Realm 03 - A Touch of Cashemere (23 page)

“What do you want?” Marcus growled as he edged closer, trying to get a clear shot. The moon streaked the room’s occupants on the left, and the dying fire added a glow on the right, but Marcus could not delineate Jamot’s and Trevor’s forms completely.

“The emerald,” Jamot flatly replied.

Marcus snarled, “There is no emerald.”

“There is, my friend, and I will find it.” Jamot tugged Trevor backward, dragging him toward the open doorway.

Marcus and the Baloch were in a slow moving dance of death, each circling to remain facing the other. “If there is an emerald, you will not find it here. I brought nothing with me from Persia besides a hatred for Shaheed Mir’s justice.”

“You took Ashmita from our camp. You and your friends have stolen our women and our jewels,” Jamot accused.

“Is that why you are in England, Jamot? You were not enough man to defend the woman you wanted, so you pay your penitence in this blind search?”

Jamot back stepped to reach the door. “It is you who are blind, Berwick. One of your group knows of the emerald’s existence, and he puts the others in danger. Mir will never rest until the emerald is returned.” As he spoke the last word, he shoved Trevor into Marcus, sending both to the floor.

Marcus wrestled Trevor off him, ordering his brother to stay in his room, as he rushed into the hallway to follow Jamot. Marcus listened closely to the man’s retreat before giving chase. The Baloch made his way toward the second level. Footmen from the lowest level of the house could also be heard racing toward his location, but Marcus concentrated on Jamot’s breathing. He could hear the fear as another vase crashed to the floor.

“My Lord?” Jeremy appeared in a doorway, a raised fireplace poker in his hand.

“Stay with Trevor!” Marcus ordered and began his descent to the lower level–his gun leading the way. He jumped over the banister and landed nimbly on the carpet runner just in time to see Jamot crawling through a draft window. A small salute heralded the Baloch’s escape before the man climbed down a rose lattice.

Marcus turned instinctively toward the footmen rushing up the main staircase. “Outside!” he ordered, shoving past his men. “He went out the window!” Despite being barefooted, Marcus bolted to the latched doorway, jerking it open, and set off at a run. Rounding the house’s corner, he saw Jamot mount a waiting horse. Although he knew the distance too much for the handgun he carried throughout the chase, Marcus stopped and took aim.

“Shall we follow him, my Lord?” one of the footmen asked as he skidded to a halt behind Marcus.

“Have several men secure the area, but our interloper will not return tonight.” Marcus turned toward the house.

The footman still stared in the direction of the retreating form. “Did you recognize him, my Lord? Should we contact the magistrate?”

“I will speak to the authorities, but Lord Summers will never find our trespasser. The man will resurface only when he is ready.” He motioned to his men. “Let us see what damage has been done. Send someone to the kitchen and have him bring tea to my brother’s room. Trevor will be quite frightened.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

Marcus returned to Trevor’s room to find Jeremy with his arms about Trevor’s shoulders, actually rocking Trevor in place. If the situation had not been so dire, Marcus would have found the scene comical. Jeremy was nearly a head shorter and likely three stone lighter, but he encompassed Trevor in his embrace and gave Marcus’s older brother the necessary comfort.

“Did you catch him?” Trevor demanded as Marcus entered.

“No.” Marcus surveyed the room. His brother’s clothing lay scattered about the floor. “He had an open window and a waiting horse.”

Trevor’s lips trembled. “I was afraid the bad man would kill you, and I would be left all alone.”

“Murhad Jamot cannot kill me,” Marcus said with a false bravado, trying to allay Trevor’s fears. “He tried before, but he is just a hired henchman. Jamot has no real interest in me.” He reached for his brother’s hand to pull him to his feet. “Jeremy will stay with you and help you straighten your room. Someone will bring you tea. I need to secure the rest of the house. I have men outside guarding the grounds. No one will bother us again tonight.” Marcus gave Trevor a brief hug and led him to nearby chairs. “I want you to assist Jeremy with your room.”

“Yes, Marcus.” Trevor smiled shyly. “You were very brave.”

“I was very frightened–just like you, but I was trained to fight the ‘bad men’ and to protect others. I will protect you, Trevor. I promised our father that you would always have me.”

