Page 7 of How to Court a Rake (Wed Within a Year #1)
C aine focused his thoughts on the half-composed list that lay beside his breakfast plate. It was no easy task considering his thoughts felt they had better places to be—back in the dimly lit library kissing Mary Kimber, worrying about Lucien holed up in his new estate with his grief and refusing to engage in the Season, worrying about Kieran who was perhaps engaging in the Season a bit too much—and always there was that insistent faction of thoughts that remained committed to being on the dock in Wapping searching for Stepan, steadfastly convinced his brother was out there…somewhere.
Where his thoughts needed to be, though, was on creating a list of likely suspects behind the sabotage. Caine reached for his coffee cup, hoping a hot swallow would centre him, burn his distractions to oblivion or at least drive them to the back of his mind. The arms sabotage had to come first, nothing else could follow until that was resolved, not just for England but for Stepan. If he couldn’t have his brother, he would have his revenge.
The sound of boots on hardwood announced Kieran’s presence. Caine checked his watch as his brother entered, fully shaved, and dressed. ‘This is awfully early for you.’ Since the titles had been bestowed, Kieran hadn’t been home before four or up before noon. Caine missed his morning riding partner. ‘To what do we owe the honour?’ He snapped his pocket watch shut.
‘I have calls to pay,’ Kieran replied cheerily, filling a plate with a hefty scoop of eggs.
Caine raised a brow. ‘So, you’re taking the marriage challenge seriously?’
‘I’m serious about promoting the illusion that I am.’ Kieran winked as he took his seat.
‘As am I,’ Caine retorted, feeling there was a scold wrapped somewhere in Kieran’s words.
‘You’re not doing a very good job. You dance, but you have to pay calls, you have to follow up on your intentions or else you’re still a rake.’ Kieran shot his cuffs for emphasis and gave a devilish grin. ‘A gentleman pays calls, Brother.’ He flicked a finger at a folded newspaper at his place. ‘How does Lady Mary Kimber feel about your attentions?’
He took a sip of his coffee and Caine didn’t like the slow smile on his brother’s face as if Kieran knew something he didn’t. ‘You haven’t seen the pages this morning, have you? Your dance and subsequent departure to the gardens was noted. Page five. My valet delivers a copy to my room before I come down.’
Caine scowled. Mary wouldn’t thank him for the attention.
Kieran chuckled. ‘Finally, I get one over on you. Let me enjoy my victory.’
‘While you’re gloating, perhaps we could talk about Wapping.’ He tapped the list beside him. ‘I’ve been trying to construct a list of potential suspects based on what we know and what we can reason.’
Kieran nodded and his smile became grim. ‘Let’s hear it.’
‘I’ll start with what we know. On the night of the arms and cash transfer, those who did not want to see England offer support to Greece attempted to sabotage the shipment. This poses two questions. First, who knew about the transfer? It was, after all, a transaction arranged by private parties. That means a very specific and very limited number of people knew the details. Second, even if someone knew, why would they want to stop a shipment they had supported?’
Kieran drummed his fingers on the table and Caine watched the implication dawn on him. ‘That would mean the Ottoman sympathiser was an insider?’ He frowned. ‘A traitor at the very heart of the transaction.’
Caine nodded. That had been his conclusion as well, if his hypothesis was correct.
‘Fair enough.’ Kieran leaned forward. ‘Who’s on the list? I am thinking I don’t want to know.’
‘For starters, anyone who is a member of the Prometheus Club. That would be the inner circle.’ The Prometheus Club was a newly founded investment group headed by the Duke of Cowden and the Duke of Creighton—their sister’s husband. It was designed primarily for titled gentlemen to grow generational wealth and break the mystique that a gentleman didn’t work with money. It was a brilliant project in Caine’s estimation and a much-needed one. Too many gentlemen lived in a cycle of debt. ‘The six hundred thousand pounds was raised primarily by the club and their personal contacts.’ He read the list, ‘Cowden, Creighton, Carys, Colby, ten names in all and Harlow has applied for membership.’ This was the hard part. These were names of families they knew. It was difficult to see any of them as Ottoman supporters.
‘Harlow will be a good addition. Sounds like they could do with some variety, all those names starting with a C,’ Kieran joked to add some levity to a situation that was growing more personal by the moment. ‘You might want to check that list, though. I thought I’d heard through very quiet channels that Cowden had suspended Carys and Colby in favour of supporting Harlow after the scandal at the Duchess of Cowden’s ball.’
‘What was the scandal?’ Caine had apparently overlooked it and it obviously had not lasted very long, but had left an impact.
‘Harlow was planning to announce his engagement at Cowden’s ball, but that night Colby’s daughter told everyone Miss Cora Graylin had stolen her ballgown in an attempt to woo the Duke of Harlow for herself. In essence, Lady Elizabeth told everyone that Miss Graylin was a fraud. Miss Graylin left in disgrace and the engagement was not announced. It put quite the damper on the festivities and Cowden wouldn’t tolerate anyone ruining one of his wife’s entertainments or maligning a friend. He and Creighton put Colby and Carys out immediately, not that its common knowledge.’
