Page 33 of Claiming His Scottish Duchess (Scottish Duchesses #2)

Chapter Twenty-Seven

“ C uimhnichibh air na daoine bho’n d’thainig sibh.” Remember the people whom you come from.

Reeves, the duke’s London butler, entered silently with a tray. “Coffee, Your Grace? And some toast?” he asked politely, his composure as unwavering as ever.

Richard groaned in acknowledgement, accepting the steaming mug and waving off the nourishment. The aroma, though familiar, did little to settle his churning stomach, and the thought of food was too much.

As Reeves opened the velvet curtains, the stark sunlight became an unwelcome intruder as Richard rubbed his swollen eyes. Reluctantly, he levered himself up. The staleness of the room clung to him like a shroud as he looked at the study.

However, to his shock, the former scene of his drunken despair was now eerily pristine. Every book was back on its shelf, the ink stain vanished, and the shattered glass swept away as if it had never existed.

“Did fairies come in here while I was sleeping, or did you take pity on me?” Richard asked, stifling a shiver at the involuntary mention of fairies as his mind drifted to a Scottish lass. He shook his head at the thought and took a deep sip of his coffee.

“The staff at Wilthorne have been inquiring after your well-being, Your Grace,” Reeves added, almost on cue. While his tone was careful, the implication hung in the air. The duchess had been inquiring, not the staff.

“They are too kind, of course,” Richard remarked as he waved a dismissive hand, not offering more on the subject.

He continued to sip his coffee and resolved himself to focus. He needed to clear the fog in his brain and start his search anew. The revelation about the Bow Street Runners had unfortunately been a dead end, but there had to be another thread, another connection to John’s murder he could follow.

Just as he was steeling himself to face the daunting task, an unexpected knock echoed through the study. Reeves opened the door to reveal—much to Richard’s shock—Ashworth. He looked uncomfortable as he entered the room, slow and unsure.

“Your Grace,” Ashworth stammered, his eyes darting around the room as if expecting hidden dangers after their last encounter.

“Arlington… Arlington suggested I might… have some further information for you.” He nervously lit up a pipe and took a long inhale, then cleared his throat with a loud cough.

“Please, Ashworth. Sit down,” Richard finally offered, calming the man’s nerves slightly. “Reeves, some tea or coffee for my guest, if you please. Which would you prefer?”

“Coffee, please,” Ashworth replied. “I am as English as King Arthur, but I do not care much for tea. I like the stronger stuff.”

Ashworth settled gingerly onto the edge of the offered seat, his eyes still wary in anticipation of an outburst. Richard could not blame him.

Once Reeves had silently served him coffee and retreated, a tense silence filled the room. The only sound was the ticking of the clock and distant pattering of rain outside on the street.

Is he really going to make me speak first? Richard wondered.

“Well?” Richard prompted finally. “I have to say, I am quite astonished to find you here in my study. To what do I owe this visit?”

Ashworth fidgeted with his pipe, clearing his throat again in the same nervous tick.

“After… our rather… spirited encounter, I was hesitant to help you or your family, to say the least. But… well, Arlington is a dear friend of mine. When he heard what happened, he came to see me. He spoke of your character, some of the reasons that have made you so… emphatic about this case,” he explained as he took a sip of coffee.

“This is damn good stuff, Your Grace. If you’d pardon my French, please. ”

“Go on, Ashworth.”

“Right, to the point. He mentioned you’re not one for chit chat,” he said. “So, I made some discreet inquiries into your brother’s case. And your instincts appear not to be unfounded. I found something… well, something odd.”

Richard leaned forward, his senses sharpening and his wheels turning.

“Odd? What sort of odd?”

“The robbers,” Ashworth explained in a hushed voice, even in the confines of Richard’s private study. “The ones apprehended for John and Anna’s murder. They… they weren’t hanged, Your Grace.”

Richard frowned, confusion clouding his features as he rose quickly to his feet and began pacing.

“What are you talking about?” he asked dumbfounded. “Each time I’ve inquired, I have been told that they were brought to justice.”

Ashworth shook his head slowly from side to side, puffing on his pipe, and smoke emanating from his head like a chimney.

“They were apprehended, yes. But they died in custody shortly after their incarceration. It was just before their scheduled hanging.”

“They did not hang for what they did to my brother?” Richard asked rhetorically as a cold dread crept deep into his heart. He could not make sense of it all. “How did they die then?”

