The Duke's Legacy (15 page)

“Lord Denver was teaching me to play billiards,” she said with an air of composed indifference.

“Is that what he called it?”

“You forget yourself, my lord. You’re an old and a valued friend, nothing more, and have no right to criticise me.”

“A friend? Oh, Abbey, do you really think of me merely as a friend?” He shook his head. “I hadn’t planned to tell you this yet but I have already sought your uncle’s permission to pay court to you. He insists that you be presented, as is only proper, and enjoy your season before you consider your future. But there is an understanding in place between your uncle and I which merely awaits your approval.”

“I know nothing of this, my lord. My uncle, at least, has had the goodness not to mention it since he gave me his word I might enjoy my season without thinking beyond it.” Lord Evans clearly felt the rebuke and flushed deeply. “I should be obliged if you would refrain from mentioning the matter to me again.”

“You know me too well to imagine I had any intention of spoiling your pleasures!” he cried, a hint of desperation in his tone. “But I can’t stand passively by and observe Denver turning your head.”

“You assume too much.”

“Do I?” He glanced down the table to where Sebastian sat between Laura and Cassandra, his expression a mixture of censure and disdain. Both ladies were laughing with abandon at something Sebastian had just said to them. “See what I mean?” He curled his lip in disapproval. “He doesn’t seem to be able to help himself.”

“You’re starting to bore me, Lord Evans,” Abbey said, toying with the stem of her wine glass.

“Abbey, the man enjoys the most dreadful reputation. He’s possessed of good looks and coercive charm which the ladies seem to like, and he doesn’t scruple to trade upon those gifts of nature. But it’s merely a sport for him, an amusing way to occupy himself when he has time on his hands. And after he has seduced them, it’s well known he deserts them without a moment’s thought for their welfare.” Lord Evans focused a gaze of immense gravitas upon her face. “He has excited your passions, perhaps, but my recommendation is that you remain on your guard.”

“Should we be discussing a gentleman’s romantic conquests at my dinner table?” she enquired mildly.

Clearly impassioned, Lord Evans ignored her rebuke. “Oh, I acknowledge he must seem glamorous to you, but I beg you not to be fooled by his sophisticated manner. Don’t be taken in by him!” he beseeched, touching her arm. “Nothing good can come out of having your name associated with his and I wouldn’t have scandal attaching to your spotless reputation simply because you’ve been led astray by an experienced rakehell.”

Lord Evans looked at her, love and entreaty plainly apparent in his eyes. Abbey privately acknowledged he must firmly believe what he was saying but she was in no mood to be lectured and waved his concerns aside with a casual flip of her wrist.

“Thank you for the warning. Now, can we please change the subject?”

“I won’t tell your uncle what I observed today. I’m not so hard-hearted that I don’t understand how frustrating it must be for you to live under such close guard the entire time,” he said softly. “I would simply caution you not allow yourself to be alone with the brute again.” He looked towards the heavy curtains, as though he could see through their thickness and observe the snow still falling steadily outside. “Blast this weather! Were it not for the conditions the fellow would have been on his way again tomorrow and we could be ourselves again.”

“Indeed, it must be most inconvenient for him, and even more so for his coachman.” Abbey rose with alacrity to join her aunt and the rest of the ladies as they left the table. “I dare say he’s as anxious to be gone as you are to see him depart.”

Lord Evans held her chair back for her. “Yes,” he said, fixing her with a probing gaze. “But do you wish to see him gone, that’s the question?”

Chapter Eleven

Sebastian stood, waiting for the ladies to leave the dining room. He was in a contemplative frame of mind as he rejoined the gentlemen congregated around Lord Bevan’s position at the head of the table. The port was circulating before the last of them resumed his seat. Sebastian, draped in an elegant sprawl, accepted the decanter and filled his glass. He observed the rest of the party through hooded eyes, saying little, missing even less. If he was to learn anything from any of these men, now was the most likely time for it. Alcohol and the absence of the ladies combined to loosen tongues.

