Page 6 of Undoubtedly Reckless (Rebel by Night #2)

All Roads Lead To

November, 1780 – London

“‘My most loving salutations to you, Roland, to dear Aria, and that goblin child Tristan,’”

Ariadne Darewood read, with the letter from their sister in one hand and a coffee cup in the other. “‘I write to you from somewhere near the Barbary Coast.’”

Roland tucked in to his coddled eggs as he listened to his sister read Cress’s letter. After several unfortunate misadventures, his sisters had rescued him from imprisonment and shoved him into a title he never wanted. Then Cress had sailed off with a highwayman that may have been in their employ. Roland would need to review the documents again but he was rather certain that the highwayman, Dev, owned and captained a ship currently carrying Percival Shipping cargo to Istanbul.

He was inclined to overlook the fact that his widowed sister, the Dowager Viscountess Schofield, was alone on a ship with a highwayman. The scandal of his return quite overshadowed the disappearance of the Dowager Viscountess and he was content to leave it that way. Dev seemed to care for her well enough and after a decade carrying responsibilities that should have been his, Cress was now having the adventures she swore she did not crave. Roland was pleased for her.

“‘Levanter encountered a pair of corsairs off the coast of a Greek island. At first, we feared for our lives until Dev started shouting at them through a speaking horn in some Ottoman language. And this is how I was introduced to several of Dev’s Turkish friends. We made anchor on the island and spent a lovely day replenishing supplies and supping with old friends. I never used to think I liked salad until I tasted the salads here. There were so many different varieties but I am beginning to recognize the salads I like best, such as a bean salad with herbs and another salad that is made up almost entirely of chopped herbs and tomatoes. I don’t feel like I’m masticating grass at all. Please see the enclosed recipe cards for Pinkie.’”

Aria paused and checked the cards she had set aside.

A quiet wraith named Sage swept into the room. She set a freshly ironed newspaper next to his plate as she passed by toward her seat. Sage was either his ward or his housekeeper, possibly both. Aria had produced her old school friend from Salisbury one day after Cress had left with her highwayman lover, and Sage had been their houseguest ever since.

Roland had not noticed when Sage started taking on housekeeping duties but they were all the better for it. He was not above allowing his houseguest to perform household duties. Heaven knows they needed it and damned if he knew how to run an aristocratic household. He was raised to be a country baron, nothing more.

“Sage, look at these recipe cards Cress sent.”

Aria handed the cards to her friend.

“I’m not certain I’ve ever seen bulgur,”

Sage commented, pouring herself tea. Unlike the Darewoods, Sage preferred a more traditional beverage to break her fast.

“It’s a nutty grain, quite delicious. You can use buckwheat groats in its place,”

Roland said as he scanned the newspaper headlines. “Did Cress send a recipe for a white bean salad?”

“Yes.”

Sage delicately sorted the cards. “Kuru fasulye?”

“If Pinkie can make that tonight, I will eat it all. I doubt we can get sumac here, but I would eat it without as well,”

Roland said.

“Not tonight, we have the Verdon soiree tonight,”

Aria reminded him. She eyed him critically. “Remember to eat before we leave. You are still quite thin and I don’t trust the refreshments there.”

“But it is a ducal house,”

Sage protested.

“The older the money, the cheaper the service. I will send a tray to you before Wilfred dresses you,”

Aria said firmly.

“As you wish, Princess Ariadne,”

Roland said absently, his attention on the newspaper. “I’ll be in my study. What are you ladies about this day?”

“Grave robbing,”

Aria said, sipping her coffee. “It’s quite the lucrative enterprise. Sage knows of several doctors at the university that will pay a good price for cadavers. The fresher, the better.”

Quite interesting that Sage would have such acquaintances. The story he had been told was that Sage was the daughter of a barrister. More likely she was the bastard daughter of some minor aristocrat. No matter, she was a good influence on his household.

“Excellent, good. I shall be available to escort you this evening,”

Roland said, folding his paper under his arm. “Grave robbing is typically done after midnight, you should know, but if you insist on committing a crime during daylight hours, I recommend Kensal Green Cemetery outside of London. There’s always someone being buried there and you’ll look like any other gravedigger, rather than a grave robber.”

