Enticing the Earl (25 page)

The next morning he set out again, and by late afternoon he finally approached his own hunting lodge. He was relieved to see that here the rain had apparently not been as heavy, and there was no sign of flooding. His hunting box was built on higher ground, and they had never had water threaten them here.

He urged his horse on and rode quickly up the drive, jumping off and hurrying to the door. A servant opened it at his knock, and came out to take his horse around.

“Good to see you back, my lord.”

“How is Mrs. Smith?” Marcus asked.

“Doing well, my lord,” the footman said cheerfully. “She came to dinner last night.”

“Excellent,” Marcus said. He felt better already. “Where is my brother?”

“Ah, I don't rightly know, your lordship.”

About to head straight for the stairs, Marcus paused and looked back. “What? What do you mean, you don't know?”

“He went into town, my lord,” the footman said. “He hasn't as yet come back.”

“Carter, you imbecile,” Marcus muttered beneath his breath, “is this how you protect the ladies?”

M
arcus hesitated, not sure whether to head at once into
town to find his idiot brother—no, first he had to see Lauryn, to see for himself that she was better, and just see her.

He strode into the house and up the stairs, pausing to look into the sitting room. He had not really expected to find her there, but to his surprise, he found both ladies sitting demurely on the sofa drinking cups of tea.

Lauryn glanced up, and her expression showed both pleasure and some concern.

“My lord, are you all right?”

He came inside the room and leaned over to kiss her, caring not at all that the contessa stared at them both. “Of course,” he said, “why should I not be?” Only then did he remember what a sight he was. Streaked with mud from his exertions at the carriage accident, he also still had bits of straw clinging to him from his night spent with the horses.

Belatedly, he bowed to them both.

“Do forgive me. I spent last night sleeping in a stable. Before that, the road was washed out from flooding and I had to travel the long way around. On the way, I came upon a family who had suffered a carriage accident and did what I could to aid them. So as you can see, I had numerous delays getting back to you, and I am not as neat as I would like to be when presenting myself to two ladies.” He looked down at himself and shook his head.

“I think you have ample reason to be forgiven,” Lauryn told him, and the contessa laughed aloud.

“My
pauvre
Zutton, you are always the hero,” she said, raising her brows and giving him a mischievous smile.

“Nonsense,” he said, but he glanced back at Lauryn. She smiled, too. “I'm glad you're back in one piece,” she told him. “It sounds like a most harrowing journey, my lord.”

“I am more concerned that my feckless brother is not here, when I expressly gave him charge over you,” he told them, feeling angry again. “I will change and go into town and see if I can run him down.”

“But, that makes not the logic at all,” the contessa pointed out. “You leave uz alone to go to rebuke
pauvre
Carter because 'e 'as left uz alone?”

“It's almost dinnertime, he should return at any time,” Lauryn added. “And you must be tired, my lord.”

He wanted to tell her that she didn't have to “my lord” him, but he knew that in public, she wouldn't call him by his Christian name. Which made him ache to get her into more private circumstances, for that and other even more pertinent reasons.

Perhaps they were both right, and he should wait to chastise Carter. He was tired and hungry, and he wanted to hold Lauryn, feel his arms about her once again. Damn his brother anyhow, couldn't he do what he was told just once in his life?

Marcus turned and walked across to the window. No, he had enough daylight left to ride into town and check the largest hotels and inns—there were only a couple—and he wanted to find Carter in the act—as it were—before his brother came riding home with another excuse for his irresponsible acts, as he always did.

Then Marcus could ride back and celebrate a proper reunion with Lauryn, who looked delightfully healthy once more, finally with a little color in her cheeks. He turned back to smile at her, hoping to convey a promise.

“I am going into town, but I will make it a short trip,” he told them. “I think I know where to find my errant brother. Tell the servants I will return in time for dinner.”

Looking resigned, Lauryn nodded.

The contessa made a clucking noise with her tongue. “Be on your guard, Zutton.”

