He flickered a smile at the butler. “I apologize for being late. There was a bit of drama at the ball.”
Willie snorted with humor. “Aye, a bit of drama! Seems someone held up a coach belonging to a snot-nosed gent and—”
Christian sent a warning glare at Willie and then hoped the sharp-eyed butler had not witnessed it.
Reeves’s attention was locked on poor Willie. “Tell me more, Master William, about this ‘snot-nosed’ gent? How exactly do you know the gentleman to be so, ah, predisposed?”
Willie shifted from one foot to the other, casting a wild look at Christian.
Christian took pity on poor Willie. “Reeves, we should leave. Tell the groomsman—”
“My lord,” the butler said, disapprobation thick in his voice, “is there something you wish to tell me? Something about the gentleman who entered the house not long ago, claiming he’d been robbed?”
“No.”
Reeves sighed. “One day there will be a reckoning.”
“Och, now!” Willie said. “We were just out havin’ a wee bit of fun. No need to get your snood in a snocker.”
“My snood is not snocked,” Reeves said severely. “Lord Westerville just came into a vast inheritance. These little wayward contretemps are no longer necessary.”
“No one said they were necessary,” Christian said. “But they are certainly enjoyable.”
Willie chuckled. “The lady was properly stocked in the miff, was she not, Master Jack?”
Reeves winced. “My dear William, pray at least try and call His Lordship by his proper title of Lord Westerville.”
“I’m proper,” Willie huffed, wiping his nose on a none-too-clean sleeve. “But I won’t be a-callin’ Master Jack ‘me lord’ whilst we’re upon the High Toby, I won’t.”
Reeves eyed Christian with a resigned air. “My lord, when your father sent me into the world upon his death to locate you, I never thought to find you so dangerously employed.”
Christian’s smile froze a bit. In order to survive, one had to stay focused, clear-minded. Even now, just hearing someone mention Father sent a wave of…fury? Sorrow? Something cold and powerful, racing through him, making him both frightfully strong and yet painfully weak at the same time. He gritted his teeth. If he wished to find Mother’s killer, he had to become more accustomed to hearing Father’s name. At one time he’d desired to hear Father’s name over all others. But that time was long gone.
Christian caught Reeves’s speculative gaze. “Had my father wished me more gainfully employed, then while he was alive, he should have bothered himself a bit more with me and my brother. He paid us so little heed that I find it odd he thought of us at all while upon his deathbed.”
Reeves sighed a bit. “If you would allow me to explain—”
“It does not matter. I want the fortune; I will use it to further my search for the man responsible for betraying Mother and causing her death. That is what is really important.”
Willie spat into the dirt. “Revenge,” he said with relish.
“Revenge never served anyone well,” Reeves said coolly.
“Och, there! How can ye say such? ’Tis the Highland way.”
Reeves shook his head. “My lord, I implore you to retire Gentleman James to become the legend he deserves to be. It cannot help your plans if you are caught and thrown into gaol.”
Christian knew Reeves was right. But…before he’d gained his title and the possibility of a fortune, he had never thought himself enamored of his chosen profession as highwayman. Oh, he’d enjoyed it well enough in the cold chill of the inky black nights and the uncertainty of each exhilarating encounter. But the real reason he believed he’d found it so satisfying was that every time he outwitted someone wealthier than he—someone perceived by society to be more powerful—Christian was really triumphing over someone like Father. Someone cold. Arrogant. Uncaring.
Lately, it had been borne upon Christian that perhaps he enjoyed being a highwayman for other reasons. The painful freedom that came with it. The taste of excitement that flushed his body when he and Willie approached a coach. The feel of a woman’s excited mouth beneath his, as today.
He smiled. Often as not, unbeknownst to their husbands and lovers, the gently born women he’d won kisses from had given him other tokens—rings, ribbons, items that could, and sometimes did, gain him entrance to the boudoirs of the mistresses of some of the greatest houses in England.
Now he was a lord in his own right, and access to those very boudoirs was his for the asking. He was now an equal, a member of the crème de la crème.