Roland ignored his sister’s rolling eyes and picked up two cherry buns with a nod of thanks to Sage. The girl likely rose before the crack of dawn to bake them, and he was not one to say no to fresh pastries.

As he made his way to the study, still not completely at home in this grand house he apparently owned, Roland pondered Sage. She had refused the offer of new dresses but gladly received Aria’s castoffs, which were refitted by Sage’s own hand or at the hand of the two new upstairs maids who could sew. He had not seen a girl so intent on disappearing since Sabina.

A man the size of a rhinoceros appeared at his side and Roland heroically resisted the urge to flinch. Wilfred was his name and he had no idea where Aria had hired him from.

“My lord, you have an urgent packet from Percival Shipping. The messenger is waiting for your signature for return,”

the enormous bald bruiser of a man said.

“Where is he?”

Roland asked.

“He is in the front hall. Shall I have him come to the study?”

“Please do so. Thank you, Wilfred,”

Roland said absently, and entered the study.

It did not feel like it belonged to him yet. Schofield Manor was the London house owned by the Viscount Schofield, a title which had passed to Roland through his brother-in-law, Cress’s late husband. Roland remembered his father renting a small abode when the Darewoods would go to London, which befit a humble country baron. Owning a house and shouldering the responsibility of his family and household were new obligations after years of freedom. He suspected that, if he had chosen to examine his heart, he could very well resent the whole enterprise, but he owed them for his years of adventure.

While Roland had been privateering and presumed dead, his family had been driven to poverty. Roland had yet to divine the reason for that mystery, for his father had been a careful man. While never wealthy, their family had been comfortable, and Roland could still not uncover why they had been in such debt upon the death of Arthur and Muriel Darewood.

Cress, to save their family, had married their distant cousin, Percival Lindquist, Viscount Schofield, and the Darewood estates were rescued by years of hard work and sacrifice from the Darewood sisters. The title of Baron Darewood had passed on to the eldest of the line, which had been Tristan until Roland had risen from the dead. By same very acrobatic paperwork, the Viscount Schofield title had also passed from Percival Lindquist to Tristan, yet another thing that fell upon Roland’s reluctant shoulders.

If only he could gain his family’s forgiveness for leaving them to serve king and country, perhaps his days could be filled with something purposeful, such as running the shipping company Cress and Percival had built and which now funded their household. Roland had no pretensions of being above trade. The empty pride of being titled did nothing to feed their family, and Roland had gone hungry enough to know that security was more important than pride.

Roland looked up from his contemplation upon entering the room and noted two pertinent facts. First, his brother Tristan was passed out on the chaise, and second, his liquor supply was completely depleted.

With an inward sigh, Roland shut the door behind him and poked at his younger brother. Nothing. He poked Tristan again. Then Roland yanked Tristan forward so that the younger man rolled off the chaise. Tristan landed with a thud and after a moment, Roland heard a low moan.

“Had you not imbibed the entire contents of my sideboard, you would not now be reaping the consequences,”

Roland said, making no effort to soften his voice. The boy needed to learn. When he was Tristan’s age, he had his own ship and had captured his first Swedish pirate ship for the Crown. Tristan groaned and shifted carefully so that he was on his back.

“At the time, I quite enjoyed the activity,”

Tristan replied, his eyes closed. “There was wine. There were women. You might have even enjoyed it if you remembered what joy was.”

“Are you wearing orange?”

Roland squinted, chewing his cherry buns. He had learned it was best to ignore Tristan’s jibes. You could not defend yourself against someone else’s pride.

“The color is peach and it is au courant. If you bothered to wear colors, you would understand this.”

“I am wearing color. My coat is blue.”

Roland fought to maintain his composure. He owed his family at least the veneer of civility.

“I can’t tell. It’s so dark it may as well be as black as your heart.”

“That’s quite enough of that.”

Roland reached down and pulled at Tristan’s arm. Tristan had the choice of getting up or having a dislocated elbow. Sitting on the edge of the chaise, Tristan rubbed his eyes and temples.

“I don’t understand how you’re not dead,”

Tristan groused.

