Love's Peril (Lord Trent Series) (15 page)

The butler was waiting at the library door. He announced Phillip, and Phillip entered to find Charles seated behind his desk, reading through a stack of paperwork. He was having a brandy, a cheroot smoldering in a tray by his hand. He had many vices, liquor and tobacco being just two of them.

He was still very handsome, his golden-blond hair only slightly silvered, his emerald eyes mesmerizing. He was thin and dapper and fit, looking very much as he had when he was twenty and ruining girls from London to Rome.

“I heard you speaking to someone,”Charles said. “Were you fighting with Susan?”

“Yes.” Phillip went to the sideboard and dispensed a large amount of brandy into his own glass, then settled himself in the chair across. “She walked by when I arrived. She insisted you weren’t here.”

“Obviously, you didn’t believe her.”

“I didn’t imagine you’d invite me, then leave. You must enjoy making me suffer whenever I visit. She seems to stand in the front foyer, watching for me.”

“When I invite you, I never pause to wonder about her opinion. My desire to see you has nothing to do with her.”

“I realize that, but I detest having to quarrel with her. Why don’t you move? Why doesn’t she? You own several dozen properties in numerous cities and countries. Why don’t you separate once and for all?”

It was a question Phillip frequently asked, but the answer was always the same, and this time was no different.

“Susan can reside wherever she chooses,”Charles said. “She knows that. I will buy her a home—any home she requests—but she doesn’t want me to. She likes being miserable. If she wasn’t festering and unhappy, she’d be completely lost.”

Phillip suspected it was true. In some bizarre way, Susan reveled in the constant humiliation of being Charles’s wife. If she left him, she wouldn’t be able to keep track of his many children, wouldn’t be able to continually rage at the unfairness.

Charles’s offspring occasionally appeared on her stoop, seeking help, seeking money. Phillip had spread word far and wide that they should travel to London to be acknowledged, to be welcomed. Hackney drivers all over the city had been apprised that they should deliver any Sinclair child to Phillip, that their fare would be paid.

They didn’t always go to Phillip’s, though. Sometimes, they showed up at Charles’s by mistake, and it was easy to tell when one of Charles’s bastards was knocking.

Charles’s bloodlines were strong, his blond hair and green eyes passed on in most instances. And they all had a birthmark on their wrist in the shape of a figure-eight. It was called the ‘Mark of Trent’, a brand that indicated a paternity Charles couldn’t deny.

Susan never had to guess who was loitering on her stoop. The evidence was patently clear.

“You haven’t stopped by in weeks,”Charles said. “How have you been?”

“Busy. Fanny is planning a supper party.” Fanny was Phillip’s half-sister, Charles’s daughter, the first sibling Phillip had found. “She wants you to come.”

Charles wrinkled his nose with distaste. “You know I don’t like these family…gatherings.”

“Humor me. Come anyway.” Phillip stared him down, their identical green eyes locked in stubborn combat.

“I’ll think about it.”

“She’s sending you an invitation, and it matters to her to have you there. I’d better hear that you’ve accepted.”

“I suppose Helen and Harriet will be there, too.”

“Of course.” They were twins, two more sisters Phillip had located.

“So their husbands will be there.”

Helen and Harriet were married to brothers, James and Tristan Harcourt. There was bad blood between the men and Charles. When they were tiny boys, their mother, Florence, had run away to Paris where she’d engaged in a torrid affair with Charles.

She’d fallen in love, birthed a child named Jean Pierre, then been abandoned by Charles in the foreign country. She’d died years later, poverty-stricken and alone and unmourned by anyone except her illicit son.

James and Tristan blamed Charles and had loathed him for decades. Now, they’d wed Charles’s daughters. These days, their family get-togethers were never dull.

“If you attend,”Phillip said, “James and Tristan have promised to be on their best behavior.”

“What does that mean? They won’t take a stick to me when I arrive?”

“They will be courteous and civil.”

“And if they’re not? What if Fanny’s party is ruined with a bunch of sniping and bickering?”

“Then Fanny will take a stick to all three of you. She won’t tolerate any nonsense.”

Charles grumbled with irritation. “Why do I put up with you, Phillip?”

“I have no idea. Why do you?”

“It’s a great mystery of the universe.”

“Unknowable by mere mortals?”