The only male who’d had regular contact with Abbey over recent weeks and who wasn’t present was Lord Woodley, Beatrice’s intended. Since Sebastian agreed with Abbey that he could have no possible reason to wish her harm, his absence was of no consequence.

The remaining gentlemen partaking of Bevan’s excellent port were an eclectic mix. Lord Bevan was playing the part of the genial host with and no ulterior motives that were immediately apparent to Sebastian. He would be principal beneficiary if any misfortune befell Abbey, it was true, but under such circumstances suspicion would immediately be focused upon him. Gossip and innuendo would inevitably follow and society wouldn’t refrain from condemning him simply because there was no definitive proof. Sebastian couldn’t bring himself to believe a gentleman with such a refined sense of familial responsibility would risk bringing censure upon his name, no matter how perilous his personal circumstances might be.

Bevan’s elder son Tobias was a humourless and dour individual. He appeared suspicious and disapproving of Sebastian presence and had little of consequence to say to him. But that hardly signified since he didn’t make much effort to converse with anyone else, either. He was completely wrapped up in the management of his father’s estates and, if only half of what the vivacious Cassandra had implied during the course of dinner was to be believed, neglectful of his lovely wife. But did he have the cognitive capability to devise such a convoluted campaign to bring about Abbey’s demise? He would benefit from her death because anything his father inherited would eventually fall into his hands. It didn’t seem likely he would go to such lengths, but it would be unwise to discount any possibility at this stage, however tenuous.

Harold Bevan was altogether another matter. Unless Sebastian’s ability to assess character had become impaired over recent months then Harold was exactly what he appeared to be—a dedicated and compassionate man of God with no ambition to accumulate additional personal wealth. Indeed, from remarks made during the course of the evening, Sebastian had been left with the impression that Harold was generous to a fault, often assisting those who had fallen on hard times from his own pocket.

Sebastian’s gaze rested next upon Lord Wilsden. Now there was an interesting character. With a great sense of self-importance, Wilsden was completely dedicated to the Prince Regent and was regarded as one of his closest confidants. He gave no indication of being anything other than financially sound, but that hadn’t prevented him from borrowing several times from the Penrith estate—increasingly large amounts required for a very interesting purpose.

Artful and calculating, he would have been Sebastian’s first choice as the mastermind behind Abbey’s accidents, were it not for the fact that he was so anxious to see his son Charles wedded to her. And even if that weren’t the case, what possible advantage would there be for him if Abbey died? In his case, it was in his best interests to keep her alive and do everything in his power to keep her that way in the hope of persuading her into a union with Charles, whose company she clearly found entertaining. Several times this evening the two of them had laughed aloud at some private joke or other that left Sebastian feeling excluded and, damn it, jealous.

He really wanted to find a reason for Wilsden to be the guilty party. Unfortunately, none sprang to mind. If Abbey were to die then Wilsden would no longer be able to borrow from the estate and further his other driving ambition—another reason to keep her alive.

Wilsden’s elder son, Gerald, was affable enough. He spent a lot of time in the
ton
and was already known to Sebastian. He enjoyed society and had a carelessly affectionate relationship with his wife Elizabeth. Both, he suspected, turned elsewhere for their pleasures. Sebastian’s sixth-sense told him Gerald was exactly what he appeared to be—a harmless, intellectually challenged individual, with no murderous intentions towards Abbey. It any event it would require a massive leap of faith to imagine him in possession of sufficient wits and the devious turn of mind necessary to invent such a multifarious plot, much less the energy to put it into practise. Even if Sebastian had underestimated his intellectual capabilities, he appeared a little too fond of the port for what wits he did possess to remain sharp enough to collude in Abbey’s demise. His penchant for the ruby liquid was amply demonstrated at that precise moment as he took Evans to task for delaying the decanter’s journey.

Sebastian didn’t imagine that Sir Michael or Simon Graves were culpable since they too were both intent upon winning Abbey’s hand and gaining access to the Penrith fortune. That they were discomfited by Sebastian’s presence, and regarded him malevolently, was not in question. Sebastian knew this was because they saw him as a direct threat to their marital aspirations rather than for more sinister reasons.

