Most Eagerly Yours (41 page)

His gaze drifted to the flames in the hearth. “D- damn it, Aidan, my f-father let the dream s-slip through his hands. When Victoria’s f-father died,
my
father gave up. And now he’s d-dead, too. What will he b-be remembered for? An undistinguished reign and a p-passel of illegitimate brats. As for m- me . . . I’ll be n- nothing more than a smudge in the h-history books. Illegible . . . b-bloody inconsequential.”

Eyes burning, he raised his face. “I am n-nothing, Aidan. Neither r-royal nor common, neither here n-nor there. And I am g-growing old. Old and worn-out and b-broken. And this—” He spread his hand wide, then bunched his fingers in a fist. “
This
s-seemed a way to redeem a w-wasted life.”

“You went snatching at shadows,” Aidan said, sympathy and repugnance at war within him. “Shadows have no substance, Fitz, only a darkness that sucks you in and destroys whatever hope there might have been for you.”

In a staggering flash of understanding, he realized he might have been speaking of himself. For years now the darkness of his parents’ fates had been the driving force of his existence, his work for the Home Office fueled not by altruism but by a kind of twisted, backdoor revenge, both on people like those who had swindled his father and on himself. All these years of putting his own life second, of denying himself a proper home, family . . . love. Had it all truly been in the name of duty, or self-punishment for his failure to recognize a scam and save his father?

His answer came not in words but in the image of a beautiful face framed in wild golden curls. The image wrapped itself around his heart so tightly that a bolt of panic shot through him. To love so deeply, so painfully, meant risking loss, heartache, despair . . . such as his father had known.

Apprehending criminals was easy. Was he strong enough for love?

Fearing the question as he had never feared an adversary, he forced his attention back to the man slumped before him. Crossing the room, Aidan perched on the settee opposite Fitz’s chair. “Did Rousseau murder Roger Babcock?”

With a slight shrug, Fitz shook his head. “All I know is that Babcock w-wanted to see me the day he died. His message said it was urgent, but we n-never did meet. He was found d-dead that morning.”

“He must have discovered Rousseau’s deception. Or he knew of it all along and decided he wanted out. Though I don’t quite see Rousseau as a murderer . . .” Aidan considered for a moment, then asked, “When did Rousseau first approach you about resuming the project begun by your fathers?”

“He d-didn’t. I approached
him
.”

Aidan frowned, not at all liking the implications of Fitz’s admission. He would have preferred to fix the blame squarely on Rousseau. “He didn’t put you up to stealing your father’s documents?”

“I didn’t s-steal them.”

“Then how did you obtain them?”

“My sister g-gave them to me.”

Like a tremor from the ground, the revelation rattled Aidan’s bones. “Which sister? Not Beatrice.”

“Of course, B-Bea. She d-discovered them when F-Father died. But she is a w-woman. What could she have d-done with them? N-naturally, she gave them to me.”

“Beatrice . . . and Devonlea. Good Christ!” Aidan surged to his feet. The answer had been staring him in the face, taunting him, all along, but he had allowed his personal feelings to blind him. He had overestimated Beatrice and underestimated Devonlea.

Even now he hoped, prayed, he was wrong. He clung to the possibility that Beatrice knew nothing about the fraudulent nature of Bryce-Rawlings Unlimited, or of Rousseau’s trickery, or if she did, that she had been coerced by that pompous, patronizing husband of hers. Indeed, that must be the source of their current marital discord.

But what if Beatrice
was
involved . . . what if she and Devonlea had only feigned their estrangement in order to deflect suspicion from themselves? Even with the abridged story he and Laurel had agreed upon, Beatrice would know that Aidan had gone to question her brother, and she would easily guess that Fitz would link her to their father’s documents and the Summit Pavilion fraud.

How might she react?

He took off at a run, heading for the stairs. “Stay here. Do nothing until you hear from me.”

“Where are you r-rushing off to?” Fitz called after him.

From the top of the stairs, Aidan shouted, “Queen Square. I walked Laurel straight into danger.”

 

“My dear Mrs. Sanderson, you mustn’t take anything Aidan says seriously. I told you he and my brother would come to blows over you. I simply never imagined Aidan would stoop so low as to invent such ridiculous slander about poor, hapless George.”

