She also knew well enough not to press him. Instead, she looked about with unfeigned interest, absorbing all she could of the countryside, the lanes, the hamlets, the environs of her new home. And the air! Brisk and bracing, yet softened by the warmth of approaching summer. Breathing in deeply, she exhaled, smiled.
She saw deer and asked what sort they were. Dominic spotted a hawk; she watched the bird ride the currents, then stoop and drop like a stone out of sight. Jessup directed her attention to a highland hare, watching from the top of a bank, ears twitching as they rode past.
Now the wind had died, they could converse easily enough. She threw herself into learning all she could; soon the others were volunteering information and pointing out sights. It was a pleasant way to fill the miles, and a useful distraction.
She knew she shouldn’t again speak of Dominic’s role in their necessary charade, not until he did, but it was difficult to rein herself back. She was unreservedly certain he and she would triumph, but she couldn’t simply tell him that he could and would perform as required, that she had unshakeable confidence that even if he couldn’t suppress his protectiveness, he would at least conceal it well enough for their purpose. That even though the charade would constantly abrade his protective instincts, now fully engaged where she was concerned, he would rein in his instinctive, more primitive self well enough to fool his mother—because he had to.
Because it was vital for his clan’s survival.
She knew he would meet whatever challenges they encountered, but he had to come to that realization himself; he wouldn’t believe her if she told him, and she didn’t know how to hold up a metaphorical mirror to show him his own strengths.
Strengths like loyalty, like self-sacrifice. Like devotion.
Like doing whatever needed to be done because others were relying on him.
He and she could and would pull off the charade, recover the goblet, and save his clan. She knew it beyond question, believed it to her soul.
Buoyed and eager to get her teeth into the challenge, she rode gaily through the morning, steadily eating up the miles to Mheadhoin Castle.
Chapter Sixteen
Devil Cynster surveyed the crowd gathered in the drawing room of St. Ives House with what, in a lesser man, would have been frustration. As it was . . . impotent resignation was nearer his mark.
He’d expected the males; they’d been scheduled to reconvene to share what they’d learned and decide what next to do. As for the ladies, he’d invited only his mother, Helena, and Therese Osbaldestone, in the hope one or other of the elderly pair, both of whom knew the ton root and branch, Therese especially, might recall something relevant. But inviting two such ladies involved giving them due notice, which in turn had given them time to notify the entire female half of the family.
Vane prowled to where Devil stood before the fireplace. “Even Great-aunt Clara is here.” Jaw set, Vane glanced around the assembled multitude. “What do they think they’re doing?”
“Helping,” Devil replied. “In their own inimitable fashion. And, of course, they want to know what we’ve learned.” He straightened and raised his voice. “If everyone could cease talking . . . ?”
Instantly, the ladies fluttered and settled, perching like so many brightly plumed pigeons on the sofas, chaises, and chairs that had been grouped in the center of the room. Once all eyes were expectantly turned his way, Devil said, “We should first share what we’ve learned from our inquiries. Gabriel?”
Gabriel straightened from the wall against which he’d propped. “Lucifer”—his mother caught his eye and he smoothly amended—“that is to say, Alasdair and I spoke with Curtis—it was he who introduced Angelica to Debenham. According to Curtis, it was Angelica who instigated the introduction.”
Alasdair, as the females of the family insisted he be called, added, “Curtis had been speaking with Debenham and his circle, but then moved away. A few minutes later, Angelica found Curtis in the crush and demanded he introduce her to Debenham.”
“So she approached him,” Breckenridge said.
Gabriel and Lucifer nodded. “Curtis,” Gabriel went on, “has known Debenham for over a decade, since they both first came on the town. They’re both thirty-one. Curtis confirmed that Debenham’s estate, Debenham Hall, is near Peterborough, outside Market Deeping. As far as Curtis and Debenham’s other friends—and there seems a fair circle of those—know, Debenham hasn’t been in town for at least the last four years. He was summoned home at the end of one Season, four or five years back. They’d all expected him to return long since, but until recently, he hadn’t been seen. When they inquired over his absence, he said he’d been caught up in estate matters. As for the limp, Debenham’s carried the injury since he was twenty, apparently from some near-fatal accident.”