“I know.” Trevor looked at Marcus with renewed admiration. “I loved Myles, but I am glad you are the brother with whom I am to live.”

“So am I.” Marcus ruffled Trevor’s hair. “Now, I must see to the estate. I will check on you in a bit.”

*

Marcus straightened as much of his study as he could. It would need a thorough cleaning, as would many of the rooms. Jamot had rummaged through closets and drawers, searching behind furniture and mirrors and paintings, but besides the mess he had created, the Baloch had caused no real harm.

Nearing three in the morning, he sat completely exhausted, unable even to muster enough energy to climb the steps to his chambers. Trevor had finally returned to his bed with the condition that Jeremy would make up a palette on the floor before the fireplace. Marcus had written Shepherd, Kerrington, and Fowler to tell them of the attack. He ought to notify the others, but he had convinced himself that Shepherd would see to it, but, in case he judged poorly, he added an additional page to Kerrington’s note, asking his former captain to inform Kimbolt, Crowden, and Swenton. Lowery would know when Shepherd found out. In retrospect, none of his former associates mattered: The only one who mattered to Marcus was Cashé. He needed to warn her, but he was taking a chance. If someone found out, he would be expected to declare himself. That did not scare him as it once had done, but he would destroy his friendship with Kimbolt, and, in reality, he wanted to protect the viscount’s heart.

“What do I do, Sweetling?” he whispered to the empty room. Marcus took a sip of brandy and listened to his heart. Six weeks ago, Jamot had kidnapped Velvet Aldridge, and Marcus’s life had altered. With a deep sigh, he took up his pen. He had to warn Cashé directly; he would die if she became Jamot’s target. Whether he or Kimbolt acknowledged her, Cashé could become a possible objective for the Baloch. Marcus would make the effort to warn her.

Ma Chère,

I must risk sending you this message. I will do everything possible to assure that no one else becomes aware of our communication. Yet, something appalling has happened, and I fear you may be in danger because of it.

Yesterday, my staff and I were called away to a fire at the mill. It was minor as the damage is reparable, but we lost two good men in the effort. Although I held no inclination of this being more than an accident, this evening’s events lead me to other conclusions.

Murhad Jamot, the man who took your sister, invaded my home after midnight, briefly taking my brother Trevor prisoner. Unfortunately, the man escaped before I could stop him. Do not stress yourself, my Dear. My family and staff are safe. However, Jamot’s entrance so close to the mill accident appears suspicious.

Therefore, I am throwing propriety to the wind and am sending you this warning. You are my concern. I cannot bear the possibility of your being in danger. Please, my Darling, take no chances. Allow the baron, and even Viscount Lexford, to offer you protection in my absence. I realize you are a strong, independent woman, but promise me that you will accept the good intentions of others in your behalf.

I will send this to you by my former batman. Mr. Breeson is an excellent man: He will be very discreet. I must ask you not to tell the others. I am certain Lord Lexford will receive the details from Kerrington, as will your uncle. I simply felt the need to tell you directly, without interpretation. I also wished to allay any fears you might have of my safety if you heard it secondhand.

Please, my Dearest, practice caution in your actions. You must know my heart rests in your hands. There is not a day to go by without my reflecting on our short time together. I count the days until I see you in London. Your happiness is my only desire, but I pray it lies with me.

Marcus

“You sent for me, my Lord?” Marcus looked up to see Breeson standing at the study’s door. Breeson had followed Marcus across Belgium before losing his arm at Waterloo. Upon Marcus’s insistence, Richard Breeson had taken a position on the Wellston estate. Marcus’s father and Myles had both agreed: As long as he lived, Breeson would have a home with the Wellston family. Of course, neither had expected that Marcus would one day be the earl. The man would forever be indebted to Marcus’s family for showing him the respect many of his fellow soldiers knew not.

“Yes. I need your discretion in delivering a private message.”

“Of course, Sir.”

“At first light, I wish you to ride to Manchester and deliver this letter to a certain lady.” Marcus applied the wax to the outside page.

Breeson looked pleased. “I must say, Sir, it is about time.”

His former batman often spoke too frankly, even when he had served Marcus on the battlefield, but the man had displayed absolute devotion, and Marcus had blessed the day Richard Breeson had walked into his life. “The lady is an identical twin so be certain you speak to the correct woman.”