Christian grinned. “Reeves, you have my word Willie and I have taken our last ride. From this night forth, Gentleman James is no more.”
“’Ere now,” Willie protested. “Ye canna mean that!”
“I am certain he does,” Reeves said, looking at Willie with disapprobation. “You, Master William, had best concern yourself with what place you will take in His Lordship’s new establishment. Lord Westerville no longer has need of an accomplice to hold his mount whilst he is waving his pistols about.”
Christian chuckled at Willie’s outraged expression. “There now, Willie, my man! Just tell Reeves you already have a job, for you do, you know.”
Willie’s face cleared. “Aye, thet’s roight! In fact, if ye aren’t goin’ to ride the High Toby, I suppose I’d best be on me new duties right away.”
“Take your horse. I expect to see you within the week.”
“Sooner, guv’nor!” Willie sent a hard glance at Reeves before he walked away, dignified in his own manner.
“Where is Master William off to now?” Reeves asked.
“I don’t believe you want to know.”
The butler sighed once more. “I was afraid you might say that.” He nodded to a footman who had been hovering out of earshot. The man raced forward now to open the door and lower the steps. Christian climbed in. Reeves followed, and soon they were on their way.
The carriage swayed over the deeply rutted road. “My lord, may I inquire how you intend on accomplishing your goal, to discover your mother’s betrayer?”
“I know who betrayed my mother; the Duke of Massingale. But I need more evidence.”
Reeves’s brows rose. “The duke is a reclusive man.”
“Which is why I shall gain entry to his household by courting his granddaughter.”
Reeves was silent a long moment. “I assume, my lord, that she was part of the dastardly plot?”
“No. She was but a child when my mother died.” Christian read the disapprobation in the butler’s eyes. “I have waited over twenty years to right the wrongs done to my mother. I will have my vengeance one way or another.”
Reeves sighed. “Yes, my lord. I can see you are quite determined. I must say, having witnessed your last profession, I find your disregard for the law somewhat disconcerting.”
“I have never killed anyone.”
“That is always a good thing to hear from one’s employer. Pray do not become cross if I ask you to repeat that statement at various times. I find the words quite reassuring.”
Christian laughed and leaned back against the thick squabs of his coach. It would take all of Christian’s address to gain entrance into the duke’s household. But once he reached London and spent a few weeks charming the granddaughter…
“Vengeance,” Christian said in a low tone beneath the rumble of the carriage. The words blended smoothly with the creaking of the leather straps and the thunder of the horses’ hooves.
Smiling grimly, Christian watched out the window as the inky blackness sped by. Lights flickered in the distance and beckoned him onward. Vengeance indeed. London and all her inhabitants had best beware.
Chapter 2
A true gentleman can convey the most complex of emotions with the simplest of gestures. This works well with everyone except, of course, one’s female companions, be they mother, wife, or other. In those cases, one cannot be too thorough in one’s c
ommunication, gentleman or no.
A Compleat Guide for
Being a Most Proper Butler
by Richard Robert Reeves
Massingale House was unlike other ancient houses in Devonshire; it did not suffer from dry rot or chimneys that smoked, the doors did not stick, the floors rarely creaked, and the stair railings were free of pesky wobbles. It was, as the butler liked to remind the housekeeper, a very quiet house.
Except, of course, for His Lordship.
Even now the Duke of Massingale’s loud voice could be heard thundering through the heavy library door, followed by the unmistakable crack and shatter of a thrown teacup.
“Gor!” said the new footman.
Jameson, the butler, sent the man a flat stare. Jameson had been with His Lordship for more than fifteen years, and he did not encourage the staff to make disparaging comments about their master and mistresses. That was solely the duty of the upper servants and no one else.
Fortunately for the footman, a lengthy pause ensued inside the library, during which a light footstep was heard upon the landing.
