.

  The rest of the journey was conducted in silence. Leandra pondered the chances of finding her husband while Greville pondered the chances of dissuading Leandra from doing anything stupid. Aurora regarded their mobile faces with amusement, as they were incapable of hiding their feelings at the moment.

  Upon arriving at Prestwich’s London residence, Greville found he was wrong, but in the worst way imaginable. Prestwich had new information but not something he wanted the duchess to learn immediately, if ever. So he glared at Greville and dragged him into his study.

  “You gudgeon, why did you bring her here?” he demanded as soon as the door was closed and barred against entry by inquisitive females.

  “You have spent little time with Leandra, Adam. That girl was determined to be here and in a few moments, she will be in this room despite that lock.”

  Prestwich grunted. “I wanted you to know before we tell her, Vi. This is the latest communication from Captain Taverner.”

  “Delivered by the redoubtable Tiny again?”

  “No, it was tossed to me by an urchin as I left my club in St James’s Street. He didn’t even linger for payment, just darted into the crowd and disappeared.”

  As Greville unfolded the message, he wondered how the man was sneaking messages off his boat. Leandra voiced the question first and now Greville couldn’t help but wonder the same thing. Would a dinghy go unnoticed leaving the yacht? Even in the dead of night, Greville was unsure how it could be accomplished. And the early spring weather—steady rain with intermittent breaks for a meager ray of sun—surely wasn’t conducive to long periods in a small boat on the open sea.

  Greville read the message carefully, by now familiar with the captain’s way of communicating something important. He hit on the same thing Prestwich had. The man prosed on about the afterlife. “They’re dead? Both of them?”

  “So it would seem,” confirmed Prestwich. “Which means that unless Hart made a will before he died, Leandra is at the mercy of Martin St. Clair. How long do you think she’ll survive when he discovers she might be carrying the new heir to the title and estate?”

  Leandra surprised everyone, even herself, by remaining patiently in the drawing room with Aurora and Bri. They chattered about children and Leandra wondered if perhaps her child would be the only link that she’d have to her husband. If he were dead…

  She refused to think that. He had to be alive. Her hands strayed to her stomach, a protective shield between her child and the rest of the world. He had to be alive.

  Aurora saw the action and reached over to squeeze her hand. “All is well, dear. They will find Hart and Gabriel and all will be well.”

  It was at this moment that the men joined them. They heard Aurora’s comment and both groaned inwardly at the news they were about to impart. They had decided it would be best coming from Greville since he was closer to Derringer and Leandra.

  “Leandra, can I have a word with you in private please?” he asked.

  The ladies rose as one, Bri and Aurora hugging Leandra before following Prestwich from the room. Greville motioned Leandra to sit on the sofa and he took a seat beside her.

  Taking her hand, he looked into her large, hope-filled eyes. Lord, how was anyone able to deliver bad news without feeling like the cause of it?

  “I have news, my dear,” he began. “Bad news.” Her lip quivered
. Sympathy tugged at his heart, prompting him to squeeze her fingers, thus giving him a moment to swallow the lump forming in his throat. “We believe Gabe is dead.” Her eyes filled with tears and her hand tightened in his. “And Hart. The captain implied both were dead.”

  Two tears ran down her cheeks. She sniffed and removed her hand from Greville’s. Wiping away the offending moisture, she rose to her feet.

  “Well, that is a relief,” she commented, much to her companion’s surprise.

  “A relief?”

  Leandra turned to face Greville, nothing of her emotions showing in her round features. “In a way, yes. The past months have been... unbearable, Vi. Not knowing whether or not he is alive is much worse than knowing one way or the other. I can now move on with my life instead of enduring this terrible limbo.”

  Greville was too shocked by how well she was taking this life-changing news to notice the rather hectic light in the back of her eyes. He smiled and assured her that he and Aurora would help in any way possible.

  “Thank you, Vi. And thank you for telling me. Will you give me a few moments, please?”