Having dismissed her maid, Lady Devonlea crossed her boudoir, a room designed explicitly to a woman’s taste with its feminine florals and bright striped chintzes. She threw open her wardrobe doors and selected an ivory morning gown, its frilled oversleeves and tiered skirts the very latest rage from London.

“Your brother is far from hapless, Lady Devonlea,” Laurel replied as she helped the woman on with the dress, tugging it down over corset and crinolines. The viscountess’s hauteur rankled, but then she knew only a fraction of the story and Laurel was not yet at liberty to reveal the rest. “And neither is Aidan inventing tales. In his pursuit of quick wealth, your brother has involved himself with dangerous men and dastardly deeds.”

Turning her back to Laurel, Lady Devonlea laughed, a cynical burst. If she had been slightly flustered by Laurel’s sudden appearance earlier, she had recovered her aplomb quickly enough. “Lace me up, please. I believe

I know both men far better than you. For whatever reason, Aidan has you fooled, just as he has fooled countless other women in the past. Perhaps he seeks to hide his own illicit dealings. Perhaps he merely wishes to coax you into his bed.” Peeking over her shoulder, she smiled coyly. “Has he succeeded, my dear?”

Any fondness Laurel had ever felt toward the woman evaporated instantly. She gave the coral satin laces a firm, final tug and tied a bow at Lady Devonlea’s nape. “Aidan would never betray my trust.”

“I see he
has
seduced you.” She waggled a finger back and forth in her face. “You should have heeded my warnings. Poor thing. Did he manipulate you into believing the seduction was all your idea? That is how he operates. Typically, though, he preys upon married women. That way his affairs are always fleeting, with no threat of commitment. Congratulations. I do believe you are his first widow.”

A snippet of truth in the woman’s mocking words made Laurel’s heart contract. Aidan hadn’t manipulated her into his bed; she had gone willingly, joyfully. But neither had he offered her any form of commitment. In fact, he had made his intentions perfectly plain. There would be no proposal, no future together.

He had admitted to wanting her. He cared for her, perhaps deeply, but not deeply enough to change his life. Perhaps he loved her, but not as much as he loved his work.

In the foyer below, the door knocker clanged. The continuing clamor drove all other considerations from Laurel’s mind. Could Aidan have returned so quickly from his confrontation with the Earl of Munster?

Over the maid’s protests, a man’s shouts rose up the staircase. “Beatrice? Come down here. I demand to see you this instant.”

Lady Devonlea released a breath. “How exceedingly tiresome he is.” But her face blanched as she spoke, and a kernel of fear sprouted in her gaze. “Wait here.”

Laurel lingered long enough for the viscountess’s footsteps to recede down the stairs. Then she hurried out to the landing in time to hear Lord Devonlea say, “You are my wife and you’ll do as I say.”

Laurel tiptoed down the first few steps and leaned over the rail, straining to hear. She caught a glimpse of the couple. The viscount had wrapped a hand around his wife’s arm and was towing her none too gently down the hall, toward the salon adjoining the dining hall. The maid was nowhere in sight.

The couple’s raised voices echoed through the rooms.

“This sort of behavior will get you nowhere, Arthur.”

“Oh? Do you not know I could divorce you on grounds of infidelity and leave you with nothing?”

“A lot of good my money will do you while you’re swinging from the gallows.”

“Me? Why you little . . .”

The next words were lost beneath the tramp of feet and the whack of a piece of furniture being knocked out of place. Porcelain shattered. Lady Devonlea let out a shriek of laughter that sent a chill scurrying down Laurel’s back.

She started down the steps but paused when a door above her opened.

“I say, what’s all the commotion?”

Laurel turned. Seeing a familiar figure poised on the landing, she gasped. “Lord Julian?”

Nodding his blond head, Julian Stoddard flashed a rueful grin. “I fear they must be arguing over me.”

Before the implications of his admission had registered with Laurel, the front door shuddered from a sudden pounding from outside. Aidan’s shouts penetrated the heavy panels.

“Laurel? Beatrice? Let me in!”

From the parlor, Lord Devonlea bellowed, “Perhaps I’ll simply kill you now!”

“Lord Julian, we must do something!” Laurel raced down the stairs and fumbled to turn the key hanging in the lock. Her fingers shaking, she jiggled it back and forth until the latch clicked. The door burst open, and then she was in Aidan’s arms, her face pressed to his shirtfront.