Caine’s eyes narrowed as he thought. ‘When was this?’
‘When you were in Newmarket with Stepan looking over the colts.’
Caine did the calendar maths. ‘A week before Wapping. Well, that adds an interesting element to the game, doesn’t it. What if the sabotage wasn’t political but personal?’ He floated the idea, watching Kieran’s brow furrow in thought while his own stomach churned at what he proposed: that Carys and Colby had tipped off the saboteur out of revenge against Cowden and Harlow.
Kieran frowned, apparently finding the supposition as outrageous as he did. ‘That’s expensive revenge all because Harlow didn’t marry one of their daughters. They’d be blowing up their own money.’
‘The loan and armaments were insured. I heard that straight from Cowden. And insurance would have paid out much sooner than the Greek repayment on a war loan. It makes me interested in taking a look at Colby and Carys’s ledgers. Perhaps they are in financial straits,’ Caine posited.
Kieran shook his head, still in disbelief. ‘Fine, so perhaps insurance covers the money, but it’s not just the money, it’s the people affected. Losing that shipment would affect thousands of lives and the very survival of the independence movement. We’re talking far-reaching consequences that could reshape Mediterranean shipping lanes and trade routes, to say nothing of Christian–-Muslim relations in Europe. To use the shipment for personal revenge is the height of selfishness.’
It was that last part Caine couldn’t get past, the one sticking point in his theory. Would someone really sell out a country, a people and their own country’s best interests all for matrimonial revenge? It was hard to believe. Too hard. It was even more difficult to believe that Stepan had possibly died because of such selfishness. A Horseman’s death was something they all risked every time they rode. But that death was meant to be a noble sacrifice in England’s service. Not this. Not a meaningless death over a petty squabble.
‘What sort of person would go to such lengths for so little personal gain?’ Kieran ask the next logical question if they were to test the idea to its fullest.
‘A desperate man. It increases my curiosity regarding the state of Carys and Colby’s finances.’ Still, a man would have to need a lot of money to be willing to tip off an act of sabotage against one’s own country’s interests.
‘Or a man with no scruples,’ Kieran offered. ‘Someone who doesn’t feel responsible for the unseen lives affected.’
Caine sighed, not liking where this was definitely leading, but he couldn’t ignore the facts despite his desire to protect Mary. ‘We’ll start with them. Of all the Prometheus Club members, they’re the ones with any sort of motive to act in this manner. It’s not so much the marriage revenge that appeals to me, it’s knowing they’ve been put out of the group and now, perhaps, are bent on ruining the group as the group has ruined them financially speaking.’
‘And hope you’re wrong?’ Kieran took forkful of cold eggs and spat them out. He wiped his mouth with a napkin. ‘You’ve been spending time with Lady Mary. I thought there might be some feelings developing there.’
‘Not those kinds of feelings,’ Caine said shortly. ‘I have found her interesting to talk to.’ And to kiss and to share thoughts with that he shared nowhere else. She’d been a revelation in their short acquaintance.
‘Well, I suppose that’s all to the good since investigating her father for sabotage is bound to put a crimp in any friendly feelings, especially if you’re right.’ It would, indeed, and he regretted that because if it came down to choosing between justice for Stepan or protecting Mary, he did not envy himself the choice.
Kieran raised a dark brow in question. ‘What is it?’
‘Nothing.’ Caine shook his head, dismissing such morbid thoughts. They were not at that point yet. ‘It’s good to talk with you like this. I’ve missed you by my side riding in the park and I’ve missed breakfast brainstorms with you. It’s been lonely without you here.’
The sentiment caught Kieran by surprise. He cleared his throat. ‘It’s been lonely without you, too. There’s been a lot to sort through. Perhaps it’s been a mistake to sort through it alone.’
Caine reached across the table to grip his brother’s forearm. ‘Not any more. The Horsemen stick together. Always.’
Kieran’s gaze brightened. ‘In that case, go upstairs and get ready to go out.’
‘Where are we going?’ Caine asked warily. He’d thought to stay in and work on the list, see if he could come up with who the personal contacts of the members might have been.
Kieran stood. ‘To the florist. You and I have calls to pay.’ He nodded to the newspaper. ‘Thanks to society gossip, you have the perfect reason to call on Lady Mary Kimber. I’ll be calling on Lady Elizabeth Cleeves, Colby’s daughter. And we don’t dare show up empty handed.’
Caine rose and clapped a hand on Kieran’s shoulder with a laugh. ‘I like it, simple but elegant. We have the cover of courting the daughters and we can use it to gain access to checking their ledgers. We can confirm if money was involved or even if we’re barking up the wrong tree.’ His bloodhound instincts told him they weren’t, though. What a man didn’t do for money, he often did for love and Colby and Carys had both motives working against them.
***
At the florist, Caine produced a large cut-glass vase of Bohemian crystal. He and Kieran had made a stop beforehand. ‘I’ll take the red roses from the front window.’ Women had been crowded around the window, staring at the blooms from the sidewalk, so lovely were they. ‘All of them. They should be sufficient to fill this vase.’