“A twin?” Breeson mused with delight.

“Keep your observations,” Marcus warned with a wry grin.

Breeson reached for the letter. “Is the lady pretty, my Lord?”

Marcus remembered such conversations throughout their relationship. The older man had taken a fatherly attitude towards Marcus. “Very pretty, Richard. You may judge for yourself when you meet her.”

“It will be my pleasure, my Lord.”

*

Discovering that Lord Yardley’s lady could often be found alone had surprised Breeson. The lady’s sister and uncle regularly rode out, leaving Yardley’s love interest to her own devices. Unexpectedly, the baron’s staff had readily provided the details. Breeson quickly understood His Lordship’s concerns and why the earl would risk contacting the lady. The baron had not schooled his staff on how to handle a questionable situation.

Yardley’s estate had sustained an attack. Breeson knew Wellston’s personality: The earl had felt compelled to protect a woman for whom he cared, and this woman was a twin. It spoke of the earl’s nightmare–his not being able to save his own twin.

Breeson waited patiently for the baron’s and his niece’s departures. Within a few minutes, as predicted by one of the grounds keepers, the earl’s lady appeared in the upper garden alone. Breeson paused long enough to be certain of her solitary endeavors, and then he approached. “May I speak to you, my Lady?” he asked from some distance–aware he might frighten her.

Surprisingly, the girl rose to confront him. “If this is something to do with the estate, you must wait for my sister’s return. I am Cashémere, not Satiné.” She sounded as if she had said the words many times.

Breeson offered another bow. “Then I have chosen the correct sister. I have a message for Miss Aldridge from Lord Yardley.”

A smile exploded on the girl’s face. “Lord Yardley?”

“Yes, Miss. I am Richard Breeson. I served His Lordship on the Continent, and when I sustained an injury at a Frenchie’s hands, Lord Yardley provided me a position on his estate.”

Her face lit with happiness. “Lord Yardley sent me a message?”

“Yes, Miss.” When the girl did not move, Breeson suggested, “Might we step inside a moment? I would prefer others did not see us together.”

The girl blushed in embarrassment, but she found her reason and motioned Breeson to the open patio door. When they entered the room, the lady closed and locked the library door. “Tell me,” she said as she rushed to the man’s side, “that His Lordship is well.”

“Lord Yardley is safe, Miss. We had a bit of trouble, but His Lordship can handle himself quite well.”

“Trouble?” the girl asked anxiously.

“I am certain my Lord explains everything in his letter,” Breeson assured. “The earl is not injured, so rest your worry.”

“Do you have a moment so I might read what His Lordship says before you leave? I may have a return reply for him.”

Breeson smiled indulgently. “Yes, Miss.”

The lady broke the seal and walked away to read in semi-privacy. Breeson watched her carefully. The girl did not resemble any of Wellston’s former lady friends, but the batman supposed that was why the earl, obviously, favored this one. He could never imagine Yardley risking contacting an unmarried woman without a serious tendance existing between them. The girl sighed heavily and then refolded the letter. Yardley must have said what she wanted to hear.

“Thank you, Mr. Breeson, for riding all this way and for bringing me His Lordship’s message.” She impetuously caught the man’s hand.

“It was my pleasure, Miss.” He laughed nervously.

The girl shot a glance toward the locked door. “I realize you have little time, but would you tell me how you served His Lordship in the war?”

“I was his batman. Do you know the term, Miss?”

“Yes, I am familiar with it.”

“He is a fine gentleman, Miss–one of the finest I have ever known.”

She giggled self-consciously. “You have no need to convince me, Mr. Breeson.” She bit her bottom lip nervously. “Would you take a note to His Lordship?”

“If you make it a short one,” he agreed.

The lady nodded and rushed to the small desk in the corner. She removed foolscap, ink, and a pen. Again, Breeson watched her. She was a bold one, a good match for Wellston. His Lordship was always one of the first ones into a battle or a scuffle. Breeson had always thought the young lord had wanted to punish himself for not saving his own sister. And despite the man’s compulsion to save others, Wellston had matured into an honorable man. Tweed Hall had suffered from multiple tragedies, which had polluted the family for years, but Breeson had always believed it would be Marcus Wellston who would change the family’s luck.