R
elief cascaded through Aidan in torrents as he crushed Laurel to him and allowed each of his five senses to assure him that no harm had come to her. Yet the time for rejoicing passed all too quickly. She pushed out of his embrace, her face a mask of alarm.

“Quickly! He’s going to hurt her!” A crash exploded down the hall, followed by the clash of combative voices. “They’re in the salon,” Laurel cried.

Leaving her framed in the doorway clutching her skirts, Aidan ran through the closest archway and dashed the length of the dining hall to the smaller parlor beyond.

A battle seemed to have taken place in Beatrice’s India Blue Salon. Among upset vases and furnishings that had been knocked askew, Devonlea had her pressed up against a wall. His hands were at her neck. Her eyes bulging, Beatrice gripped his wrists and sputtered for breath.

Aidan launched himself at the viscount’s back. Latching on to Devonlea’s arms, he heaved him away from Beatrice and spun him about. In the corner of his eye he saw Beatrice collapse to her hands and knees, her head dipping between her shoulders as she dragged air into her lungs. Devonlea’s face registered surprise, then panic as Aidan drew back a fist.

Devonlea’s hands shot up in an attempt to shield his face. “Don’t! You don’t under—”

Aidan’s fist caught the side of his jaw. Devonlea went down, overturning a small marquetry table and a bronze plant stand. The pot smashed and dirt and leaves skittered across the tile floor. The viscount fell onto his back, out cold.

As the sting of the blow radiated up his forearm, Aidan shook out his hand. Laurel swept into the room, stopping long enough to take in the prone viscount and the fact that Aidan was still on his feet before she hastened to Beatrice’s side.

“Lady Devonlea, are you hurt?” Laurel wrapped an arm around Beatrice’s waist and helped her sit up. “Can you speak?”

“He . . . has gone mad.”

On the floor, Devonlea stirred. Crouching beside him to assess the damage his fist had done, Aidan heard footsteps approaching the hallway entrance to the salon. Expecting a servant, he was surprised to discover Julian Stoddard limping through the doorway with the aid of his walking stick.

Their gazes met, Aidan’s no doubt filled with questions and Julian’s conveying the promise of forthcoming answers. But the young man also had questions of his own.

“What on earth?”

“It’s a long story,” Aidan said. “Suffice it to say that old Dev here is a criminal who’s finally been stopped in his tracks.” He jerked his chin at the window. “Get me those tiebacks.”

While Aidan bound Devonlea’s hands and feet, Stoddard assisted Laurel in helping Beatrice into a chair. Stoddard knelt before her and took her hands between his own. “Are you all right?”

Beatrice nodded, then managed a croaking re assurance.

“Goodness, my lady! Oh, has Lord Devonlea taken ill?” Rose, Beatrice’s personal maid, scampered into the room and came to an abrupt halt. She gaped with no small amount of puzzlement at her bound master sprawled across the floor, and at the trail of potting soil strewn beneath him. “Eloise and I heard such frightful clunks from belowstairs that I came up straightaway to investigate. What on earth has happened, ma’am? Shall I send for a doctor? A constable?”

“First things first,” Laurel said with an air of authority. “Please bring Lady Devonlea a glass of water and a poultice. Oh, and perhaps one for Lord Devonlea as well, though he doesn’t deserve it. And
then
alert the authorities.”

“Right away, ma’am.” Rose hurried off.

Deciding the time for answers had arrived, Aidan dragged a chair close to Beatrice’s and sat, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. He regarded both Beatrice and Stoddard, still kneeling at her side. “Would one of you care to enlighten me as to what you each knew, and when?”

“I still don’t know anything,” Stoddard protested. “I’m as confused as you are.”

“Then what are you doing here?” Aidan demanded.

Stoddard had the unexpected humility to blush. “A gentleman doesn’t like to say. . . .”

“It’s . . . all right.” Beatrice’s voice grated. Coughing, she pressed her palm to her throat and whispered to Aidan, “This is all my fault. I should have stopped it. Instead I acted the coward.”

“You encouraged Fitz to continue your father’s project, didn’t you?” Aidan spoke gently, but no less accusingly. “Even knowing it was fruitless and realizing how he might use it to hornswoggle others.”