Loving a Lost Lord (24 page)

Will laughed while Randall glanced down, embarrassed. “You have been a better lady than I have a gentleman. I hope you'll forgive my initial rudeness.”

“You were protective of a friend. How can I blame you for that?”

“Many people would.” He tucked the papers inside his coat. “Besides information about your father, do you also want George Burke located?”

“My father is more important. But perhaps finding Burke would help in that.” Her mouth tightened. “If he deliberately lied about my father being killed, he is beneath contempt.”

“Shall I kill him for you?” Randall asked politely.

“Don't tempt me!” she exclaimed, not sure he was joking.

“Very well. I shall only damage him a little.”

From the glint in Randall's eyes, Mariah was quite sure that was not a joke. “As long as you don't damage him too much,” she said rather halfheartedly.

Wryly she accepted that if she truly was a lady, like her imaginary sister, she would be shocked at Randall's suggestion. But the last weeks had persuaded her that she would never be a model of decorum, and it was better to give up trying.

Because Adam was resting, his friends left and Mariah went in search of Mr. Formby. The secretary had a spacious office in the back of the house, and he was happy to supply her with the Lincolnshire address where Janey Lawford was staying. He even provided a franked piece of paper so the letter could be sent without paying postage. Before going to Scotland, Adam had signed a number of sheets for use by the household, and Formby still had half a drawer full.

Upstairs at the writing desk again, Mariah thought carefully about what she wanted to say before applying pen to paper. There must be no suggestion that she and Adam had a romantic relationship. Better if Mariah sounded more like a concerned aunt.

My dear Miss Lawford…
She started by apologizing for writing when they hadn't been introduced and summarized how she had met Adam. Then she got to the meat of the letter.

With a sigh, she sealed the letter so it could be sent out in the morning. She might not be a real lady, but she was trying to do what was best for Adam.

She hoped that somewhere up in heaven, she was getting credit for being noble.

Adam awoke slowly, grateful that his head no longer hurt. In fact, his thoughts had a clarity he hadn't known for…a very long time.

Eyes closed, he explored his mind. The jagged, unruly pieces of himself seemed to have settled down into a peaceful whole. Some of the seams might be rough, but no longer did he feel fragmented, as he had earlier.

Now he clearly remembered his life as a duke. Managing his properties, a huge task even with the able assistance of Formby and others. Sitting in the House of Lords, hearing debates, the give and take of negotiating votes. Having people seek out his influence and favor for themselves or their children.

In Cumberland, he'd had trouble accepting his rank, yet now he realized that in his real life he had become comfortable with being a duke. He had worked conscientiously to use his power and money well, and he'd been successful.

Methodically he looked back on his life, starting with his childhood in India. Though he'd dreamed of his mother, now he also remembered his father: green eyed, good-natured, and reveling in the richness of life in India. Ten years had been long enough for him to know Andrew Lawford well, and miss him forever.

Vivid memories swirled through him. Perhaps the earliest was riding an elephant in a swaying howdah with Andrew's arms around him. His father had pointed out the brilliant flowers and flashing birds in the forest, naming each so Adam could learn. In his mind, he saw the colors, heard the birdsongs, and smelled the rich, mingled scents.

After his father was notified of his shocking inheritance, the new sixth duke had prepared to travel back to England. Adam had a clear sense that his father hadn't wanted to go. Within a fortnight, Andrew was struck with a fever that killed him in less than forty-eight hours. Adam had not been allowed to visit the sickroom for fear of becoming infected.

Looking back, he wondered if his father had been so reluctant to return that he'd been ripe for catching a disease. Now his bones rested in his beloved India forever.

As Adam sorted through that period of his life, he realized that he also had a few memories of the young John Stillwell. Highborn Hindu women usually lived secluded lives, but Lakshmi had moved out of seclusion after her marriage. Had she married an Englishman because she yearned for more freedom? He must ask her that, he thought. Knowing that he could ask sent warmth flooding through him.

Stillwell had been a regular visitor to the Lawford household. His gaze sometimes followed Lakshmi with quiet, resigned longing. Though it had never occurred to Adam that his mother might have remarried and had more children, he was glad she had found someone who loved and cherished her.

He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood. His earlier fatigue had vanished. Night had fallen, which meant he'd slept through dinner and well beyond. Quietly he padded out to his sitting room, which was lit by a single small lamp.

After retrieving the hidden key, he carried the lamp into his sanctuary and studied the divine images. The statues seemed almost alive in the faintly flickering light, watching him with ancient wisdom.

His gaze lingered on Lakshmi, his mother's namesake. As a strange silver lining to his head injury and near death, he had fully accepted his vital Indian nature.

But he was equally English, equally a Christian. He had an English gentleman's education, and an English gentleman's brand of honor. The two parts of him had needed to blend together. Now, at last, they were. And he'd be damned if he'd ever again hide what he was.

He left the shrine and checked the time on the mantel clock. Not yet midnight. Perhaps Randall would be awake. He considered putting on shoes, but this was his house. If he wanted to wander shoeless and in shirtsleeves, he would.

Ashton House was silent as he left his suite. During the day there was a continual hum of activity because of the staff required to maintain such a great pile. Far too much house for one man. But he was betrothed, and God willing, someday there would be children to fill up the empty spaces.

He looked to his right. Mariah's rooms were at the far end of this corridor. Only a short walk away. He wished he remembered more about his betrothal. He had retrieved a few memories of the months before his accident, though nothing very useful.

