Jaded Moon (Ransomed Jewels Book 2)

For more than a year, not one soul had been brave enough to darken Ross Bennett’s doorstep. The fact that someone had the nerve to disturb him at this late hour flamed the anger that constantly simmered inside him. He’d worked hard to separate himself from the locals and took pleasure in knowing “hospitable” wasn’t a term anyone used to describe him.

Ross Bennett, the Marquess of Rainforth, hadn’t come to St. Stephen’s Hollow because he wanted friends.

He took another swallow of the whiskey in his glass and dropped his head back against the cushion. Whoever had come tonight would discover that soon enough.

He followed the soft padding of his butler’s slippers as they scuffed across the floor toward the front door and waited for the persistent banging to cease. Ross had no doubt Benedict would send the unwelcome intruder on his way in a few minutes and Ross would be alone again.

Muffled voices came from beyond the closed door, but instead of a continuation of the familiar silence, Ross heard the solid thudding of boots crossing the tiled entryway. His eyes flew open with a jarring jolt that rocked his whole body.
Bloody hell
! The interloper had entered his home.

Ross bolted to his feet, prepared to confront whoever had barged past Benedict, then throw him out of his house.

There was a single thud as a fist hit wood and the door swung open. A large, familiar shadow filled the entryway and Ross looked again to be sure he hadn’t been mistaken. He hadn’t.

Ross ground his teeth. “How the hell did you find me?”

The man smiled. “Finding people who don’t want to be found is one of my talents.”

“I ordered Chambers not to tell anyone where I was.”

His cousin, Major Samuel Bennett, stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. “Your solicitor didn’t reveal your whereabouts,” he said as he walked across the room and poured himself a glass of brandy from a decanter on a small table tucked next to the tapestried wall. “I figured it out on my own.”

Ross sat back down in his chair and watched Sam bring his drink to the matching wing chair opposite Ross’s and sit down.

Bennett stretched his long legs out in front of him and took a swallow of brandy. “Bloody hell, Ross. It’s a long way out here.”

“Obviously, not far eno—” Ross started to say, then stopped. Sam didn’t deserve the sharp edge of his temper. He owed him far better after what had happened between them. He took a swallow of his brandy and finished with, “It’s not so far. Three days from London. Two, if the roads are good.”

“Have you looked outside lately?”

Ross cast a glance at the torrents of rain splattering against the windows. “So, how did you find me?”

“Quite by accident, actually. I was going through the yearly reports for each of your estates and stumbled across one I didn’t know existed. Imagine my surprise to discover there was at least one property from which you hadn’t divorced yourself.”

“St. Stephen’s Hollow was my mother’s. It wasn’t connected to the Rainforth name.”

“So now you’ve come here to live out your life in obscurity?”

“If that’s how you want to think of it.”

Sam rose to his feet and slammed his glass down on the corner of the table. “Dammit, Ross. Don’t let them drive you from their clubs and their ballrooms. You can’t take the blame for what your father did. It’s him they should hate. Not you!”

Ross shrugged. “But Father’s not here to hate. I am.”

He sucked in a deep breath, the pain of his father’s betrayal of England—and of the Rainforth name—cutting as deeply as the day he’d first learned of it two years ago. “They’re the ones who lost sons and brothers and husbands in the war because my father sold military secrets to the enemy. They’re the ones who are suffering.”

Sam stared at him. “And you’re not?”

Ross took another long swallow of liquor to mask the wounds Sam’s words had ripped raw. He wasn’t nearly drunk enough to dull the pain. Not by a damn sight. “Why are you here?”

“I need your help.”

Ross stopped with the glass halfway to his mouth. He took in the serious expression on his cousin’s face, then burst out laughing. “My help? Haven’t you heard a Rainforth can’t be trusted?”

“I’ve trusted you with my life,” Sam said, his voice thick.

Ross shook his head. “That was a long time ago. I’m in no position to save anyone now. Not even you.”

“Chief McCormick disagrees.”

The name caught Ross by surprise. He’d met McCormick the night his father had died. Remembered McCormick’s endless questions, as well as the man’s attempts to keep his father’s traitorous activities a secret. Attempts that had failed miserably. London had learned of the scandal before the funeral. A mob of hecklers greeted him every time he left the house, even following him as he left London to bury his father’s body. The memory of the vile words they’d chanted was enough to kill any curiosity he might have about Sam’s request for help. “I’m not your man, Major.”

“Someone is using a portion of coastline near here to smuggle in opium,” Sam continued as if Ross hadn’t spoken. “They’re supplying the opium dens that are springing up all over London, and the steadily increasing addiction to the drug is at epidemic proportions. Until we discover where it’s being brought in and who’s behind it, there’s little we can do to halt its use.”

“And you think it’s being brought into England from St. Stephen’s?”

Sam sat back down and stared into the fire still burning. “Either here or somewhere close by. One of my agents infiltrated one of London’s opium dens and heard bits of information that made us believe the smugglers might be using this area of coastline. It’s perfect for smuggling, isolated, and far enough away from London not to attract attention.”

Ross turned in his chair and studied the serious expression on Sam’s face. “Are you sure?”

“Not positive, but close enough to think it’s worth investigating further. Both St. Stephen’s and Clythebrook Estate extend to the sea. Every mile of coast on either estate is not only lined with numerous inlets and coves where boats can easily come ashore, but dotted by a catacomb of tunnels where the contraband can be hidden.”

Ross didn’t want to believe Sam’s reasoning but knew it had merit. He rose from his chair and paced a small area. Sam’s next question intrigued him further.

“What can you tell me about Clythebrook Estate?”

“Not much. I haven’t exactly been the most social of neighbors. I declined the one dinner invitation the Countess of Clythebrook extended and only met her once by accident. We happened to pass on the road bordering our two estates.”