“Of course.” He bowed to them again and headed back outside.

He had a fresh horse saddled in the stable, then rode for town. He made no effort to put aside his irritation, and with every mile closer, his anger only grew. If Carter had just listened—just because he'd been cut off from his drinking friends, his gaming, blast him—what excuse could he give this time?

When Marcus rode into the area near the harbor, he kept a close eye on the faces around him, knowing he was near his brother's usual haunts. He pulled up his horse near the hotel by the harbor. It was the best place to stay, and also had the best tavern in which to drink and gamble. If Carter were not here, there were only a couple of other likely places to check; it was not a very big town.

Marcus tossed his reins to a groom, and started inside the doors of the hotel, when a familiar profile made him stop so short he almost stumbled.

It was not his brother's face, which he had expected to see.

“Tweed!” he said, startled.

The other man, who was shorter and stockier, turned and frowned at him. He had been about to walk out of the hotel, but now he turned back and faced the earl.

“What did you expect?” his sometime business partner snapped. “You've been sending me letters and notes demanding that I come, haven't you? Well, here I damn well am! I've been down to the warehouse twice, and your bloody guards won't even let me in, so what the hell do you think I'm going to do to support you?”

Marcus couldn't help it. He leaned back against the hotel's doorframe and laughed out loud.

Tweed balled his hands into fists and his plain face flushed an ugly shade of red. “Damn you, Sutton, are you making sport of me? I finally find the girl I want to marry, and I had to leave her in London open to all the damn young twigs of fashion who are trying to steal her out from beneath my eye, just so I can come up here to help you go through moldy boxes of china. God knows what the hell good that's going to do, and you have the nerve to laugh in my face!”

“No, no!” Marcus said hastily. “It's not that. But I was in London, man. I came all that way, and you didn't wait to see me. I told your footman—why the bloody hell didn't you stay put and wait for me to return to your house?”

“What?” Tweed stared at him. “I thought”—he slowly relaxed his hands—“Oh, hell's bells. What a mess. Serves you right for locking me out of my own warehouse. Come on, let's have a drink.”

“A fast one,” Marcus told him. “I need to find my brother. And we do need to talk at length, but it will have to be tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” Tweed looked outraged. “I need to get back to London. I have to—”

“I know, I know, you have courting to do,” Marcus nodded. “I do sympathize with the pangs of a man in love.”

Eyes narrowed in suspicion, Tweed stared at him.

“No, I'm serious, but still, you owe me at least a day, considering the trek you put me through,” Marcus told him. “Come on, I'm buying.”

He slapped the viscount on the back; the man felt stiff with his wounded feelings. Tweed had always found it hard to un-bend. They walked inside and on to the bar where Marcus asked for two ales.

“Make mine a Scotch,” Tweed said. “Now, why the damned brigade at the warehouse, and why would they not let me in to inspect the—”

“Moldy boxes?” Marcus finished for him. “Because we have had a break-in, and a guard killed earlier this week.”

“Killed?” Tweed stared at him. “What on earth did they think was inside that was so valuable? The thieves must have been disappointed. How much did they take away?”

“Nothing that we could tell, that was the strange thing,” Marcus told him.

Tweed shrugged and picked up his glass. After he swallowed a mouthful, he said, “Not so strange, they found nothing they expected to find. They swore a lot and got out before they were caught, that was all.”

Marcus stared at the shorter man, who was looking into his glass. “Mayhap. But it still seems singular to me.”

“What else?” Tweed demanded. “You said you wanted a long talk.”

“I do, but I don't have time to go into it now. You know we had a suggestion of trouble on that ship before she even set sail, and then when she was reported missing—well, she seemed to carry her own curse, didn't she?” Marcus shook his head. “I'll be back early tomorrow, and we'll get you back on your way to London and your chosen lassie as soon as we may.”

Tweed made a sour face, but he didn't protest again.

Marcus left him getting another drink, and, since there was no sign of Carter, left the bar to seek out another tavern. Where the hell was his brother?