“Try to contain your disappointment.”

There was a knock at the door and Roland went to sign the papers in the hallway. He was not going to let anyone see the mess that was his brother. He took the copy of the shipping list and dismissed the boy.

“Is there no coffee?”

Tristan clattered in the sideboard.

“There is coffee in the breakfast room, as it typically is in the morning. There is also water in your chambers, where you should put yourself to rights before greeting your sister in the breakfast room,”

Roland said and sat down at the desk. He could scarcely believe he had a breakfast room, but more to the point, he was not certain how to handle his brother.

Truth be told, he rather resented his place in life. After a decade of doing as he pleased, it was a difficult thing to be the head of a household, especially one as fractious as his.

“Ah yes.”

Tristan threw back his luxurious hair and glared at Roland from a fringe of outrageous eyelashes. “What a diplomatic entreaty. I will retire, dear brother, but know that—.”

There, Tristan stuttered and frowned. “Dashed head hurts like the devil. You understand my meaning.”

“You resent that I am here and you wish me to perdition,”

Roland guessed. Tristan snapped his fingers.

“Exactly. Well done. Ponder that thought,”

Tristan said as he strolled unsteadily toward the door. “Au revoir to you, sirrah!”

Tristan attempted to exit the study and walked into the door. After a stunned moment, staring at the offending door, Tristan opened the door and successfully completed his exit.

Alone at last, Roland buried his face in his hands.

****

The Verdon soiree was really a ball but no one had bothered to tell the duke so. If a man of that station wished to hold a soiree, it was called a soiree.

It was a massive crush. The colossal ballroom was strewn with gold buntings and the freshly cleaned chandelier gleamed merrily with five hundred tapers. Four fireplaces crackled with roaring fires to battle the November chill and the finely-tuned string quartet had launched into a quadrille. A whirling, chattering sea of pastel satin and silk glimmered in the torchlight.

So long as the champagne flowed and the hors d’oeuvres were plentiful, the duke could call it church service and Society would nod along agreeably.

As both of the duke’s sisters had yet to take their societal debuts, the duke had opted to not have a hostess. Indeed, there was barely a host as the duke was notorious for keeping to himself. None of these factors stopped families, newly arrived into town for the start of the season, from having a lovely time. Contrary to Aria’s prediction, the dining room had eventually opened to a lovely buffet, if not very extravagant.

Roland noted all as he stood off to the side and held a glass of some liquid. He mentally tallied the books he had left in the study. There were many tasks about town he needed to see to and his strength was not so much regained that he could afford to spend it on whatever this evening activity was to be called.

If he was to enjoy himself, he would be better served visiting a discreet brothel or even staying home with a private tray for his chambers and a book. Alas, Roland had promised his attendance. He could physically be present for his sister even if his mind was elsewhere.

Dutifully, Roland had eaten the beef and watercress sandwich his sister had sent to the study. It was better than any fare he had eaten at sea. Then he allowed himself to be dressed by Wilfred. Employment in the Darewood household as still being sorted so Roland took no issue in being assisted by the butler.

Aria and Tristan had argued strenuously over his wardrobe. His sister favored classic attire and Tristan championed the most current fashion. Roland had compromised with them. He would wear his customary grey coat and black trousers but he donned the blue waistcoat that had still managed to horrify Tristan with its plainness.

“No embroidery!”

Tristan mourned in funereal tones. “No lace,”

Tristan stage-whispered, with a hint of tears.

“God’s tits,”

Aria muttered.

For Aria, he allowed his still-short hair to be lightly styled to her satisfaction. She herself looked lovely in some lilac confection and Sage was wearing one of Cress’s old blue gowns. Tristan looked like an unripe pear in various shades of green. However, they were all present at the duke’s house and not currently arguing, therefore Roland judged the evening a success.

Ransom had somehow joined their group and Roland suspected the boy had been in the carriage with them from Schofield Manor, but his mind had been elsewhere. Ransom had grown up with the Darewoods as his estates had bordered their own in Romney Marsh and they families went to the same church. He had inherited his father’s baronetcy and was officially Baron Braxton but none of the Darewoods addressed him so. The young man remained the lonely boy who was always welcome into the Darewood folds.