“One thing Curtis was absolutely certain about,” Lucifer said, “was that Debenham is English, not Scottish.”
“So he’s not the laird,” Jeremy said.
“Apparently not. However,” Lucifer went on, “according to Curtis, when a waltz started, the other gentlemen in the circle asked the young ladies who by then had joined them to dance, leaving Curtis, Debenham, Ribbenthorpe, and Angelica. Curtis quit the group at that point but remained close enough to see and hear what happened. Ribbenthorpe asked Angelica to dance, but she declined and steered him to some other lady. Curtis assumed Angelica was simply going to chat with Debenham, who can’t waltz because of his limp, but some minutes later, when the dancing was well underway, Curtis overheard her suggest to Debenham that they—Debenham and she—stroll on the terrace. Curtis saw them leave the salon and step out onto the terrace.”
“Wait a minute.” Lord Martin frowned. “You’re saying she asked him?”
Gabriel nodded. “From everything we’ve learned, it was Angelica who set her sights on Debenham, not the other way around.”
“Doesn’t sound like any kidnap attempt I’ve ever heard of,” Demon muttered.
“No.” Devil frowned. “However, Curtis’s is the last sighting of Angelica we have. No one saw her after she stepped out onto the terrace with Debenham.” He swept his gaze over the assembled ladies, inviting any of them to contradict him; none did. “Just so. So let’s finish with Debenham, even if only to rule him out once and for all. But first”—he looked at Gabriel and Lucifer—“has Curtis any inkling that Angelica’s disappeared?”
“No,” Lucifer replied. “He assumed—reasonably enough—that Angelica is forming some attachment to the man and we’re doing the expected checking.”
“Good. So back to the elusive viscount.” Devil glanced around the circle, directing his words to the men standing behind the chairs, sofas, and chaises. “Vane and I finally tracked down Rothesay, who left Cavendish House with Debenham that night—we’ve just come from speaking with him. He, too, has known Debenham for years—he confirmed everything Curtis said, and added his assessment that Debenham is a capital sort, very straight, without a duplicitous bone in his body. He, too, thought we were asking for the obvious reasons.”
“So neither Curtis nor Rothesay had a bad word to say about Debenham?” It was Honoria who asked the question.
Devil set his jaw. “No. However, neither Curtis nor Rothesay have seen Debenham since that night. They assume he’s been called back to his estate, but they don’t know, and both are a little perturbed that he’s vanished again. Yet Debenham is the last person we know to have seen Angelica that evening—if we can locate him, he should be able to shed light on what she did next, where she went after their stroll in the moonlight. As many have confirmed, he was at the soiree long after she’d disappeared.”
Demon’s brows rose. “Very cool if he’d had any hand in kidnapping her.”
“Indeed, but”—Devil shifted before the mantelpiece—“by luck, Rothesay walked home with Debenham that night. Debenham was staying at the Piccadilly Club. He and Rothesay p
arted on the steps—Debenham went in and Rothesay walked on.”
Lucifer and Gabriel stepped forward. “The Piccadilly Club isn’t far,” Gabriel said.
Devil nodded. “Go and see what you can learn. And if by chance the gentleman in question should happen to be in, present my compliments and invite him for luncheon.”
Lucifer flashed Devil a grim grin. “We will.”
The two strode from the room; the door closed behind them.
“Before we go any further,” Demon said, “I should report what I’ve learned, which is a little . . . contradictory to what we’ve been hearing of Debenham thus far.”
“I thought you went to Newmarket?” Vane said.
Demon nodded. “I did. But Newmarket isn’t all that far from Peterborough, so . . .”
His older brother sent him a disapproving look. “And you told us not to do anything rash.”