‘ All of them? There are four dozen, my lord.’ The florist’s eyes widened in barely disguised protest.
‘Yes, all of them.’ No one else would have the roses, at least not today.
‘Yes, my lord. Shall we strip off the thorns?’
‘No, leave them.’ Mary might appreciate that the most. She alone would see the deeper meaning.
The florist nodded, choosing not to argue the point, although his expression indicated he found the decision odd. ‘Will you send a card, my lord?’
‘No, she’ll know who they’re from.’ Caine grinned at the man’s discomfiture. In the span of a minute, he’d broken two sacrosanct rules of flower sending and marked himself as not a gentleman in truth. But his money spent the same and so the florist merely nodded again.
‘It will be a pleasure, my lord. They will go at once.’
Outside, Kieran laughed. ‘I thought you were going to give the poor fellow an apoplexy. Yes, to thorns, but no to a card. And four dozen roses when everyone else sends a dozen.’ Kieran let out a low whistle. ‘Perhaps with a message like that, you don’t need a card after all.’
Caine grinned. ‘My thoughts exactly.’ The order would make Mary smile. At least that was what he hoped. Part of him wished he could be there to see her face when they arrived.
‘Still, isn’t that a bit extravagant?’ Kieran nudged him in the ribs as they continued down the street in the bright July sunshine.
‘Hardly for what I am about to do to her.’ He hoped Carys was clear of any participation. He hoped that Mary would never have need to connect his continuing friendship with her to anything other than his personal preference for her company.
‘ You’re not doing anything. If anything is amiss, it is her father’s fault. He’s made these choices,’ Kieran reminded him. ‘It all assumes our hypothesis is right. We don’t know that yet.’
Right or wrong, at some level it didn’t matter. The choices weren’t Mary’s choices. That was the point. If her father had sabotaged that transport, she would suffer once more for choices made on her behalf without her consent. Even as it was, she’d been reduced to playing the pawn and she didn’t even know it. If Caine had his way, she’d never know it. He did not want her thinking last night’s kiss had been connected to anything other than his own desire. She deserved truth and honesty and light. An association with him could give her none of those, only roses with thorns.
***
The roses came shortly after luncheon—forty-eight red roses in glorious full bloom and scent, thorns intact, in a cut glass vase that caught the sunlight, sending rays of light throughout the drawing room as if the vase was made of diamonds. A huge red silk bow was tied about it, tails flowing over the mantel, a display that put to shame every other bouquet in the room.
‘Who is it from?’ her mother gasped in delight at the sight of it. The footman had been so impressed by it, he’d interrupted lunch to announce its arrival. ‘The Viscount has already sent a bouquet.’ Some unexceptional carnations in pale pink. Mary could hardly pick them out in the room amid the splendour of this new arrangement.
Mary walked over to the vase while her mother continued to run through the list of suitors. Mary didn’t need to guess. She knew who’d sent these. Roses with thorns could only come from one man.
‘Is there no card?’ Her mother frowned. ‘How odd. Who sends a bouquet of this magnitude and doesn’t claim credit for it?’
‘A man who doesn’t need an introduction,’ Mary said softly. A man who kissed like sin in the dark, who dared even to defy a king’s command in order to pursue his own desires. She fingered the length of red silk ribbon. After the roses faded, she would keep the ribbon as a talisman, as a reminder of having known a man who was brave enough to live free and when she’d been in his company, she’d been brave, too.
She gave a surreptitious touch of fingertips to her lips, the memory of their kiss as vivid now in the bright light of afternoon as it had been in her dreams last night. Her body still thrummed with the echo of it as she took her seat beside her mother and smoothed her lilac skirts, prepared to receive callers for their at-home.
Normally, the prospect of an at-home would have bored her. It was a duty to be tolerated. The Viscount would call, the others who’d sent bouquets would call and she would give them their requisite fifteen minutes of polite conversation. But today, there was a new ripple of anticipation. Caine Parkhurst was coming for her and her body was alive with the thrill of that knowledge.
***
At half-past two, she looked up from conversation with an earl’s young heir to hear the footman say the words she’d been waiting for all afternoon. ‘The Marquess of Barrow for Lady Mary Kimber.’
Elation shot through her, obliterating all else. She instantly forgot the last words the young heir had spoken. All that registered was Caine. She could have looked at him all day, framed as he was in the doorway of the drawing room, his dark waves tousled as if he’d just come from a ride, his blue frock coat taut across his shoulders, breeches tight-fitted and boots polished. Hers was not the only breath that caught or the only gaze that lingered on this blatant display of roguish English manhood, but hers was the only one mattered, the only gaze he returned.
He strode directly to her and bent over her hand. ‘Lady Mary, I see you have received my roses.’ Around them, the whispers began, fans fluttered.
She gave a coy smile and lowered her gaze, playing the game with him. ‘Yes, I did. Thorns and all, my lord.’ At the covert press of his fingers against her hand, something private and warm passed between them. She raised her gaze to look up into those mysterious dark eyes, home to a thousand wicked promises, a thrill of excitement rippling through her. The devil was loose in the garden—and not just any garden— hers . Should she fear it or embrace it?