“I hope you are right, my lord. I fear your assessment of the trustees is painfully accurate. Your father’s cronies were not, perhaps, the best choice to oversee the disbursement of his funds.”
Yet another example of Father’s innate selfishness, to foist such silly conditions upon his will. The titles were Tristan’s and his to keep no matter what, but the fortunes were tied up upon the approval of the trustees.
It irked Christian to have to deal with such weak men. Not a one of them would have lived more than a day had they been forced to take care of themselves. Christian, on the other hand, had honed his abilities. He had also developed a hard shell where his heart had once been. In a way, his father had done him a favor by staying away. Life was a hard teacher, but a thorough one.
Christian supposed he should be thankful for Father’s unexpected change of heart. At an advanced age, the late earl had married a young woman in the hopes of producing some heirs, but no issue was forthcoming. The thought of seeing his title and funds dispensed to distant relatives had been too much for the man’s overly stiff pride, so he’d deftly fabricated documents and found a “witness” to attest to a supposedly secret marriage between him and Christian’s mother. In this way, the earl had secured the family lineage through the children he’d so far successfully ignored—his illegitimate sons.
However, as both boys had been left unattended since the delicate age of ten, the earl feared that they did not possess the social skills necessary to maintain a place in society without garnering the ridicule of the ton. And that was something the earl would not countenance. So Reeves, the earl’s most loyal servant, was sent with a packet full of money and instructions to civilize Christian and his brother.
Christian hated the trustees and despised being forced to become a part of their hypocrisy. Unfortunately, he needed his father’s fortune, and not just for himself. His brother, Tristan, was counting on him as well.
As the oldest son, Tristan had inherited Father’s title but none of the trustees would have approved Tristan’s choice of wife. By virtue of the circumstances of her first husband’s death, Prudence had been involved in a horrid scandal that had precluded her from ever being considered an acceptable countess.
Thus, Tristan had handed the fortune on to Christian, secure in the belief that his brother would win it for them both. This added responsibility had put quite a crimp in Christian’s plans. Now he was forced to play by societal rules.
Reeves seemed to catch Christian’s thinking, for he smiled slightly. “Never have I seen a man more happy to give up a fortune than your brother.”
“I promised to fund his home for injured sailors. I cannot let him down.” Christian managed a faint smile. “It was the least I could do. I would have given him more had he allowed it.”
“He was quite happy at the way things turned out.” The butler paused a moment. “Perhaps you’ll find a Lady Prudence of your own, my lord. That would be quite the thing indeed.”
The last thing Christian wanted or needed was a wife. He’d lived an unencumbered life, drifting from inn to inn, taking what he needed to survive and no more. The moment things became complicated, he moved on. As soon as he was done here and had exacted his revenge, he would leave once more.
Perhaps he would ride to Scotland with his servant, Willie, to see the countryside there, swords drawn in the dark of night, blood quickening in excitement. Christian rubbed his fingers together where they itched for the smooth cool feel of his rapier.
Soon. Once he was finished here…He looked at his glass. “Thank you for the port, Reeves. It was just the thing.”
“I took the liberty of having some of the late earl’s carefully guarded stock brought here, for your pleasure. Your brother insisted on it.”
Christian looked at his glass. His brother was even now residing in a snug cottage on the cliff overlooking the seas in Dover, his wife at his side. Christian had faced enough aching loneliness to appreciate the need for companionship.
But love? True love? As wretched as loneliness could be, it was nothing compared to the pain of betrayal. He’d seen with his own eyes what “love” did to a person—how it built hopes that were rarely, if ever, realized. Falling in love meant being weak, vulnerable to the whims of another. He’d watched his beautiful, confident, strong mother become frail and maudlin, watched her allow events to manipulate her until she was stripped of everything, thrown into jail, branded a traitor.
Christian took a slow sip of port. He would be damned if he ever let anyone get close enough to make him vulnerable.
Reeves looked at the clock as it chimed. “I fear it is getting late. Shall I have your bed turned down?”
“In a moment.”
“Of course, my lord.”
Christian took another drink. “Reeves, you are the best of all butlers.”
“You sound as though you’ve experienced quite a few, my lord. May I ask how that is, considering that you once resided in an inn?”
Christian grinned, “Not all of the women in those coaches were content with a mere kiss. I daresay I’ve been in half the boudoirs in London.”
Reeves looked pointedly at the ceiling.
“What is it?”
“Nothing, my lord. You said you did not wish me to state when you say things that remind me of your father, so—”
“Very well,” Christian snapped. He shifted restlessly, rubbing his fingers together yet again.
“Yes, my lord.” Reeves made his way to the sidebar again, this time returning with a small wooden box. He opened it to reveal several thin, rolled cigars. “My lord? I procured these this morning while at the market.”
Christian selected a cigar, a fragrant scent wafting up as he rolled it between his fingers. “Thank you for reading my mind once again.”
“That is not a very difficult feat when one realizes your mind possesses such magnificent thoughts as ‘I need a drink,’ ‘A good cigar would be nice,’ and ‘I wonder if Lady Bertram is wearing that silk chemise trimmed with little flowers.’”