Their arrival to the event seemed to have heralded an impromptu meeting of young folk, the bulk of which Roland was unfamiliar. Roland briefly assessed the crowd of young rogues for threats, but they were all harmless.

There was an astronomical amount of work left on his desk and he felt foolish, standing in a ballroom, dancing attendance to dandies and fops. However, Roland had abandoned his sister for ten years and she had requested—nay, ordered—his presence tonight. He would drink an unappetizing orgeat and stand with her as she handled an array of suitors.

Belatedly, Roland wondered if he should step in and do something, but Aria and Sage seemed to have the situation well in hand. He could see that neither girl were seriously encouraging any of the young gentlemen, nor did the gentlemen show undue interest. In fact, they treated the girls with rather chummy friendliness.

The ballroom was stifling. How necessary was his presence if Tristan was there? It was too warm, there were too many people. It seemed to get louder and louder. Roland keyed into what his brother was saying, in front of his sister.

“Someday, Ransom, you’ll be lucky enough to touch a woman, maybe even fondle her tit,”

Tristan said sagely. “When that happens, try not to wet your pants. It alters the mood, not in the way you would wish.”

Ransom kneed Tristan behind his thigh, causing Tristan to spill his champagne on another young buck.

“It is time to do your duty,”

Roland interjected. “Tristan, dance with Sage.”

“I can’t dance with a virgin. Dancing with me would ruin her for all over men,”

Tristan hissed, serious as a priest. Roland reached for his brother with deadly intent, who nimbly maneuvered so that a blinking Ransom was suddenly leading said virgin into a minuet.

“They’re called debutantes, not virgins,”

Roland said wryly, “and you greatly over-estimate your appeal.”

He had drunk quite enough orgeat. Roland switched his glass for a flute of champagne.

“There is no difference between virgins and debutantes, and they are both equally unappetizing,”

Tristan said. And just then, Roland decided that he did not want to stand there another minute. He had been a seaman for his adult life, a man of action. Standing watch over a gaggle of ninnies was a greater hardship than he had ever known.

If he was being honest with himself, his brother was irritating him beyond what he could deal with after an ocean of regret.

“You will both remain here with Aria,”

Roland ordered Tristan. “Do not let her out of your sights.”

With one short bow to his outraged sister, who was fanning herself with agitation and glaring at him, he was gone.

Roland stepped behind a row of columns on the far side of the ballroom. The hallway on the other side of the columns led to the gardens, too cold for November, and so there were no candles lit. He could breathe better here, yet it was still not enough.

Keeping close to the columns, his eyes roved about the enormous ballroom. Roland made a brief detour to switch his empty champagne flute for a full one and continued on his skulking. He felt satisfyingly separated from the gaiety of the crowd. Mentally, he endured a scolding from the elder of his sisters, Cress. He would have never gotten away with that exit had she been nearby.

Roland spotted the blond duke on the other side of the ballroom. Roland kept an eye on his host as he skirted the ballroom. It was very dark in his hallway but he did not want to chance the candlelight illuminating his face, and thus, his escape from the ballroom. He saw the duke’s eyes drift in his direction and darted behind the last column from the door.

Unfortunately, that position was already occupied, a fact he belatedly realized as his body slammed into the slight form of a lady.

The champagne exploded into the air from both their glasses. Her flute flew upwards as she staggered for balance. Roland automatically snatched the flying glass with one hand as his other arm wrapped around her waist to keep her on her feet.

Champagne lightly showered them but Roland did not notice. In fact, his entire field of vision was enveloped by a pair of pale hazel eyes, peering at him from above dull spectacles. All the breath left his body as he stared down at a face he had given up hope of ever seeing again. The feeling was akin to being struck by a bolt of lightning. It was also very like being hit with a powerful left hook.

Those hazel eyes stared levelly at him and for a long moment, he could not move a muscle. A man could drown in those improbable eyes. Roland felt his senses drain into those deep pools of whiskey and bullion, and he was helpless to stop it.

He had found her again.

“Sabina,”

Roland let loose the breath he didn’t know he was holding.