Demon shrugged. “I was there, and you were all running around here unearthing the local clues, so I took a look.” When Devil gestured for him to continue, Demon reported, “Yes, Debenham Hall is there, and Debenham is known to own it, but no one has set eyes on him for years. But those who could remember him gave the same description as all the others, so it is him—the same man, the right estate. Which is where things start not adding up. All the land attached to the estate is under cultivation, but all by tenant farmers—and yes, I asked, and they liaise via a local agent, who sends his reports, accounts, and the funds collected to a solicitor in London. That was strange enough—given Peterborough is so close to London, why would Debenham be running the estate like an absentee landlord? So I called at the house. It sits in its own park, is in excellent condition, and is rented to a family unconnected to Debenham.” Demon paused, then went on, “So I checked with the agent, who also collects the rent. He told me Debenham has never resided at the Hall, not in the thirty years he’s been the agent.”
Silence fell as everyone digested that. Devil put his finger on the most glaring oddity. “If Debenham is thirty-one, but hasn’t lived there for thirty years, where the devil has he been?”
Vane said, “Rothesay said that through the years he and Curtis and the others knew him, Debenham had lodgings in Duke Street.”
“But where did he spend his childhood, and all the years to that point?” Alathea asked.
“The man’s a nobleman,” Therese Osbaldestone stated. “Ergo he has a family, a father, a mother. Where were they?”
Discussion ensued, noisy enough to drown out Clara’s wavering, “If I recall aright . . .”
Significantly older than Therese Osbaldestone, next to whom she was sitting, Clara was accustomed to no one hearing her frail voice, her rambling sentences. But . . . “I vaguely recall something about the Viscounts Debenham.” She tipped her head, thinking. “Yes, I’m sure it was they. Something about the title itself?” After a moment, she nodded, and cast her eye over the available males.
Sylvester—Devil—her usual first choice, was absorbed in an argument over whether Debenham could, after all, have kidnapped Angelica, possibly to raise funds, which didn’t seem likely given Harry’s—Demon’s—assessment of the return from the farms he’d seen.
Clara’s old eyes wandered on. Her nephew Martin was too perturbed, and she didn’t feel she knew that nice new boy, Jeremy Carling, well enough to ask. Besides, he wasn’t yet officially family. Michael Anstruther-Wetherby she might have asked, but he was caught up in a discussion with that other viscount, Breckenridge . . . Clara’s eyes halted on the down-bent fair head of a tall, gangling male in his early twenties, who was listening while propping up the wall.
It never occurred to Clara to ask one of her many grand-nieces, all within easier reach; she was of the generation that held firmly to the notion that one sent young men to run one’s errands—that was what young men were for.
Clara fixed her gaze on Simon and waited.
Eventually, he looked up, glanced around, and met her eyes.
She smiled and beckoned. She saw the fractional hesitation while he debated if he had to obey, then he surrendered with good grace, pushed away from the wall, and walked over to where she sat.
Simon bent and gently took the birdlike claw Clara held out to him. “What is it?”
She beamed up at him; he really was very handsome, but then all the men of her family were. “If you would be so kind, dear, could you fetch that nice new book . . . not Debrett’s, that might not have what I want in it, but the newer one that lists all our families—what’s it called?”
“Burke’s Peerage?” Simon asked.
“That’s the one. I’m sure Sylvester will have a copy in his library.”
Simon nodded. “Do you want me to bring it here?”
Clara squeezed his hand and released him. “Please.”
Simon left on his errand, and Clara turned her inadequate hearing to the closer conversations; the ladies around her were dredging their memories for recollections of the Debenhams—of the present viscount’s father or anyone connected to the title at all.
Therese Osbaldestone was growing quite irate. “Devil take it, I ought to remember, but I cannot for the life of me recall even a family name.”
“Maybe they were the Debenhams,” Phyllida suggested.
“No,” came from several throats. “If that were the case we would remember,” Helena declared, “and the mystery of it is that none of us can.”
Simon reentered the room, carrying a heavy, leather-bound tome.