“What’s she like?”

Ross shrugged. “Pleasant enough, though I’m afraid the conversation was decidedly one-sided. She did most of the talking.”

Sam arched his brows. “Why does that not surprise me?”

Ross ignored the sarcasm and continued. “I did learn that she’s been a widow for more than ten years. She has no children of her own, but she spoke of someone named—what was it—Josephine I believe it was, whom I gathered she and her late husband rescued from the orphanage. She must be a companion to Lady Clythebrook with connections to Sacred Heart Orphanage. Lady Clythebrook hinted that a great deal of this Miss Josephine’s time was spent running the orphanage and seeing to the children’s needs.”

Ross stared into the flames in the grate and pictured the person about whom Lady Clythebrook had spoken. “No doubt she’s a mousy little thing so grateful to have been rescued from a life in an orphanage she is eager to do anything to please.”

“Perhaps she has some information that might be valuable.”

Ross was quiet for a moment as he considered Sam’s line of thinking. “Surely you don’t suspect Lady Clythebrook or her companion of being involved in the smuggling?”

“I don’t suspect anyone. I only know the little information we’ve been able to gather leads us here.” He was quiet a moment longer, then sat forward in his chair. “The queen has taken a special interest in this, Ross. One of her closest advisors has a son who is wasting away because of his addiction to the opiate and Her Majesty has vowed not to rest until every one of the blackguards responsible for bringing the drug into the country is hanged as an example. I’m also confident that those involved with stopping its availability will be richly rewarded.”

“And you thought the queen’s recognition would be of interest to me? Well, you thought wrong. The answer is no.”

Sam continued as if Ross hadn’t just turned him down. “I’d come here myself if I thought I could investigate without being found out, but we both know I wouldn’t go unnoticed even one day. A stranger snooping around draws too much attention. Just stopping at a nearby inn earlier tonight caused more notice than I would have preferred. That’s why we need someone local to gather information for us.”

“What’s happening in London is no longer my concern. I’ve made a life for myself at St. Stephen’s. I can’t help you.”

“Can’t, or—”

“Leave it be, Sam.”

Ross heard Sam’s labored sigh. No doubt there were several more reasons his cousin could give to convince Ross to help, but Sam didn’t argue further. Instead, he silently finished the last of the liquor in his glass and stood. If there was one facet of Ross’s character that had become more firmly engrained since the night he’d fired the gun that had killed his father, it was his deep conviction to forge his own way without a care for Society or their approval.

“Will you think about it, Ross? You don’t have to give me your final answer now, but sleep on it. Perhaps—”

“Let me find you a bed,” Ross interrupted. “You can get at least a few hours’ sleep before dawn. You’ll want to be on your way before anyone notices you were here.”

Ross rose from his chair and showed Sam to an empty bedroom. “I’ll wake you before dawn,” he said, then stepped out into the hallway. He turned back when Sam called to him.

“Ross. Here. I almost forgot.”

Ross focused on a letter in Sam’s outstretched hand.

“Your solicitor forwarded this to me on the chance I might be able to deliver it. He seemed to think it might be important.”

Ross stared at the letter in Sam’s hand, then took it. “Thank you. I’m sure it’s nothing. Probably just papers I need to sign.”

“If anything needs to be returned, have it ready and I’ll take it when I leave.”

Ross nodded and stepped out of the room. He closed the door behind him and walked down the stairs to his study. He’d just as well stay awake until Sam left. He was already too tired to fight the demons he knew were standing ready to attack the moment he closed his eyes.

Ross took the envelope and sat down behind his massive oak desk. He pulled the lamp closer, then broke the note’s seal. The letter was dated a few months earlier. It was from his solicitor and from the condition of the missive, numerous attempts to deliver it had obviously been made with no success.

Ross opened the folded paper and reached for a small slip of paper that floated to the desk top. He picked it up and glanced at it, his brows furrowing in confusion. It was a bank draft in the amount of five hundred pounds, made out to Mrs. Carrie Gardner. It had obviously never reached her.

Ross dropped the draft onto the desktop and picked up the letter.

19 January, 1858

My dear Lord Rainforth,

As per your instructions, for the past four years an annual draft of five hundred pounds has been sent to Mrs. Carrie Gardner residing in the dower house at St. Stephen’s Hollow.

Carrie Gardner
. Hearing her name forced him back to his past—a past he had no desire to relive.

He turned back to the letter in his hands and read on.

Upon the return of the enclosed draft, I sent a trusted employee to investigate. My representative found Mrs. Gardner’s residence vacated and upon inquiry discovered the details as I know them. It is with the utmost regret that I inform you that Mrs. Gardner has met with a most unfortunate accident which has claimed her life.

Even though the details are still quite sketchy, it seems Mrs. Gardner was a passenger in a carriage that overturned. The lady did not survive the mishap. The representative sent on your behalf checked as to the whereabouts of your child—

Ross’s breath caught and he stopped.

His child.

He read the words again.

…the whereabouts of your child but was unable to locate it. Since Mrs. Gardner was not known to have any family, my assumption is that the child was placed at Sacred Heart Orphanage located nearby. Inquiries have so far yielded no information.

Ross’s heart beat faster as he skimmed the words, eager to find out everything.

I have followed to the letter the demands Mrs. Gardner stipulated more than four years ago, before she left London. It was during our last meeting that she informed me she was carrying your child and assured me that you were in complete agreement with her request to use a portion of the money to provide for the child. Since you’d already gifted her with the dower house on St. Stephen’s and provided her with a more-than-generous allowance, I saw no reason to bother you with such minor details. Therefore, one half of every year’s allowance has been put into a trust, to be released to the child when said child reaches its majority.