Vaughn’s scowl deepened. “What of it?”
“How did you get those scars?” Richard said flatly. “Why?”
Vaughn’s jaw grew taut and Richard knew he would evade answering. He would grow angry as usual and push the conversation away from anything to do with the bank, or his time in prison.
“They’re old…and new, too,” Richard said. “I can tell, because I have scars of my own, now.”
Vaughn considered him. “You would not have them, but for me.”
“No, that is not why I spoke of them,” Richard said hastily.
“The newest scar,” Vaughn said, as if Richard had not spoken at all, “was because the man I shared my cell with resented that I was being released early and expressed it with a dagger he made from a splinter off his cot. The others were…well, for other reasons.” He paused. “Did you think prison would be a comfortable place?”
“I don’t know what I thought,” Richard replied honestly, stung to it. “You never speak about it. You get angry if anyone tries to speak of it, too. How am I to understand you, if you will not tell me?”
Vaughn didn’t answer. But he didn’t scowl, either. He finished buttoning the shirt. “The valet will be back in a moment. Why are you here?”
“This, your back, your refusal to talk…that is what brings me here. It has been weeks, Vaughn. And this afternoon, Father told me the formalities would proceed to make me his heir!”
Vaughn nodded. “Aye. What of it?”
“You are the heir, Vaughn! I do not want the title. I have never wanted it.”
“That is because you still consider me your brother and a full member of this family. That has not been true for five years now.” Vaughn reached for the collar sitting upon the dressing table. “You have a new wife, Richard. You have managed to turn around your life and now you have a chance to build something good. I don’t have that chance. Not anymore.”
“But–”
“As difficult as you found your life to be in the last six years, how much more difficult do you think it will be for me to go back to that old life? Do you believe for one moment that the House of Lords will let me sit among them?”
Richard curled his hands into hard fists, to resist the need to protest yet again, for Vaughn was speaking ugly truth. “What will you do, then?” he made himself ask, instead.
Vaughn struggled with the collar pins—for he was even more unpracticed than Richard when it came to the details of a gentleman’s attire. His gaze met Richard’s, his eyes filled with a sudden, heated resolve. “I am going to find Darnell,” he said flatly.
“Urien Darnell?” Richard said, astonished. “Your uncle? Why on earth…?”
Vaughn nodded. “Someone stole that money. It wasn’t me. I knew all the other men on the bank’s Board of Directors, and none of them were destitute. None of them had the backbone necessary to conceive of such a swindle and execute it. I didn’t think Darnell was capable of it, either. He always struck me as an insipid man. A…gray man, without color. Yet he is the only board member who was never brought to trial, and he hasn’t been seen in England since the bank collapsed. So…” Vaughn gave a grunt of satisfaction as the back collar pin stayed in place. “I intend to find him, Richard. No one else cares to—certainly not the police, not if he isn’t in England.”
“Urien Darnell has been missing for years,” Richard pointed out. “If he took the money—and I agree that his absence is suspicious, then he could be anywhere in the world, now. It could take you years to find him.”
“Quite likely it will, yes,” Vaughn said softly. His tone was almost kind and there was an expression in his eyes that was uncomfortably close to sympathy.
Richard breathed out his shock. “I see…” he added. “Then tonight is a farewell, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Vaughn said simply. “Although only you and Father know…and Cian, as head of the house. I don’t want to upset everyone, Richard. I just want to slide out of the house tomorrow morning, with no promises to return. I need to be free to find Darnell.”
Richard nodded. “And what will you do with him, when you do?”
Vaughn’s face hardened into the lines of a much older man–a man Richard might have feared, had he been a stranger. “I don’t know what I will do with him, for sure,” he said, his voice a growl. “I can only guarantee that Darnell will not be happy about it.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Danyal held the note which Aloysius had scribbled in his atrocious hand out to Gavril. “Strange. Have you met this Kiril Slaten to whom Aloysius is insisting I speak?”