Clara’s eyes lit. She thought she knew what the key to the mystery of Viscount Debenham was, but there was no point saying so until she checked and had something in black-and-white to convince them all that she wasn’t simply rambling again. She did ramble sometimes, memories mixing dizzyingly with the present, but today . . . no, she was quite clearheaded today.
She beamed at Simon as he carefully placed the book in her lap. “Thank you, dear. So kind.” With that, she waved him off and carefully opened the book. “D,” she murmured. “I do hope it’s under D, and not just under wherever it landed, for that title I do not know.” Carefully leafing through the pages, she said, “One can only hope that dear Mr. Burke was thorough in his listings.”
Therese Osbaldestone heard; she looked and saw the book. “Excellent idea!” Therese turned to help, but Celia asked her something and she looked back to reply.
Clara slowly turned the pages, hunting down Debenham.
The door opened and Gabriel and Lucifer strode in. Conversation died. The tension in the brothers was evident to anyone with eyes, the grim set of their lips a further warning. Every male in the room straightened. “What?” Devil asked.
“We inquired at the Piccadilly,” Gabriel said. “Debenham isn’t a member, and he definitely didn’t stay there on the night of the Cavendish soiree.”
“The mystery deepens,” Michael Anstruther-Wetherby said. “This man is turning out to be a phantom.”
Clara placed her finger on the entry she thought was the right one and fumbled for her lorgnettes.
“Debenham told Rothesay he was staying there, so that’s an outright lie to a friend—a friend who swears to Debenham’s good character.” Martin shook his head. “This isn’t making sense.”
Clara focused on the tiny print. Read the details—the creation, the successions, the . . . she stared. It was as she had remembered, with one shocking twist. “Oh, dear.”
She looked up—across the room to where Celia sat in an armchair, with Martin leaning on its back.
This time, Clara’s words had fallen into a silence—everyone had heard. Everyone turned to stare at her.
Therese saw Clara’s finger on the page. “Finally. Well done, dear.”
Clara struggled for words to explain. “My dears . . .” She broke off and looked down at the page again. “Oh, dearie me.”
“What is it?”
Therese asked more gently. When Clara didn’t reply, Therese reached over and lifted the book to her own lap. “Here. Let me see.” She squinted at the page. “Debenham. Damn—I can’t read the rest.”
Clara handed over her lorgnettes and pointed to the bottom of the paragraph beneath the title. “There. I thought I remembered something about the specific line dying out and the title reverting back . . .”
Therese read the relevant lines. “Good God!” She scanned them again, then raised her head and looked at Celia and Martin, for the first time in her long life struck speechless.
“What is it?” Devil demanded.
Therese drew in a huge breath, glanced down at the book, then started rapidly flicking over pages as she said, “The title of Viscount Debenham was created and conferred on a secondary branch of a noble family in Elizabeth’s day. During the last century”—she paused to consult another entry, then resumed—“the secondary branch died out, and the title passed to the nearest male, and that happened to be up the tree and across, to the principal line.”
Martin was frowning. “What’s the family name?”
Therese looked him in the eye. “Guisachan.”
Martin was no wiser, but Celia gasped, then paled.
Therese nodded at her. “Yes, my dear, I fear this is a case of your past returning to haunt you. You know the head of the House of Guisachan as the Earl of Glencrae.”
That name Martin most definitely knew; he shot upright. “He’s behind this?” He ran a hand through his thick hair. “After all this time?”
“No,” Therese returned with asperity. “Not him, not least because he’s dead. Five years ago, as it happens.” Lorgnettes to her eyes, she read further. “The present Earl of Glencrae, also Viscount Debenham—the man everyone in the ton remembers as Viscount Debenham—is Mortimer Guisachan’s son, Dominic Lachlan Guisachan, now the eighth Earl of Glencrae.”
While that information was clearly a cataclysmic revelation to most of the older generation—Clara, Therese, Helena, Horatia, Martin, and Celia—all the others, including Louise, remained unenlightened. They glanced at one another, wordlessly asking for clarification, but none had any to offer. Meanwhile, those who understood looked stunned, disbelieving, but with concern rising behind their eyes.