“Yes.”

Charles flashed one of his rare smiles, giving Phillip a glimpse of what many women saw when they met him. He had a way of looking at a person, as if he was intrigued, as if he was smitten, as if he was concerned, but it was a charade. He was callous and detached and not interested in anything but himself and his own pleasure.

He lit another cheroot and pushed his empty glass across the desk for Phillip to refill. They sipped companionably, enjoying each other’s company.

Charles liked to complain about Phillip, liked to insist that Phillip goaded him into actions he didn’t wish to take. But beneath his veneer of boredom and apathy, Charles had permitted Phillip to establish a genuine friendship. Phillip had gotten as close as anyone ever could, and he was grateful for the connection his father had allowed.

“What is the purpose of my visit?”Phillip said. “What did you need?”

“I received the strangest letter.”

“A letter?”

“Yes, and I wanted to show it to you.” Charles unlocked a desk drawer and retrieved it. He unfolded it and scowled at the words that had been penned. “It’s from a woman named Mildred Teasdale. Are you acquainted with her?”

“No. Are you?”

“No. She’s a widow. Her husband was Bernard Teasdale”—Charles raised a questioning brow, but Phillip shook his head, not recognizing the man’s name either—“and their estate is out on the coast near Dover.”

“Why did she write to you?”

“Well, it seems her son, Hedley, has gambled away the property, and she’s begging for my help.”

“For
your
help? If she would contact you for assistance, she obviously hasn’t heard any stories about you.”

Charles ignored the insult, but he paused, actually looking disconcerted. “Apparently, the man who won their estate is Jean Pierre.”

Phillip bit down a gasp of surprise. “Jean Pierre?”

“Yes, and he’s there now, ready to take possession.”

“He’s in England?”

Charles shrugged. “So she claims.”

Jean Pierre was the boy Charles had sired with Florence Harcourt. He was Phillip’s half-brother, Fanny’s and Helen’s and Harriet’s half-brother. Tristan and James Harcourt’s half-brother.

Florence had had a difficult life in France. She’d flitted on the edge of the community of British expatriates, mooching and ingratiating herself, a ruse that had worked until people had gotten weary of supporting her.

She’d died when Jean Pierre was ten, and they’d assumed he’d perished too, ragged and forsaken on the streets of Paris.

The prior year, they’d learned differently. Tristan and Harriet had been at sea when Tristan’s ship was attacked by the vicious pirate,
Le Terreur Français
. The brutal criminal had tried his best to kill Tristan, then Tristan and Harriet had been set adrift to perish in a lifeboat. They’d survived, but only because Fate had intervened.

As Tristan lay near death, the pirate had announced that he was Jean Pierre, Tristan’s brother. It was a secret Charles and Phillip had kept buried, so Jean Pierre’s identity had never been revealed. Everyone—particularly members of the Royal Navy who were searching for him—thought they were hunting for a Frenchman.

But he was very, very English.

Somehow, he’d figured out how to sail and fight and rampage. No one was safe from his dangerous mayhem. He was a menace on the high seas, with his meticulous brand of vengeance reserved for those British citizens who’d been stupid enough to scorn Florence Harcourt when she’d been desperate and ailing in Paris.

He hadn’t come after Charles, though, and Phillip wasn’t sure why. Charles owned plantations in the West Indies, and his ships regularly sailed back and forth bringing cotton, rum, and sugar to London.

Perhaps Charles had merely been lucky, but it was probably just a matter of time before Charles’s fleet was scuttled, too. An attack would cause enormous financial losses, losses that Phillip hated to see.

Each farthing of Charles’s money that was wasted by Jean Pierre was a farthing Phillip couldn’t use for a dowry for a long-lost sister.

Jean Pierre was a fugitive, with the Crown offering a huge bounty for his capture. If he was ever seized, he would be promptly tried and hanged in a very public, very shocking fashion, and Charles and Phillip were determined that it not occur.

Charles was hardly a devoted father, but he refused to have one of his children executed. Jean Pierre was the son of a British countess and a British earl, so a death sentence would be an outrageous ending. Charles wanted Jean Pierre safely away, or if he could not be convinced to halt his crime spree, Charles wanted mercy extended so he didn’t hang.