His brother-in-law took the note and frowned. “I can barely decipher the writing.” He put the note back on the big desk and pulled his tunic back down, resettling the braid. “I know the name,” he added, his tone thoughtful. “He’s a working-class hero—he led the mine strike in Bucharest last year.”
“Yes, that’s where I’ve heard the name,” Danyal replied. “He’s Romanian, then?”
“He’s Pandevanian,” Gavril said. “His mother was Romanian, I think. Something like that. He’s been home a few years, stirring up discontent. You know the type.”
Danyal nodded. He did know the type. There were far too many of them in Pandev, these days. Hungry, many of them homeless, they grew increasingly unhappy as the months went by. Winter had come early this year, which was not helping keep bellies fed or bodies warm.
“We really must step up our work on the new rail line to Sofia,” Danyal muttered as he reread the note. The new line would cut more than an hour off the journey and the wider gauge could carry cars from the major European lines, too, making the shift of freight from one car to another unnecessary, which would reduce the cost of imports.
“To send Slaten away?” Gavril asked, sounding puzzled.
“To give men honest work,” Danyal said. “Work gives them wages, which lets them buy food and find a roof for their families.”
Gavril did not quite roll his eyes. “This again.”
“Yes, this again,” Danyal said heavily. “Tell Aloysius to send the man in. Let’s listen to what Aloysius thinks we should hear.”
Gavril rose from the upright chair beside Danyal’s desk.
Danyal sat back with a heavy sigh. It was barely afternoon and already he was drained of energy. Gavril was a good man, but he was mired in the attitudes of a former generation, raised to them by his upper-class parents. His marriage into the royal family had cemented his values.
Gavril was not the only man who was stuck in older attitudes, though. Danyal had spent weeks trying to make the men of influence who surrounded him see the necessity of taking care of everyone in Pandev, not just themselves.
Only Gavril had dared to challenge him. “Your journey to England turned you into a socialist, brother,” he’d teased, even though he had not looked at all amused.
“I was a socialist before I left, which is why I went to England in the first place.” Danyal scowled at the reminder. Queen Victoria had been outraged at the suggestion that one of her peerages was neither desired nor valued. He had left Buckingham Palace ruffled and angry, to return to Pandev with even greater determination to remove the shadow England cast upon his country and form an entirely new identity for its people. “The business of Pandev—my business –includes social reform, which is long overdue,” he had told Gavril stiffly.
It wasn’t the first time he had maintained the necessity of looking to the benefit of the little man, the worker, the poor and underprivileged. It would likely not be the last, but each day, the challenge of making those who were in a position to institute change actually understand seemed to grow more difficult.
Or perhaps the energy he needed to make them see it was fading. He had never felt as tired as he did lately. It gnawed at him and made sleep difficult—although it was not the only factor which kept him awake. The empty pillow on the other side of the bed did not engender pleasant dreams, either.
The man, Slaten, whom Gavril brought in was short, oliv
e-skinned and dour. He had a high forehead and intelligent eyes. He bowed deeply enough to satisfy the Emperor himself and shot a gaze toward Gavril. He said to Danyal; “I wonder, your Highness, if we might speak alone?” His accent was smooth enough and educated. Danyal adjusted his assessment of the man.
“That is impossible,” Gavril said. “No one is permitted to be in a room alone with the Prince.”
“My brother is discreet. You can speak freely,” Danyal told Slaten.
Slaten scowled. “So be it,” he said softly, and straightened his shoulders. “You should know, your Highness, that Miss Thomsett arrived in Pandev on this afternoon’s train.”
For a moment, Danyal thought that perhaps he was hearing words that had not been spoken. Perhaps he had imagined them because they were words he longed to hear. Did he yearn to hear them so much he had invented them in his head and projected them upon this man?
Gavril blinked. “What on earth…?” He looked at Danyal, his mouth moving as if he was on the verge of laughing aloud. Then his amusement faded. “Your Highness…? This woman is known to you?”