Christian slowly turned his gaze on the butler. “I beg your pardon? What was that last one?”
Reeves pursed his lips. “The last what, my lord?”
“The last statement you made.”
“After ‘A good cigar would be nice’?”
“Yes,” Christian said grimly.
“Hm. Let me see. I believe I said, ‘I wonder if Lady Bertram is wearing that silk chemise with the little flowers.’”
“How do you know about Lady Bertram?”
Reeves reached into his coat and produced a small, folded swath of silk. “Her Ladyship’s chemise. It has her name monogrammed upon the hem. I found it beneath the seat of your carriage and had it washed. I thought perhaps you might wish to return it when, of course, Lord Bertram is once again out of town.”
Christian took the chemise and tossed it onto the table beside him. “Thank you, Reeves,” he said dryly. “I appreciate your efforts.”
“It was nothing, my lord. May I ask if you succeeded in your efforts this evening?”
“Perfectly.” Christian looked into his glass, noting the firelight sparkling on the amber liquid. “When I find the information I seek…it will be my finest hour.”
“Yes, it does add a certain panache to one’s life, does it not, seducing an innocent woman?”
Christian choked on the port.
Reeves stepped forward and delivered a solid thwack on Christian’s back.
“Ouch!” Christian rubbed his back, glaring at Reeves.
Reeves picked up the decanter he’d left on the small table and calmly returned it to the sideboard. “I was merely attempting to clear your mind a bit, my lord.”
“Clear my mind? Why would you think I need such a thing?”
Reeves raised his brows.
“I don’t need your help.” Christian held his cigar between his teeth, though he made no move to light it. “For the love of Zeus, Reeves, if you’ve something to s
ay, just say it.”
Reeves sniffed. “There is no need for such a tone, my lord.”
Christian scowled.
“Do not worry, my lord. I shall keep my ruminations to myself, as befitting a man of my station. Far be it from me to infringe upon Your Lordship’s existence with meaningless comments that you obviously do not wish to hear.”
Christian cocked a brow at the butler. “Are you done?”
Reeves pursed his lips. “No.”
“I didn’t think so. What is it that has you in such a lather?”
The butler sighed heavily. “Very well, my lord. But only because you insist—”
Christian snorted.
“—it is simply this. I cannot decide which I dislike more, your plan to seduce a virgin or”—Reeves closed his eyes and turned away—“that waistcoat.”
“What’s wrong with my waistcoat? Black silk is—Hold one moment. I have no plans to seduce a virgin!”
“Ah, what a relief! I must have misheard you, then. In the coach on the way here, I thought you said you were going to attempt to ingratiate yourself with Lady Elizabeth, the Duke of Massingale’s granddaughter. I am quite sorry, my lord. My hearing is not as good as it once—”
“I am going to ingratiate myself with Lady Elizabeth, as you so succinctly put it. But that does not qualify as a seduction.”
Reeves appeared perplexed. “Is this the same Lady Elizabeth just entering society this season?”
“Yes, but do not think she’s a chit of seventeen. She’s twenty-five. Her uncle died the year she was to come out, and her entry into society was delayed.”
Reeves met his gaze steadily.
Christian set down his glass. “Do not look at me like that. She is no green girl. In fact, she is the most self-assured woman I’ve yet to meet.”
“Indeed?”
“Indeed. Not that it matters, because I have no intentions of actually seducing anyone.” Not unless he had to. He glanced back at Reeves. “I am only going to pretend to be her suitor.”
“What if Lady Elizabeth succumbs to your pretend blandishments?”
“She won’t; she has a dragon-faced cousin standing guard. My lady’s virtue is well protected. Even from me.”
“I am glad the lady’s grandfather understands the dangers involved in launching a delicate young lady in a town where there are so many”—Reeves’s gaze flickered over Christian—“wolves.”
Christian quirked a grin. “Are you calling me a wolf, Reeves?”
“I wouldn’t dare, my lord. It would be presumptuous.”
“That has never stopped you before.” Christian eyed the butler for a long moment, and then sighed. “I suppose I should tell you my plan lest you think worse of me than you already do, if that is possible.”
“Oh, it is possible,” Reeves said, bringing the decanter to Christian’s chair to refill the glass, “though highly unlikely.”
“Thank you,” Christian snapped.
“You’re welcome, my lord. If you find honesty too taxing, I can, of course, continue to gather information through my usual means.”
“Usual means?”
“Bits of information you drop, actions reported by the other servants who witness your movements, eavesdropping.”
“You eavesdrop?”
“Not I, my lord,” Reeves said, clearly offended. “The footmen.”
Christian took the cigar out of his mouth. “The footmen eavesdrop.”
“They all do, my lord. I even did it myself, when I was a footman, though that was years and years ago.”
“Now that you’re a butler, I suppose you leave such odious work to your underlings.”
Reeves bowed. “You are indeed quick, my lord.”
“Thank you,” Christian said with a sardonic glint. He shook his head. “You are incorrigible. I do not know how my father stood to have you about.”