  Seeing nothing odd in this request, Greville left her to her thoughts, thoughts that would have alarmed him horribly had he been privy to them.

  Leandra fought tears, fought to stifle the urge to scream, shake her fist at the sky, curse God and all his angels. The fear changed, shifting into helpless rage. It was unfair that her life had come to such a pass.

  The rage passed, dwindling to nothing more than a dull ache, a helplessness in the face of things out of her control. Clasping her hands before her, knuckles whitening from the pressure she exerted, she forced her mind to focus, forced herself to face the inevitable.

  He was dead. She tried to tell herself that she could move on, that she could make do without his caustic presence to mock her at every turn. Her hands covered the slight bulge of her abdomen for a moment, and she tried to imagine how enjoyable, how peaceful life would be without the chaotic Duke of Derringer.

  She failed miserably, dissolving into tears.

  A half-hour later, she left the drawing room and approached the study. Raised voices filtered through the wood. Without bothering to knock, she entered the room.

  Greville stood in the center of the room gesturing frantically and shouting at Sir Adam Prestwich. Prestwich stood passively, though clearly annoyed if his narrowed eyes were any indication. Aurora glared at both gentlemen while Bri gestured just as wildly at Greville. Her voice was nearly a screech as she strove to be heard above Greville’s deep voice. Leandra would have found the tableau amusing had her world not just shattered beneath her feet.

  Aurora became aware of her first. She signaled her husband, who fell silent and flushed with embarrassment. Prestwich turned sympathetic eyes on her and Bri rushed forward to hug her.

  “I am so sorry, my dear. And no doubt Vi made a terrible mess of telling you. He is such a clunch sometimes.”

  “Is that what has everyone so upset?” asked Leandra.

  “Well, no,” replied Bri. She glanced at her husband uncertainly. Leandra noticed the look of warning on his face and wondered what it meant.

  “I demand someone tell me what is going on.” They remained stubbornly silent. “I enter a room to find a group of well-bred people behaving like children, all because of me, and I think I have a right to know why.”

  “I’ll tell you, Leandra,” Aurora offered, voice low and soothing. She ignored the warning looks from the gentlemen. “Bri and I read the letter from Captain Taverner and we are unsure he meant to imply that Hart is dead. The man writes in such an odd fashion that we have decided not to give up hope of finding Hart alive.”

  Leandra’s brows lifted. “Indeed? I am relieved. What was the shouting about then?”

  “Someone didn’t think we ought to tell you,” Bri said hotly, shooting a darkling look at her husband.

  The duchess glanced at the baronet curiously. “Why ever not?”

  “It matters little now,” Prestwich replied, clearly annoyed with the whole display of temper to which he had just been treated. “Since we all know, now we decide what to do about it.”

  Greville inserted, “Perhaps we should call Bruiser and Tiny.”

  Prestwich sighed, rubbing one hand tiredly over his face. “Tiny is in France already, searching. When I told him the duke was dead, he looked at me with what I can only describe as pity and took his leave, informing me as he went that he would find Heartless and bring him back alive.

  “As for Bruiser, do you know where he is? I went by Derringer’s townhouse and the man wasn’t there. Has he left his employ, do you know?”

  Greville frowned. “I would not have thought the man would do so until all threat on Hart was diminished. Why wasn’t he at the Crescent with Hart in the first place?”

  “How do we know he wasn’t?” Prestwich asked. His gaze swung to Leandra.

  She shook her head. “I met no one named Bruiser. Is he someone my husband would have introduced?”

  Both men shook their heads, though Greville hesitated. “With Hart, one never does know what to expect, though we think he would have introduced the man as his valet. You might not have believed him.”

  “Why not?”

  Greville exchanged a look with Prestwich. “Bruiser does not look like a valet. He looks like the former pugilist that he is.”

  A silent “oh” formed on Leandra’s lips.

  The men continued, Leandra silent witness to their plans. Hope rose and mingled with fear in her breast. A strange excitement tingled along her spine. They would find her husband, return him to his rightful place, and punish the ones responsible. Though she’d be happy just to have him back.