Danyal found his voice. “No, I have no idea who the man speaks of. You’d best be on your way, Slaten. Your affairs are clearly of no concern of mine.” He was relieved to hear his voice emerged smoothly, without tremor, for his heart was beating hard enough to sound like the knock of knuckles upon wood.
“You really do not want to send me away just yet, your Highness,” Slaten replied.
Gavril’s expression tightened. “See here, you speak to the Prince with utter respect, or I will have you tossed from the room whether you want it or not. There are twenty house guards beyond the door and another five hundred just across the parade ground.”
Slaten showed absolutely no reaction to the threat. His gaze did not shift from Danyal’s face. “If you have me removed, Prince, then she dies. If I do not send word by four o’clock, she will die anyway.”
“Right,” Gavril growled and reached for the man.
“Wait, Gavril,” Danyal said quickly.
Gavril whirled, his eyes growing larger. “Your Highness?”
Danyal didn’t glance at him. He didn’t want to shift his gaze away from Slaten, who wore a small, knowing smile.
“Shall we try again?” Slaten said. “You, Prince, will–”
“No,” Danyal said sharply. “No demands yet.”
“You think you know what I am about to say?” Slaten asked. His amusement was increasing.
“It is clear enough you think to force me to some action by threatening Miss Thomsett. Yet I have only your word that she is in Pandev and under your control, and I am not moved to take your word for it, Slaten. I require proof that Elise—Miss Thomsett—is alive and well, before a single demand gets made by you.”
Gavril sank heavily onto the upright chair, his eyes wide as he studied Danyal. “Who is she?” he breathed.
Slaten gave a soft chuckle. “Someone the Prince thought was safely hidden from sight. He makes himself out to be a man of the people, but he’s no different from every upper-class bastard that ever lived—hiding his indiscretions and keeping his nose in the air.”
Gavril jerked, shocked.
“If you want my cooperation, I would suggest you use milder language,” Danyal replied. “Send your message, Slaten. Bring Miss Thomsett here for me to see. Then we can talk.”
Slaten gave Danyal a wise expression. “Begging your pardon, Your Highness, but your brother-in-law just pointed out that we sit across the parade square from five hundred house guards. I have no intention of bringing her here for your men to snatch away from me. No, you must come with me. I will take you to her and we can talk there.”
Danyal got to his feet and pulled the formal tunic back down. “I must change, first. I cannot go out upon the streets like this. It will draw the wrong attention.”
Gavril clutched the edge of the desk. “Is this really happening?” he breathed to Danyal. “A man walks in, mentions a woman’s name…and you go with him, just like that?”
“No changing,” Slaten said quickly. “I’m not letting you out of my sight, Prince.”
“It’s ‘Your Highness’, you imbecile!” Gavril snapped.
Danyal rested his hand on Gavril’s shoulder. “It will be all right,” he promised him softly. “Fetch my black cape. It has a hood. That will have to do for now. Go. Go on.”
“Before you leave, Duke,” Slaten said to Gavril. “Be aware that if you speak a word of this to anyone, if a single red uniform follows us, or if anyone tries to stop me from leaving, Miss Thomsett dies. Ask your brother how much he wishes to avoid that, before you get the cloak.”
Gavril looked at Danyal, his expression bewildered. “Is any of what he is saying true?” His voice was strained.
“Fetch the cloak, please, Gavril,” Danyal replied. “Just the cloak. Do nothing else, as Slaten has instructed.”
Gavril’s expression grew troubled. “You said nothing of her…to any of us!” he hissed.
“Because nothing remained to tell,” Danyal replied. “Go on. Get the cloak. If Slaten really has her, then I will send instructions on what to do next, once I know what it is he wants.”
Gavril glared at Slaten, the beginnings of hatred building in his eyes. “My brother sympathizes with your people. I do not. Not anymore. This is dishonorable and contemptable.”
“Ah, the intractable dignity of the privileged,” Slaten said, and laughed.
Gavril stalked away to get the cloak.