He decided to leave his horse at the hotel and walked the two blocks to another tavern, but when he ducked his head to enter the low doorway and blinked at the dim light and smoky air, he made out a dozen or so patrons drinking, talking, gathered in boisterous groups at short-legged tables. But once again, he saw no sign of Carter.

Now what?

He had been sure that he would find his brother at one of these drinking spots. Unless he had found a willing barmaid, in which case, heaven only knew where an assignation was taking place as Marcus stood here, frowning at the thought…

Suddenly, he remembered the tavern on Two Hen Street where the odd little china shop stood, where he had traced the Asian to, the shop he was having watched. It was a small tavern, but perhaps worth checking out. He would have to go carefully; he didn't wish his face to be too well known on that street, but if he approached the tavern cautiously, he didn't have to be seen from the shop itself.

He strode off, walking quickly, thinking it more prudent and less obvious to come near the tavern on foot than by horseback, and it was only a few streets away. The sun was lower in the sky, and the temperature dropping, but he heeded it not at all.

This tavern, and this street, was somewhat less reputable, but in his present mud-stained condition, Marcus fit right in. In fact, he thought as he peeled off another clinging bit of straw from his jacket, just now he doubted that anyone would have claimed him as a gentleman, much less a lord.

He went into the tavern and, buying another ale, looked around at the dimly lit taproom. At this late hour, the pub was full of working men stopping on their way home for their brews, and it was noisy, too, and full of smoke. But although it took him a few minutes to check out all the faces, once more he came up with no answers. Where the bloody hell was his misbegotten younger brother?

And where was their man who should be watching the shop? Marcus looked covertly about him. Perhaps it was the quiet man with the scar on his face who sat at the side of the window, nursing an ale. Marcus did not try to speak to him, but noted his face for future reference.

However, Marcus took the dark brew over to the other side of the window where an empty stool presented itself as a carpenter, by the look of his sawdust-covered apron, got up and walked with slightly unsteady steps toward the door.

“Best get home,” he told his mates. “Wife'll have the poker after me head, else!”

Jeers and laughter met this attempt at high comedy, but Marcus paid little heed. He was staring at the china shop up the street. The sun had dropped so low that the first blush of color was streaking the sky; he knew he should head back to the hotel and reclaim his horse. He should ride for home before darkness descended. He needed a bath and his dinner, and he certainly wanted Lauryn in his arms.

But he had a clear view of the shop where the mysterious lurker had returned to, and to Marcus's dismay, he saw someone come out of the door of the shop, a face and a frame that he knew all too well.

Carter!

What the bloody hell was Carter doing in the Asian's shop? Marcus forgot to be gratified that he had finally run his brother to earth in his dismay at where he had found him.

Was Carter—could it be that Carter was connected to the mystery man? Could he be working the group smuggling opium?

Marcus felt cold inside. His harum-scarum half brother…It was true that Carter had been in trouble often enough, boyish mischief, for the most part, petticoat problems, lack of applying himself, his father had said. After their father had died, Marcus had continued to pull him out of his scrapes, when he could. But he'd worried that Carter was never going to grow up, would always be irresponsible.

Could Carter be capable of true criminal behavior? Marcus had never contemplated such a possibility. But Carter was always about; he could have picked up information about Marcus's shipping, enough to manage to get the opium on his trading ships, enough to manage to send intelligence to his confederates in a smuggling ring.

Smuggling, murder…

It made his blood run cold to think of his baby brother up to his neck in such affairs…

Marcus found he had lost his taste for the ale. He put his glass—which he had brought up to his lips—slowly back down.

Carter was walking down the street, right past the tavern. He wore a satisfied smile on his lips.

Marcus had to turn his face away from the window. He could not decide whether to confront his brother right now, or wait. What was he to say?

Did he wait to see if Carter admitted going to the shop? Was there any chance there could be an innocent explanation? If so, Marcus could not think of it. His mind seemed to have stalled, like a spinning waterwheel with no water to push it.