  “So when do we leave, gentlemen?” she asked, unable to help an eager smile.

  Everyone in the room, as one joined entity, turned to stare at her incredulously. Prestwich was the one to reply. “What do you mean we?”

  Leandra strode over to the chair behind Prestwich’s large desk. She sat down and smiled all around. “It is my husband who is missing and I am determined to find him. If you gentlemen would like to accompany me, I will allow it. If not, I will be setting sail tonight for France.”

  “How do you even know he is still in France?” asked Prestwich.

  “Where else would D’Arcy take him? The man thirsts for revenge and he will do it where he can feel the most satisfaction, and where he can dispose of Hart with very little trouble. Since the war with Napoleon, the French government will not be overly curious about the body of an Englishman turning up unexpectedly somewhere in their country. I doubt they would even report it.” Her smile disappeared, replaced by a look of grim determination. “If Hart is alive, I will find him. Either help or stay out of my way.”

  Greville shared a look with his wife. He nodded. “Very well. We go. But I still think you should stay here with Rory and Bri. Hart will skin me alive should anything happen to you.”

  “Rory and I will take care of everything here,” inserted Bri. “Some rumors have started concerning Derringer’s disappearance and we will simply tell everyone the truth.”

  “Surely you cannot be serious?” Prestwich exclaimed, giving his wife an incredulous look.

  Aurora smiled. “We will say he is off visiting relatives,” she said. “I suppose that could be true, could it not?”

  “Who will you get to help you in this?” asked Leandra curiously.

  “The season is just starting and I know of a certain young man who will be very willing to assist us,” Bri assured them.

  Prestwich groaned. “You are not dragging Miles into this,” he said. “Miles has too much responsibility already.”

  “Miles will love to squire us about, Adam,” retorted Bri, her green eyes sparkling at some secret joke.

  “Only because I pay him,” muttered the baronet. “Very well. Use Miles if you must but please be nice to him. He has enough to endure from me.”

  31

  Derri
nger attempted to straighten his aching limbs. He had been tied up for months and loosed only when he had to relieve himself and then for only a few minutes at a time. He dipped his head, his hacked off hair flopping over his eyes. Tossing his head back only served to intensify the hammering behind his eyes, a constant pain in the past months. His hair was the first thing to go, the removal of which convinced Derringer of the very personal nature of his kidnapping. It wasn’t about money, it was about revenge.

  Food was nothing more than a means to keep him alive and mostly conscious while they tortured him. They would visit to torture him and not return for several days. He could only assume they wanted him to heal a bit between sessions.

  Physical torture, he knew. Physical torture, he understood. Physical torture, he could endure. Cuts, bruises, broken bones, all healed eventually. Such injuries were superficial, healing quickly to leave a scar as a reminder of the pain and nothing more.

  If only they’d stopped at physical torture.

  He groaned, flexing his fingers to restore some feeling. One hand was completely numb, trapped half under his body where he lay in the bunk. The rope binding him chaffed his wrists, a bead of moisture sliding over his palm. Blood, no doubt.

  His physical weakness pained him far less than his emotional one. He knew the stupidity of forming attachments, the futility of negotiating with madmen, yet he did just that. He gave up the location of the late Earl of Harwood’s will. He gave it up to save Gabriel, the will’s location in exchange for his Gabriel’s life, and they’d killed him anyway, tossing him overboard like so much refuse.

  The pain of that loss sparked something in him, a similar pain, one so old he barely recognized it. His mother’s passing when he was so young had seemed unreal at the time. He remembered seeing her lying in state, her beautiful features in silent repose. Peace lay easily upon her, as if she’d known it all her life. Yet he remembered not one moment in his parents’ marriage that was peaceful. They tormented each other, but his mother always had a kind word for her son, a gentle squeeze, a distracted kiss on the head. He’d adored her in the way of a child in awe of his mother, awed by her beauty, awed by her distracted kindnesses.