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Seven

RYCLIFFE PLACE, LONDON - JUNE 6, 1816

XANDER

Celine had lost her damned mind. It was the only explanation.

I had gone to sleep anticipating a bit of a lie in, only to be ripped from dreams of entrancing blue-green eyes and sensual, graveled whispers at half eight by Godfrey with news that my sister-in-law had arrived before dawn. I found Celine rummaging like a peculiar rodent, unchecked, through my ledgers.

Now, she sat across from me holding a file of secondary ledgers that my brother had apparently used to track his illegal activities before his death. His involvement in enough illegal dealings to require a second set of books wasn’t shocking, but that she had the foresight to steal them was. Furthermore, Celine was absolutely insistent that William Hart had murdered Gabriel. William Hart. Bookish, bespectacled solicitor and vicious, bloodthirsty killer. The claim was incongruous at best.

Gabriel’s death had changed Celine down to her very marrow. That kind of grief, nursed with that kind of care, over that many years—it could do little else. But I had thought she’d retained at least a small fraction of her sanity. She was supposed to be the easy, biddable, respectable lady in the Hasket family.

Something had happened between her and Will last night at the masquerade, and that something had shaken the foundations of Celine’s carefully managed world. Good for Will.

Except that her evidence, flimsy and circumstantial though it may be, was also the tiniest bit compelling. The beloved son of my father’s steward, Will had always had a seat at the family table at Father’s insistence. I remembered the night he first saw Adriane LaMorte, whose family let the house next door. His bright eyes had been awash in instant adoration. With perfect clarity, I could recall the way she toyed with his affections before turning her eerie gaze to Gabriel with the obvious purpose of tormenting Will. I could absolutely believe that Gabe had compromised Adriane—I was almost certain he had.

Celine’s tale wasn’t that far-fetched—a man who fancied himself in love would seek vengeance for the lady’s ruined life.

“Wouldn’t you?” Celine insisted. “If someone hurt someone you loved? Not just hurt but destroyed. Imagine if it were Davina.”

She needn’t have twisted the knife; she knew without a doubt that I would do anything for Dav. I had, on more than one occasion, endured great expense and humiliation in an effort to spare her the same.

“All right, say I believe the motive. You have no evidence.”

She handed me a simple scrap of parchment, yellowed at the edges with smeared ink, but the words were still legible.

Hyde Park, 6:30

-W

I should have been grateful that she didn’t want to immediately hand Will over to the authorities with her “evidence.” But her plan to investigate the man was utterly absurd, and, in the very unlikely event that she was right, incredibly dangerous.

With a sigh, I reluctantly agreed to assist her, if only to prevent bloodshed. Christ, I hoped this wouldn’t end in Will and Mr. Summers refusing to help me with Davina’s nonsense in the future. It really was damned hard to find a competent and discrete solicitor able to keep my sister from ruin.

There was a little alley beside the offices of Hart and Summers, Solicitors. Three windows lined the wall on the first floor.

“Which one is his?” Celine demanded. I tried to picture the interior of the office. Will and Mr. Summers each had their own room at the back with lines of clerks up front. There was a room on one side that I’d never been in. Typically, I spent more time in Mr. Summers’s office, and I couldn’t recall a window there at all.

I pointed to the farthest window. “That one, I believe.”

She stepped across the gutter stinking of something I didn’t wish to consider. She then snatched an empty milk crate from nearby and upended it beneath the window I had indicated. When she rose to stand on it, I could only stare.

To think, I’d once thought her my most sensible relation.

“Remember, enunciate,” she ordered in a harsh whisper.

“I cannot believe I am doing this…” I muttered, mostly to myself, as I slipped out of the alley to approach the offices.

There was a little bell atop the door. I was so familiar with its distinctive clang that my eye twitched instinctively at the sound. The majority of my visits were to enlist one of the men in rescuing Dav from some scandal or other—never pleasant.

Mr. Summers’s door was closed, but Will’s was wide open. He was visible from the entry, behind the row of clerks. He gestured me into his office with a greeting and rose to close the door behind us.

My heart fluttered in distress. If Celine couldn’t hear—that would be the end of it. She would insist on “investigating” on her own if she couldn’t overhear our conversation and she’d get herself or someone else killed. “Morning, Will. Oh, there’s no need to close the door,” I blurted. “It’s a bit warm today. I could use the airflow. In fact, would you mind opening that window?” I gestured toward the one beside him.

His bright eyes narrowed suspiciously, but he performed the task without comment.

Every time I saw him, I was reminded again how striking he was. In fact, his eyes and impossibly sharp cheeks had featured in a number of youthful fantasies. It would be an absolute travesty if Celine were right. Handsome men ought not to be murderers.

As he turned back to the desk, something behind me caught Will’s attention. Cee wouldn’t… would she? I spun only to be faced with the sight of a gentleman peering around the corner from Mr. Summers’s office.

It took a moment to place him, the youngest Grayson brother. Tim? His hand was raised in an awkward wave. “Sorry, Will. Didn’t realize you had a client—Oh, Your Grace!” He broke off, wide-eyed, his cheeks flushing. The hand, frozen in a wave, remembered itself and crept behind his head to rub at the back of his neck as he straightened in the doorway. There was something expectant, wary perhaps, in his expression. “Repurchasing your sister from the pirates?” he asked.

Terror shot through my spine. “What? She’s been consorting with pirates again? Which ones?” I demanded, my tone too shrill.