Elise rattled the door handle with even more energy and thumped the side of her fist against the varnished wood, even though she knew from earlier attempts that neither would have any effect whatsoever. The door was stouter than it looked and no matter how loudly she screamed or shouted, no one responded.
The hotel was one of the finer ones in Pandev, she suspected. The room had rich appointments, heavy drapes, thick rugs upon the floor, cushions and tapestry—all of which muffled any sounds she did make.
After two hours of shouting and pummeling, Elise suspected there was no one else in any room on this floor. She glanced back at the broken shards of pitcher. She had smashed it, hoping the explosion of porcelain would bring a waiter or footman, but nothing had happened except that the soles of her boots were dampened.
The woman called Maria had escorted her to this room and explained in adequate English that she should remain here for the evening and in the morning, she would be escorted to the palace to meet the Prince. In the meantime, Maria would arrange for afternoon tea to be delivered to her room and later, a supper, which would save Elise from having to deal with waiters in the public dining room.
It had seemed perfectly reasonable. Even thoughtful. Elise had not questioned Maria at all. The woman had smiled as she closed the door and Elise had not heard the key turn, either. Yet when she tried to open the door a short while later, she had learned that it was locked.
She had been calling for help since then.
Her hand smarting, Elise turned to consider the window. She could smash her way through the window, only this was the fourth floor and there was nothing beneath the window but stone building and a paved sidewalk, far below. Yet she could smash the glass and scream for help. Someone upon the street would surely come to investigate, if they saw her and heard her. Even though she had no idea what the word for help was in Bulgarian, the act of leaning through a broken window and screaming and waving must surely be understood, even here.
She had reserved this desperate measure for later, because it was cold outside and becoming colder as the short daylight began to fade. If she broke the window and no one came to her aid, then she would be locked in a freezing room.
It was a risk she would have to take, she decided. Only, the pitcher was now in shards and there was nothing else she could use to break the glass.
She lifted her skirts aside and considered the heel of her boot.
Before she could move over to the chair to put her boot upon
the seat and loosen the laces, a metallic click sounded from the direction of the door.
Elise whirled, her heart throwing itself against her chest in a physical assault that made her chest ache and her pulse to seize. She wrapped her arms around her middle, trying to contain herself.
Who was about to walk through the door? She hoped upon hope that the locked door had been a mere misunderstanding, that Marie was back with the promised afternoon tea, or even an early supper, and then Elise could feel guilty about the broken pitcher and the mess she had made of the floor.
Yet in her heart, she did not believe it. Danyal’s letter, written in a way that said he had clearly not meant for it to reach her, put together with this odd circumstance, meant that whoever stepped through the door now would not be a friend.
The door swung open. The man who stepped into the room was a stranger to her. Swarthy, with jowls dark with whiskers and poor clothes, along with the scowl on his face, said that he was one of those angry men she had seen everywhere, huddled together and whispering their malcontent to each other.
He had a gun in his hand. It was black and large and the dark round end of the barrel, when it swung toward her, looked as a large as a cannon. Her heart climbed impossibly higher and lodged in her throat, squeezing her breath out of her.
“Just stay by the bed, there, miss,” he said, in English as adequate as Maria’s had been, but laced with the thick local accent. He glanced back at the door. “You may come in now,” he called back.
A man in a black cape and hood stepped through the door. Behind him was Maria, with another gun.
Elise pulled her gaze back to the man, hope spearing her. She pressed her arms more tightly around her middle, trembling with the possibility…
He lowered the hood.
It was Danyal.
Elise shuddered, just barely maintaining her composure. Above all else, she wanted to go to him and fling her arms around his neck and beg him to explain these bewildering events. Only, she could not do that, especially not here in Pandev.
She expected Danyal would stand just inside the door and pretend to not know who she was. Instead he moved directly to her, his expression indecipherable, and pulled her into his arms and held her.
Her Rebellious Prince (Scandalous Family--The Victorians Book 2) Page 14