Phillip had been investigating Jean Pierre for months, hoping to glean information as to where he lived or how he carried on when he wasn’t wreaking havoc.

So far, Phillip had made no headway. Could Jean Pierre be in England? Was it possible? Could he be that reckless? Could he be that brazen?

There were few witnesses who could identify him. When he boarded a vessel, his victims were so terrified that they couldn’t give good descriptions later on. There were wildly varied reports and no accurate sketches. He could be anyone, except that he had Tristan’s same height and build, and the Sinclair golden-blond hair and expressive green eyes.

Jean Pierre was the spitting image of his father, of Phillip. If Phillip and Jean Pierre stood side by side, they would look like, well,
brothers
.

“He’s going by the name of John Sinclair,”Charles said.

“How very British of him,”Phillip scoffed. “Why would Mrs. Teasdale assume he’s your son?”

“Evidently, he told someone.”

“He’s not hiding the relationship?”

“No.”

“What is she asking you to do specifically?”

“She wants me to travel to their estate—it’s called Bramble Bay—and persuade Jean Pierre to leave them alone and let them keep their property.”

“As if you would.”

Charles was a consummate gambler who played for the highest stakes. He would never expect a man to relinquish what he’d won with a shuffle of the cards.

Phillip considered for a moment, then scowled. “Has she mentioned any other pertinent details?”

“Like what?”

“Jean Pierre revenges himself against those who wronged his mother.”

“He hasn’t come after me.”

“I suspect your turn is approaching,”Phillip snidely said. “If he’s at this estate, this Bramble Bay, he must have a strong reason for being there. He’s risking life and limb by showing his face in England.”

“Only if he’s caught.”

“Still, though,”Phillip pressed, “Mrs. Teasdale and her son must have some connection to Florence, and Jean Pierre plans to destroy them because of it.”

“I suppose.”

“Could Mrs. Teasdale be correct? Could it be him?”

“I can’t think it’s likely.”

“Yet you’re worried it might be.”

“Yes, except that I read a newspaper report the other day that his ship had recently been sighted in the Mediterranean, that he was anchored off the coast of Italy. The Navy is sending some ships to see if he’s there.”

“Perhaps it’s a ruse. Perhaps he spread the rumors himself so they’re looking for him in Italy, while he’s in Dover, playing cards.”

“Could he be that devious?”Charles inquired.

Phillip snorted. “He’s your son, Charles. Yes, he could be that devious. He’s a chip off the old block.”

“Like father, like son?”Charles caustically mused.

They stared and stared. Finally, Phillip said, “Are you asking me to ride to Bramble Bay?”

“Would you? If it’s him, maybe you could talk some sense into him. You’re probably the only one who could.”

Phillip studied his father, wanting to refuse, wanting to insist it would be a waste of time, that it was ludicrous to imagine Jean Pierre casually gambling in Dover. But Charles rarely requested any favor from Phillip. Though Phillip loathed Charles for much of what he’d done with his sorry life, Phillip adored him, too.

In that regard, Phillip was no different than any of the girls Charles had seduced over the years. It was impossible to deflect Charles’s charm and allure, and Phillip was idiotically anxious to make Charles proud.

“I’ll go,”Phillip ultimately said, “but I doubt he’s there.”

“Humor me.”

“I will. If he
is
there, why would he listen to me on any topic?”

“It’s worth a try.”

“Yes, it is.”

“Better than him swinging from the hangman’s tree.”

“I couldn’t bear it,”Phillip concurred, “and I know Harriet couldn’t either.”

Harriet was particularly disturbed by Jean Pierre’s plight. She thought he was too alone, that if he discovered he had siblings who cared about him, he’d stop lashing out and the whole world would be safer.

Phillip downed his drink and stood.

“When will you leave?”Charles inquired.

“In a day or two.”

“Send me a message the minute you learn what’s happening.”

“Should I invite him to travel to London with me? Should I ask him to meet you? Would you grant him an introduction?”

“I’m guessing he wouldn’t be impressed by the offer.” Charles considered, then said, “You could bring him to meet his sisters. They’d like it if he would.”

“All right, and if he
is
the man who won Hedley Teasdale’s estate, should I attempt to convince him to give it back?”

“Let’s not get crazy,”Charles scoffed. “A gambling debt has to be honored.”