Jameson snapped to attention. His quick glare sent both of the footmen to their posts by the front door. Unaware she’d interrupted anything, Lady Elizabeth came down the stairs, obviously trying to stifle a yawn, the early sun burnishing her golden hair. On seeing Jameson, she smiled. “Good morning!”
Of medium height with a gentle figure, thickly lashed brown eyes, and a wide, rather sensual mouth, Lady Elizabeth was quite used to hearing that she looked just like her mother, His Lordship’s late daughter-in-law, who was a noted beauty of her time. As this compliment was always followed with a sad sigh and the fervent words, “God rest Lady Ellen’s soul!” the comment was never accorded much attention.
From the other side of the library door, His Lordship’s voice rose yet again, along with the crisp sound of a newspaper being rent into tiny pieces. Lady Elizabeth pulled a comical face. “Oh dear! What has Grandfather in such a taking today?”
Jameson smiled. Every member of the duke’s large staff thought His Lordship’s granddaughter was a ray of sunshine, though that was not to suggest she was lax in her duties as mistress of the house. As Jameson once told the housekeeper, Mrs. Kimble, whenever that certain look entered Lady Elizabeth’s eye and her chin took on that particular angle, there was no use arguing, no matter how sunnily she smiled. “My lady, I fear it was the Morning Post. There was more than a normal amount of Tory verve today.”
“Ah, that would indeed put Grandfather into a foul mood.”
A noise outside the front door sent the footman scurrying to open it. Inside walked a lovely blond woman wearing a long pink pelisse, a fashionable bonnet trimmed in Russian ribbon upon her reddish hair. She was a small creature, barely five feet in height, of fairy-like proportions and a cupid-bow mouth. Accompanying her was Lord Bennington, a tall, dark gentleman with a somber expression and hooded eyes.
“Charlotte!” Beth said, hurrying forward to kiss her stepmother’s cheek.
Charlotte smiled. Though quite a bit older than her stepdaughter, she did not look it. Indeed, anyone seeing them together might think the two women were sisters, though Charlotte’s beauty was less memorable than Elizabeth’s.
“Beth, I am surprised to see you out of bed at such an hour,” Charlotte said in her soft voice, pulling off her gloves. Despite her gentle demeanor, there was a frantic air to Charlotte, as if the slightest excitement might break her into a million pieces.
Beth looked at her stepmother with a measured gaze, trying to ascertain the older woman’s true state. After a moment, Beth relaxed. Charlotte seemed quite placid this morning, a fact that would please everyone in the house.
Beth smiled at her stepmama. “I would still be abed, but I was summoned by Grandfather.”
“This early? Why, it is barely seven! What does he want?”
“I don’t know; I haven’t seen him yet. I just came downstairs and he was—”
Another teacup crashed against the door, followed by a thundering diatribe of which only the words “heathens,” “radicals,” and “forsaken” could be discerned.
Charlotte’s smile dimmed. “Ah, the paper.”
Lord Bennington glanced at the door with a grimace. “Massingale does not know what is due his station.”
Beth glanced at the servants. They remained impassive, though they had to have heard Lord Bennington’s comment. Beth did not like Bennington, though he’d been her father’s closest companion since they’d both been in short coats. To keep the rather contentious lord from making more disparaging comments before the servants, Beth said in a sedate tone, “Lord Bennington, it is good to see you.”
He made a ponderous bow. “Lady Elizabeth.”
“Good morning. Are you staying for breakfast?”
He flicked a glance at Charlotte, then said in his usual heavy manner, “Not this morning, I’m afraid. I have business to attend to.” He bowed at Charlotte, who stood by, threading the braided handles of her reticule back and forth through her fingers, a nervous habit she’d but lately assumed.
Beth always thought her stepmama’s delicate sensibilities had come from the death of Beth’s father. Indeed, several of the servants had mentioned that Lady Charlotte had changed greatly after that event. Beth could remember days after her father’s death that it seemed as if her stepmama would never stop crying.