“That’s the most unusual part,” Ashworth said, his voice still barely above a whisper.

He knew his information was not to be shared.

“It was… handled… quietly. Officially, it was put down to a fever that swept through and took them, in addition to other inmates. But in my experience, such things are rarely so swift or so convenient.”

“You are saying then that they were killed,” Richard stated as he considered the facts. “Someone silenced them,” he whispered slowly as the realization hit him.

“It seems that was the most likely outcome,” Ashworth agreed, his gaze meeting Richard’s with a newfound seriousness. “Robbers don’t typically die of sudden illnesses right before their execution. I think someone wanted them quiet. Someone with influence, money, likely both.”

“Why am I only hearing about this now?” Richard demanded, his anger growing along with the volume of his voice.

“It was covered up, I assume,” Ashworth whispered, his voice still barely audible. “Discreetly managed. To avoid unnecessary scrutiny. Robbery is one thing, but powerful figures pulling strings like that is another matter entirely.”

“I still cannot make sense of this,” Richard stated plainly, looking into Ashworth’s eyes for some sign.

“There’s a dangerous game going on, and I fear it’s still being played. Truthfully, I worry for you and your family. I worry what may come of this when your poking and prodding come to light.”

“I can take care of my own, I’m not here to be lectured!” Richard barked.

“Of course, Your Grace. My apologies. And I must apologize again as I have one more question,” he said as he loaded more tobacco in his pipe. “Did your brother have any enemies, Your Grace? Anyone who might have wanted him and his wife dead?”

Richard frowned, his mind racing as he tried to imagine anyone not liking his brother. John was everything Richard was not.

“John? Enemies? No. Everyone liked John. He was… he was goodness itself.”

“And thorough, I gather, in his investigations,” Ashworth murmured thoughtfully. “Perhaps he stumbled upon something that someone powerful wanted buried.”

What could you have found, John? Why didn’t you tell me?

“Do you have anything else?” Richard pressed, his voice tight with urgency as he wracked his brain for answers given what he had just learned. “Anything at all?”

“A year has passed, Your Grace,” Ashworth sighed, shaking his head sympathetically. “The trail has gone cold. Whoever orchestrated this was smart, thorough. I’m afraid this is all I could uncover.” He offered a look of genuine regret. “I apologize.”

Richard nodded slowly, a grim determination settling in his eyes. “Thank you, Ashworth. You have given me a lot to think about.”

As Ashworth rose to leave, he paused at the door, his gaze lingering on Richard’s unsettled expression.

“Your niece, Your Grace,” he said softly, carefully. “Children are unique creatures. They very often see things that adults miss. It is important to listen to what they say. And their fears, well, they can be quite telling.”

Richard’s jaw tightened at the mention of Lydia.

He had dismissed Catriona’s concerns about Lydia’s fear of Sampson, unwilling to entertain the possibility that someone he had known so long, and right under his nose, could be involved in anything sinister involving his family.

The thought made him dizzy as he drained the last few drops of his coffee.

“I appreciate your advice, Ashworth,” he said stiffly, but not insincerely. “I have my own ways of uncovering the truth, and that is exactly what I intend to do.”

Ashworth simply nodded, a knowing look in his eyes as he left.

Richard sank back into his chair, the weight of Ashworth’s information pressing down on him like a stone.

“Reeves!” he yelled.

“Yes, Your Grace?”

“I’m going to need more coffee, please.”

“Right away, Your Grace. How about some food?”

“Coffee, Reeves.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

If the robbery had been a lie, which it was, this was a carefully constructed facade. Someone silenced the supposed culprits. Someone with connections, he ruminated as he considered the tragic scene once more.

His thoughts then drifted to Lydia, to the flash of raw terror in her eyes whenever Sampson was near. Catriona had noticed it too, her own intuition screaming a warning she had tried so desperately to share. Yet, he had ignored it. More than ignored, he had rebuked it.

Could it…? No, surely not.

The Earl of Mortridge had been a part of his life for years, but the events of the recent fair were extremely suspicious. Something about the meeting was too convenient.

How can one ever truly know the inner workings of another man? How well do I really know the Earl of Mortridge?

Whatever the truth, one thing was now crystal clear. He couldn’t remain here, drowning in his guilt and chasing shadows in London.

Something nefarious was on the rise, and he had to return to Wilthorne, and fast.