“Oh, that was quite simple, my lord. I have a wretched memory. Your father would dismiss me quite frequently but, alas, I always forgot to pack. Within a day or two, he would be back in good fettle and glad to have me about. I do have a way with providing the little luxuries, you know. His Lordship found that very comforting.”
Christian looked at the unlit cigar. “Is that what this is all about, the port and the cigar? An attempt to become irreplaceable?”
“Yes,” Reeves said in an apologetic tone.
Christian had to laugh. “You are a complete hand, Reeves.”
“Thank you, my lord. Coming from a onetime highwayman, that is quite a compliment indeed.” Reeves cleared his throat. “Now, my lord. About your plan?”
“Ah yes.” Christian stood and crossed to the desk. He opened the top drawer. “It is quite simple. As you already know, my mother died in Newgate prison.”
“I am aware of that sad fact, my lord. Your brother explained what happened to the two of you when you were but ten—how your mother was thrown into gaol, accused of treason.”
“Yes. For a while, Tristan and I were together, but then—” Memories of that day crept to the fore—of the cold hard earth that had broken his fall from the inn window. Of the sound of Tristan’s cry as he’d attempted to fight his way to freedom and failed. Then, later, not knowing his brother’s fate, of the drenched and freezing nights during the frantic trip to London to find Mother. And on reaching London—
Christian closed his eyes and refused to listen to the painful echoes of his past. Slowly, the memories faded. He took a deep breath and opened his eyes.
Reeves quietly regarded him from across the room. “I am sorry, my lord.”
“It’s nothing,” Christian said shortly, embarrassed. He pulled an old box from the drawer and set it on the desk. “My brother and I were sold by our tutor, who had an addiction to gaming. Tristan sacrificed himself to give me time to escape. He was impressed into the navy.”
“While you disappeared.”
Christian managed a bitter smile. “I suppose that is what I did do in a way; I disappeared into the bowels of London.”
“I do not know what happened during those years, but I am certain they could not have been pleasant.”
“Pleasant?” Christian had to laugh at that. “You are indeed the master of understatement, Reeves.”
“A necessary gift in my occupation, my lord, I am happy to see that whatever befell you as a child, you made it through with considerable aplomb.”
Christian shrugged, as much to loosen the tightness in his shoulders as to agree with Reeves. “So I did. And now I plan to prove Mother’s innocence. She was imprisoned as a traitor on charges that she’d had commerce with the French. The charges were later dismissed, but only after she’d already died, alone and locked away. Someone had to put forth those charges. Whoever that was, I believe they wished her dead and found a convenient way to do it without sullying their hands.”
“May I ask how you plan on finding this person?”
“Of course.” Christian opened the box. Inside lay an enameled snuffbox, a packet of letters tied with a pink ribbon, and a broken watch fob. “This is all my mother had left when she died.”
Christian ran his fingers over the letter. “When I arrived in London after my brother’s capture, I immediately traveled to Newgate. She was already dead, gaol fever having stolen her life two weeks before.” If Christian placed a hand upon the box and closed his eyes, he could still feel his despair at that moment, taste the bitterness of death and defeat. “One of the gaolers remembered her well. He had this box and he sold it to me.”
The box had been his for ten pence, a laughable sum now. But to a starving boy of ten, it might have well been a thousand pounds. Desperate for some part of Mother, he’d set out to get the money. It had taken all his effort, all his cunning, and a loss of his morals and innocence to procure the funds before the gaoler sold off the box and the treasures it contained.
“I feel certain,” Reeves said into the quiet, “that your mother would be glad her possessions are now in your h
ands.”
“She was in Newgate, Reeves. And no one would help her. Not her supposed friends. Not her lover. Not even the man who sired me and Tristan.” Christian threw up a hand. “I know, I know. My father—if you could indeed call him that—might have wished to help, but he had so removed himself from her life that he was not available.”
Reeves nodded.
“However it happened, she was left alone. She sold her jewels to pay for a cell that was reasonably dry. When that was gone, she sold her clothing. Even her shoes. She was left in rags with nothing—” A wave of emotion swallowed him whole.
He knew from experience that he could do nothing but feel, accept, let the pain course through him. He took a deep breath and traced his fingers over the letters, over the ribbon she’d once tied herself, the small gesture soothing him somehow.
Reeves cleared his throat. “Are there clues to her predicament in her letters?”
Christian collected himself. “There is one letter from someone named Sinclair. It is a code name of some sort, for the wording is quite stilted. The letter is almost a confession. This Sinclair admits they provided false information to the Crown against Mother.”
“Someone put her in gaol and then apologized?”
“It was not an apology. The tone of the missive is taunting. I suppose it was the ultimate irony for Mother; the letter is proof, but since the author disguised his hand, she could not use it to free herself.”
“Then it is not much of a clue.”
“Ah, but it is. That missive led me to the Duke of Massingale, Lady Elizabeth’s grandfather.”
“How so?”
“I took the letter to a friend of mine who specializes in missives.”
Reeves frowned. “My lord?”
Christian chuckled. “My friend is a forger, one of the best.”
“Ah.”
“He used a powder to dust the surface, and we found a faint bleed from another letter. It was a franking mark. From the Duke of Massingale’s own ring. The letter originated from Massingale House.”