Lord Ruthven's Bride (7 page)

“I would have stayed, if you’d asked.”

“I know, but that wouldn’t have been the time or place, would it? I am a ninny. I admit it. But I do understand that a private conversation such as that should be just that: private.”

“Then you intended to tell me?”

She wanted to answer yes, but she’d never been a good liar. Her hesitation clearly said enough.

He nodded. “I see.”

“My lord—”

The door to the drawing room opened and her mother stepped into the hallway. She glided to them. “It is time you go to bed, Annabelle. Tomorrow we will be seeing the magistrate.

James stared out the window of the hackney and released a breath. Only two days had passed since Lord Harley’s arrest and James was in no mood for the party he was supposed to attend.

The chief magistrate didn’t agree that the jewelry in the tin box proved Lord Harley killed the four women, but he couldn’t deny the earl had kidnapped Miss Summerfield and Lady Annabelle. An official investigation and trial would follow, but Lord Montagu intended that Lord Harley spend the rest of his life in prison.

Some piece of the puzzle was still missing, though. James had found no proof that Harley was The Inverness Butcher. If the murders stopped, that should satisfy him that the earl was the infamous killer. And it mattered not whether Harley hung for murder or kidnapping, so long as he hung. But the lack of evidence bothered James. Not because he feared Harley wasn’t the Butcher, but because something told him it mattered. He’d been grappling with the mystery of the missing piece for the last two days, but to no avail. He had no clue as to what it was that bothered him.

The hackney stopped and James silently cursed. He’d accepted the invitation for the afternoon party a month ago. Long before he’d brought Lord Harley to the magistrate—long before the damn article appeared in the gossip sheets about Lord Harley kidnapping Miss Summerfield and Lady Annabelle.

James had spent enough time in the company of polite society to know they would never let pass such a juicy story. That morning, half a dozen gentlemen stopped him and inquired about the details of the kidnapping. By one o’clock that afternoon, he’d given up trying to get any business done and went home. This, he knew, was but the beginning.

If James ever learned who at the magistrate’s office sold the story to the newspapers he would shoot the miscreant. The magistrate denied the possibility that anyone at his office told the newspaper, and James half wondered if the man wasn’t responsible himself. He was furious that Montagu had insisted on Lord Harley’s arrest and James wouldn’t put it past the magistrate to sell the story out of spite.

The carriage started forward again and James spent the next fifteen minutes racking his brain for a good excuse to send his regrets to the host, but lying wasn’t his forte. How did a new viscount refuse an invitation from a duke?

The carriage slowed to a crawl and James pulled back the curtain. Carriages lined the street. Minutes later, they arrived at His Grace the Duke of Brodrick’s home. James opened the door as the driver alighted, and caught sight of two other carriages parked at the curb. He stepped to the ground and scanned left and right, then grimaced. Carriages lined the streets for three blocks in both directions, and he glimpsed additional vehicles on the side streets. To the devil with making excuses. The duke would never miss him. James turned and grasped the door handle.

“Lord Ruthven.”

James froze. It couldn’t be.

“Lord Ruthven.”

It was. How was it possible that of all the people he would encounter it would be Baron Morgan? James released the handle and turned.

The baron approached with his wife on his arm and his daughter beside him.

James gave a slight bow. “Good afternoon, Baron. Lady Morgan. Miss Morgan.”

“My lord,” Lady Morgan said in unison with her daughter.

The baron stopped near him “May I have a word with ye, my lord?”

James gritted his teeth. He should have stayed home. “Aye.”

The baron looked at his wife. “Go on ahead.

The ladies left and James started forward with Morgan alongside.

“The Chief Magistrate visited me this morning,” the baron said. “He told me he’s arrested Lord Harley. He also told me ye suspected his attentions had turned to my daughter.” Morgan clasped his hands behind his back. “I spoke with my daughter. Lord Harley promised her he would marry her.”

James looked sharply at him.