That had been years ago, of course. Now Charlotte had good days, as well as tearful ones, though fewer and fewer of those. It was rather nice to see Lord Bennington taking Charlotte about and it certainly seemed to do her a world of good. Although Beth could find no liking for the pompous lord herself, she imagined Charlotte must find his overbearing ways something of a buffer against the unpleasantness of the outside world.
Bennington frowned at Charlotte. “I am certain I do not need to remind you that the play begins at seven. As it takes an hour to reach London from here—”
“I shall be ready at five.” Charlotte waved a hand, her gesture large and exaggerated. “You will not have to wait!”
“I hope not. Hamlet is one of my favorites.” He replaced his hat. “Good day, Lady Elizabeth. Lady Charlotte.” With that, he turned and trod out the door.
Cheeks a bit pink, Charlotte whisked herself to the stairs. “Beth, I hope you don’t mind, but I believe I shall take my breakfast in my room this morning.”
“Of course,” Beth said immediately. “Jameson, will you see to it that a breakfast tray is sent to Lady Charlotte’s room?”
“Yes, my lady.”
“And Jameson,” Charlotte said, pausing halfway up the stairs, “Dr. Neweston is to bring a new bottle of medicine this morning. Would you let me know when he has come? I wish to speak with him. I haven’t been sleeping well, and I wonder if perhaps he might order something a bit stronger.”
“Yes, my lady.”
Beth frowned. “Charlotte, I didn’t know you weren’t sleeping. Is there anything that I can—”
“No, no! Dr. Neweston knows my humors. He will find something and fix me up well enough. You are the one to worry about. I wish you luck with Massingale. He’s been quite ill-natured of late.”
“It is the warmer weather. He hates it.”
“He is not easy to deal with when he’s in a good mood. When he’s in a bad one—” Charlotte shivered. “Well, you know him best. I will be in my room if you need me.” With a nervous wave, Charlotte dashed up the stairs and disappeared from sight.
Beth sighed as Grandfather roared out again, this time consigning the entire paper to the devil. “Jameson, please bring another pot of tea to the library. And some new cups.”
“Yes, my lady.” The butler cleared his throat. “My lady, forgive my presumption, but I fear Lady Charlotte is right. I have served His Lordship for almost fifteen years and he does not seem quite himself of late.”
Beth paused, her smile firmly in place. “Do you indeed think so?”
Jameson nodded, his thin
face lined with worry.
It was one thing for Charlotte—who was forever imagining she and everyone she knew had this illness or that—to think Grandfather might not be well. But to hear such a suggestion from Jameson, who knew Grandfather as well as, if not better than, Beth…
Her jaw ached, though she did not allow her smile to slip. “His Lordship is just tired. That is all.”
Her voice was much sharper than she meant it to be. For a long moment, neither spoke. Then Jameson bowed and said in a careful monotone, “I shall bring more tea, my lady.”
What was wrong with her? Beth wondered as she let herself into the library. She never snapped at the servants. It must be because of the early hour. Yes, that was what was wrong; she was up much earlier than usual, and all this talk of Grandfather being ill had put her on edge.
She paused on the border of the thick carpet and watched her Grandfather. He sat in a chair by the fireplace, his shoulders slumped, a thick shawl wrapped about him. For an instant, he was starkly outlined by the fire. Thin and cragged, with a shock of white hair that never seemed tamed, he scowled absently at the fire.
Beth smiled at him fondly, her unease disappearing. Laurence Jeremy Charles Westover, now the Duke of Massingale, was a tough old man. At the tender age of twenty, he had inherited his title and position along with numerous estates, all encumbered to the hilt. A weaker man would have been tempted to put his head in the sand and pretend all was well as long as possible. But Laurence Jeremy Charles Westover was not weak. He was, in fact, indomitable.
He had not been a direct descendant to the line but a distant cousin, forgotten and ignored by the wealthier side of his family until a sweeping case of the ague disposed of the other male members. The ton snickered when the new duke was named; it was whispered he was of common Yorkshire stock, his mother the daughter of a German bookbinder, his father a poorly paid rector with long-forgotten ties to the Westover family.