He chuckled as he stepped back and rested his backside against the nearest clerk’s desk. The man offered him a disgruntled glare that—Tim? Tom?—failed to notice. “That was a joke. She’s been kidnapped before?”

“Why would you jest about something like that?” I snapped, still on edge as my pounding heart refused to slow. He truly was a gangly thing, wrapped in an absolutely atrocious waistcoat—had he purchased it in the dark? Citrine, juniper, and apricot swirled through the fabric in abstract lines. Hideous.

“Well, I thought it was too absurd to have happened before. What are you doing then?”

Panic surged back through me. Celine and I hadn’t considered that part of the “plan” before sending me into a murderer’s office. My mouth answered before my head had a chance to agree. “Oh, I was planning to do a bit of traveling and I wanted Will’s advice first.”

Perhaps I should consider speaking first and thinking later more often; it was as good an excuse as any I would have thought out.

“Where are you going?” Mr. Grayson asked. He leaned forward with interest, bracing his palms behind him against the edge of the desk. His legs were absurdly long; they half spilled into the doorway—though, his thighs, those were quite muscular, even underneath the revolting reddish umber of his trousers.

“I don’t know. Yorkshire? Scotland? I’m still considering my options. That’s why I’m here.” Why was he so interested? I’d seen the man several times in society, but I wasn’t entirely certain I’d ever actually spoken to him.

“Right, apologies. I’ll leave you to your considerations,” he said and stood, his tone just pitiful enough to leave me with that sinking, gnawing, guilty sensation in my stomach. “Kit, see you tonight,” he directed toward Mr. Summers. The bell clinked again as he strode out the door and my eye gave another twitch.

Even though his presence had been thoroughly disconcerting, his absence was more so. I was left even more tetchy and on edge.

Mr. Summers peered his head in to let Will know he would be leaving early. “Tom thinks Jules is expecting, and Kate wants the whole family there for the announcement.”

For several seconds, I struggled to process that information.

When Mr. Summers disappeared back into his office, Will returned our conversation to my flimsy excuse for a visit.

I was still peevish over Mr. Grayson’s nosy questions, flustered over Cee’s plot, and preoccupied by the mysterious man from the night before. I shouldn’t have been surprised when my mouth answered for me again.

“I’ve been meaning to travel for some time. And I expect I may settle more permanently at one of the estates.” As the words formed, they became truth. They flowed freely, as they had with that gentleman last night. I wanted it, desperately. To be anywhere but here, somewhere free. Scotland.

A sharp cough came from the alley. Right, Gabe’s murder. “I would need to set up provisions for Mother and Davina. Gabe traveled a great deal. Did he have anything in place?”

Will’s gaze narrowed again with suspicion. “Not that I’m aware of,” he drawled. “But I was not his solicitor, your father was still alive, and your sister still a child. I imagine the arrangements were somewhat less complicated.”

Damn… My mouth dropped open, and I waited, breath baited, for it to save me again. Seconds passed before I realized no salvation would come. Floundering, I replied, “It’s been so long, I nearly forgot. I’m so forgetful. You were friends, right? You and Gabriel.” It was stilted, to be sure, but I managed to keep the focus on my brother.

A glance to the side revealed a hint of blonde hair in the window. Damn it all, Celine!

“ Friends is a strong term… Why are you asking me about your brother?” Something about my gaze must have drawn his own, because he trailed off with a puzzled expression directed at the window.

“Oh, you know, just reminiscing,” I blurted.

He shook his head, turning his attention back to me. “You mentioned Yorkshire and Scotland? If you’re looking to make improvements, I would recommend the Scotland property. It could use some work and I think it would be well worth your efforts. If it were in better repair, should you choose to take a wife, you could summer there. Or you could sell it at great profit.”

Outside the window, there was a commotion, a man shouting, “Bonjour, Madame,” clear as a bell.

A sharp crack rang out, then the distinctive thunk of someone bracing themselves against a wall to prevent a fall. A feminine lilt in the falsest Scottish accent ever uttered replied, insisting she was not who the person claimed her to be. Masculine protests followed, slipping farther away.

Will rose to peer out the window, and I called out to him—dragging his attention back to me.

I rose and backed out of the room slowly. He stared, expectant, as I made my escape. “Well, that was strange. You’ve given me a great deal to think on. I should be going now.” And once again, my lips spoke from my heart instead of my head. “Do you think you can draw up some paperwork to keep Mother and Davina from bankrupting us if I travel for an extended time?”

“I can… You’re really not going to address that?” he asked, nodding toward the window.

“I have no idea what that was about. Some poor Scotswoman accosted on the street.”

“Right… I’ll draw up some paperwork. Perhaps daily and weekly spending limits with the most likely culprits, modiste and the like. You go see to your poor Scotswoman.”

“Thank you!”

“Yes. And, Your Grace?”

“Yes?”

“Next time, come alone?” His voice tipped up at the end, as though it were a question, but it was so obviously a statement, an order, that I abandoned my pathetic guise.

“All right,” I said and slipped out the door. The damned bell offered one last grating ding as I backed onto the street.

As soon as I was out of view of the glass door, Celine grabbed my arm and yanked me a few feet away. “Well? What did he seem like? Did you notice anything circumspect about him?”

“Celine?”

“Yes?”

“Never again,” I stated, then turned on my heels and left her to trail after me, protesting all the way back to Rycliffe House.