Evans was no less anxious to see Abbey remaining hale and hearty. Sebastian suspected she was right to assume her uncle favoured him as a husband for her. That much had become apparent to him, even in the short time he’d been in Evans’s company. It was equally clear that Evans despised Sebastian, and after his observations today, who could blame him? Evans, gentlemanly to a fault, was now brooding over his port, lifting his head occasionally to shoot looks of pure vitriol in Sebastian’s direction. Sebastian parried those looks with a derisive expression, aware he had unwittingly made an enemy out of an honourable man. That situation caused him no pleasure but short of breaking his promise to Abbey and explaining to Evans his true reason for being amongst them, there was nothing he could do to set matters right. The best favour he could do Evans was to resolve his business quickly and leave the field clear for him.

Sebastian had observed Evans, deep in conversation with Abbey during the latter part of dinner, his expression oscillating between irate severity and volcanic passion. Sebastian hardly needed Abbey to confirm the nature of that conversation when they were next able to exchange a few private words. It was obvious Evans cared deeply for her and was the only one of her suitors who wanted her for herself, rather than for the pecuniary and social advantages to be derived from the Penrith estate. Sebastian felt his respect for Lord Bevan racket up a notch. A sharp brain that clearly held Abbey’s best interests at heart resided behind a façade of vague amiability. The public face of Lord Bevan might cause people to underestimate his intelligence but Sebastian wasn’t fooled. Bevan had already detected in Evans the qualities necessary to make a suitable consort for Abbey, which spoke volumes for his perspicacity.

Sebastian experienced another sharp pang of jealousy as he grappled with this thought. To his certain knowledge he had never once, in all of his thirty years, lost so much as a wink of sleep over a member of the fairer sex. Abbey was an enchanting little minx, it was true. He enjoyed her company, admired her courage and pitied the situation she found herself in, but she meant nothing more to him than that. He was here for one purpose only and that didn’t involve unravelling her uncle’s carefully laid plans for her wellbeing.

Sebastian’s speculative gaze came to rest upon Charles Wilsden. He was in full flow at that moment, entertaining the table with a risqué story about a curricle race which involved a lady of questionable morals being paid by his opponent to distract him. He was a natural raconteur and kept the party amused with his light-hearted account.

“What could I do?” He spread his hands and shrugged. “The lady literally threw herself at me and, let me tell you, she was deuced attractive. Not the sort of invitation a chap could turn down. Couldn’t have afforded to pay for her services from my own pocket, you see, so I was dashed obliged to my competitor. Anyway, I got the better of him in the end, and enjoyed the lady’s company into the bargain, since Fanshaw’s leader went lame ten miles out from Brighton and I tooled past him not one hour later, promising him a full account of my experiences at the lady’s accomplished hands when we reached our destination.”

“Where do you procure your cattle, Wilsden?” Sebastian asked when the laughter and raucous comments had died down. He was curious to see if his answer corresponded with the information Abbey had already provided him with.

“Tattersall’s,” he responded without hesitation. “Mark my words, there’s no place better. I pride myself on having a good eye for horseflesh. I pick ’em young and break ’em myself. Upon my honour, ’tis the only way to be sure of their mettle, and damned good sport it is, too. I make a little extra by knocking ’em into shape and selling some of ’em on.”

The conversation turned to horses in general but Sebastian played little part in it. He was still curious about Charles Wilsden, the obvious candidate for the role of Abbey’s assailant. He was charismatic, popular and easily his brother’s intellectual superior. But he was also idle, reluctant to take on any responsibility which would distract him from his sporting endeavours and an enthusiastic gamester to boot. In spite of his assertion that he recouped part of the funds he expended on his horses by breaking them and selling them on, Sebastian doubted that would provide him with sufficient blunt to support his expensive activities. Had he not just confirmed the fact by confessing he didn’t even have the wherewithal to procure the services of a high-class whore?

But what did he have to gain from seeing Abbey dead? Frustratingly, nothing whatsoever was the only answer Sebastian could come up with. Whichever way he looked at it Charles Wilsden, younger son of an earl and no blood relation of Abigail Carstairs, could have no expectations in the event of her demise.