He nodded. “Aye. My wife and I were completely unaware of their relationship.”

“I am sorry,” James said.

“It could have been worse.” He shifted his gaze to James. “He could have murdered her.”

An unexpected relief flooded James. “But that did no’ happen.”

“Because of you.”

“It is my job,” James replied.

“You are a titled lord. Ye did no’ have to do a thing. But you did.” He gave a mirthless laugh. “I was furious with you when the magistrate told me you were watching our home. You should have come to me. I was wrong, of course. I wouldn’t have believed a word you said.”

They walked in silence as they neared the mansion.

“I am in your debt,” the baron finally said.

“Think nothing of it,” James replied.

“You realize everyone here will have heard what happened. Even if they didn’t read about it in the gossip sheets someone will have told them.”

“Mayhap ye should have stayed home,” James said.

“Our absence would have fed the rumors far more than coming. We must act as if we are untouched by the gossip.”

They reached the mansion and took the three steps to the door, then James lifted the knocker and knocked.

“Why pretend?” James said. “If ye do no’ care what they think, then you are untouched.”

The baron smiled. “My thoughts exactly.”

The door opened and a stout butler stepped aside as James entered with Morgan. The butler led then down a hallway to a large parlor.

“Ah,” Morgan said when they paused inside the doorway, “that,” he nodded toward a group of men to their right, “is the duke.”

Amongst the group of men, James had no trouble distinguishing the tall, young, well-dressed duke. The way the other men directed their attention to him, as well as the lazy confidence he exuded, bespoke a man of power. The duke met his gaze. Another man whispered something to him and he gave an almost imperceptible nod. James knew the man had told the duke who he was. So the gossip had reached as far as His Grace, the Duke of Brodrick. And given the gleam in the man’s eye, he relished a good piece of gossip.

James groaned inwardly when the duke left the group and started toward them. James told himself to take Morgan’s advice and stay untouched by gossip by simply not caring and realized he didn’t care. He simply didn’t want to be bothered.

The duke reached them.

“Your Grace,” Baron Morgan canted his head.

“Morgan. Good to see you.”

“May I present Lord Ruthven,” the baron said.

“Your Grace, it is good to meet ye,” James said.

“So, this is the infamous James Waterson, the new Viscount Ruthven.”

“I wouldn’t say infamous,” James said.

The duke’s mouth twitched. “There are worse things to be known for than putting a murderer behind bars.” His humor vanished. “In truth, you did us all a service. Is it true he murdered four young women?”

“That is what I believe,” James said.

The duke studied him, then gave a slow nod. “I imagine, then, that he did. Come, there are a few people you will want to meet.”

James doubted that, but followed the duke—for who ignored a duke’s
request
?

After three brandies, James began to relax. He had to admit, he liked the duke. He was a blueblood through and through, but he was fair and surprisingly pragmatic. The half dozen men he introduced James to were clearly part of an inner circle, and James found them all to be of a decent sort, even if half of them were spoiled.

They clustered around a small table in a far corner of the room, brandies in hand, discussing politics. James said little, but the duke was relentless in pulling opinions from him.

“What say you, Ruthven?” The duke’s eyes twinkled in what James was already coming to recognize as unadulterated mischief. “Do you believe our king poisoned his wife?”

“I say there isn’t a married man alive who has no’ considered the idea,” James replied.

The men laughed heartily.

“And what court would convict us?” the duke asked.

James felt her presence. He sipped his brandy and casually shifted his gaze to the doorway. Lady Annabelle stood beside her mother with the Marquess of Northington beside her. Lord Montagu stood on the other side of his wife and Lord Grayson and his wife waited behind them. So the entire Montagu clan had banned together to attend the party.

Why hadn’t they stayed home? Surely Lord Montagu was aware his daughter was the current hottest tidbit. Yes, he knew and, like Baron Morgan, clearly believed that meeting the storm head-on was the best way to render the storm powerless.

Lady Annabelle shifted and James cut his gaze back to the group. Lord Ailes spoken animatedly about a lady who wasn’t much of a lady, but the duke’s gaze lingered on James. A knowing look gleamed in his eyes and James tensed. The men burst out laughing at something in Lord Ailes’ story and the duke joined in. James laughed, as well, despite feeling Lady Annabelle’s eyes on him. How was he going to slip away from the duke, then make a discreet exit from the party?

He had intended to avoid her—for the rest of his life—but there she stood sipping champagne and blocking his path to freedom. She’d been at the party all of ten minutes and already her family had left her alone. Had they no idea how dangerous she was?

Dangerous? To the rest of the world or to your heart?

James started to turn back toward the cluster of men behind him when her eyes lifted and met his. He froze. He could give her a polite smile and turn away. And that is what he did, but not before glimpsing the furrow in her brow...and the hurt in her eyes. 

The moment Lord Fletcher finished speaking, Mr. Gibson looked at James and said. “Have you heard anything concerning Harley’s fate, Ruthven? Will he hang?”

“I am neither judge nor jury,” James replied.

“That devil deserves worse than hanging,” Lord Fletcher muttered.

“Horrible business,” another man said.

“The ladies were damned lucky you were on the case,” Fletcher said.

“Exactly how did Lady Annabella and Miss Summerfield come to be with Harley in his carriage?” Gibson asked.

The other three men in the group said nothing, but James could feel their curiosity as keenly as if they’d chimed in with ‘Yes, how is it two gently bred women entered a man’s carriage without a chaperone?”

James had taken an instant dislike to Brian Gibson when he met the man. Now he knew why. He had known the evening wouldn’t pass without at least one bastard making a comment about the kidnapping.

James finished his champagne and set the glass on the tray of a passing servant. “I’m sure the gossip sheets explained it all.”

“There was some mention of kidnapping,” Gibson said. “But how can two women be kidnapped in that part of town in broad daylight? Sounds melodramatic, if you ask me.”

James locked gazes with the man. “It isna’ melodramatic when it is the truth.”

“I will admit that Lady Annabelle comes from an impeccable family, but those women are always the ones with the wildest streak,” Gibson said.

The mood shifted to tension.

“I am certain ye are not saying that Lady Annabelle had an assignation with Harley,” James said in a low voice.

“Ah, so that is the way of things,” Gibson said with a laugh. 

James stepped closer to Gibson. “I will see ye tomorr—”

The duke appeared at James’s side. “James, I have some business I believe will interest you.”

“Forgive me, Your Grace,” he said, “but I have unfinished business with Mr. Gibson.”

“I am sure Brian won’t mind waiting.” He looked at Gibson and lifted one brow.

Gibson canted his head. “Of course, Your Grace.”

The duke grasped James’s arm and led him away. After they’d gone a few paces, the duke said, “Dueling really isn’t fashionable anymore.”

“I do no’ mean to contradict you, Your Grace, but only a month ago Lord Edwards shot and killed some young viscount who made the mistake of bedding his wife.”

“A very good example of why dueling isn’t done anymore,” the duke said. “Someone usually gets killed.”

“In fact, few men die in duels,” James replied.

“You are determined to be contrary on this matter,” the duke said in an amiable tone. Before James could reply, he added, “What did Brian say to anger you?”

“I would rather not say, Your Grace.”

“Ah, it has to do with the lady.”

“Did anyone ever tell you that you see too much, Your Grace?”

“No, I don’t think they have,” he said with amusement in his eye. “Now, as to the duel. First, despite the fact that Brian is an ass, he is an excellent shot. You do, indeed, have a very good chance of getting killed if you duel with him.”

“I happen to be a very good shot,” James said, feeling oddly injured.

“Then there is an even better chance one of you will die. If it is you who does the killing, you may be arrested by the same magistrate that arrested Lord Harley, and you may even be thrown into the same cell.”

James looked sharply at him. “That is an interesting prediction, Your Grace.”