He recalled laughing in delight on the deck of the
Enterprise
as the steamship roared down the Firth of Clyde. They'd all worked with crazy intensity, and success was sweet. As he'd glanced around, he'd seen the same pleasure on the faces of his engineers and crew. He'd meant to reward them with a bonus, and now some of them were dead, probably because they'd worked for him. Rest in peace.

He also remembered Janey's glowing face, but there was a frustrating lack of detail. Had he fallen in love with her during the lost months? Certainly he loved her. She was his sister in a way Kiri could never be because he and Janey had been children together. But had he loved Janey as he loved Mariah? That seemed impossible.

Looking back, he realized that he'd long assumed he would never marry because he hadn't wanted to pass the burdens of a mixed heritage on to his children. Though he yearned for a companion and a family, he'd rigorously concealed the Hindu side of his nature. On some deep, irrational level, he had believed that revealing himself would be fatal, and for that reason, he'd kept everyone at a certain distance, even his closest friends. It would be even harder to conceal himself from a wife.

Was that why he'd offered for Janey? She'd known him for many years and was used to his eccentricities, so perhaps she had seemed safe.

Mariah knew him better than anyone, and accepted him. Indeed, she seemed to like what made him uncomfortably different.

With stark clarity, he accepted that even if he couldn't love Janey as he loved Mariah, he couldn't break their betrothal, and not only because he was now acutely aware of his English code of honor. Janey loved him, and to reject her when she'd accepted him so joyfully was…unthinkable.

He pivoted and walked left toward Randall's rooms. A light showed under the door, so he knocked.

After a scraping of chair legs, Randall opened the door. Beyond him, Masterson and Kirkland were sitting around a table in their shirtsleeves, bottles of claret in front of them and glasses in hand. “I see you three are plotting again,” Adam said dryly. “It's time I joined you.”

Kirkland's brows arched. “The duke is back.”

“I've been back several days now,” Adam observed as he entered the room, accepted a glass of wine from Randall, then settled into the one empty chair. The suite was almost as large as his own. Since Randall's estrangement from his family meant he had no other quarters in London, Adam had given him these rooms to call home for as long as his friend wanted them.

“Not back like this,” Kirkland said. “Mariah told us about the visit from your mother and how you regained most of your memory. The change is visible.”

Adam frowned. “How do I seem different?”

After a thoughtful silence, Will said, “More edges. Your essential nature was the same even when the amnesia was at its worst, but now you've added the sum total of your experiences.” He took a swallow of wine. “If that makes sense.”

Adam realized that ever since Mariah had found him, he'd shielded himself with the reserve he'd cultivated since boyhood. He was wary, even with these friends. Is that what he wanted?

He stood. “Come with me.”

Bemused but willing, his friends followed him down the hall to his rooms. Adam lit a larger lamp, then opened his sanctuary and waved them inside with mocking formality. “Behold my secret life.”

His friends' chatter faded as they looked around. “It's a Hindu temple, isn't it?” Randall said, his expression uncertain.

“The carving of these statues is magnificent.” Kirkland circled the room, studying each deity. “I gather this is a personal chapel, as many great houses have.”

“Only without any crosses on the wall.” Will gave Adam a penetrating glance. “This isn't exactly a surprise, Ash. You never made a secret of your Indian heritage.”

“No,” he admitted. “But I've always hidden how much it mattered to me.”

“Give us some credit,” Will said, amused. “We knew, but since you never discussed the subject, neither did we.”

“Will might have known.” Kirkland halted in front of the dancing Shiva, fascinated. “I can't say I was so insightful. But this changes nothing.” He gestured at the statues. “You were what you were. You are what you are. I wouldn't want you different.”

Adam felt a stinging in his eyes. Smoke from the lamp, no doubt. “I'm not sure why I felt it necessary to conceal much of my nature, but I did. Quite strongly.”

“With justice,” Will said soberly. “Though we may not be shocked, strangers might be appalled if they knew you had heathen images that weren't an art collection. Your trustees hammered in that you had to be more English than a full-blooded Englishman to be worthy of an English dukedom.”

“Thank heaven for Lady Agnes's subversive teaching methods,” Kirkland murmured. “Or we would have all been warped beyond salvation.”

True enough. It was Lady Agnes who had allowed Adam to hold on to his Hindu heritage. Doing so had helped him maintain his sanity at a time when too much in his life was changing.

Randall turned away from the shrine. “Don't forget that the man who is trying to kill you might have no reason beyond hatred of your mixed blood.”

His words were a sharp reminder of reality. Friends who had known Adam for years would be more accepting than sharp-tongued, condemning strangers. He would keep his inner beliefs private. But no longer secret.

How would Janey react? Would she accept, or condemn? If the latter, perhaps she would end the betrothal. He felt an unruly stab of hope at the thought. But in fairness to Janey, though her first reaction might be shock, she would probably accept his mixed nature, as his other friends just had.

“Speaking of the man trying to kill me, has any more information turned up?” He waved to the chairs in the sitting room. “We might as well talk here. I have more space and a better wine supply.”

“You underestimate the quality of the bottles I've coaxed out of your butler.” Randall settled into the sofa, his long legs stretched out across the Oriental carpet. “I think we have several bottles' worth of discussion ahead of us.”

Wharf entered the sitting room silently. Probably he'd been woken by their voices. After a quick glance, he asked, “Do you need anything, your grace?”

Adam realized that he was ravenous, having missed dinner. “A cold platter would be good. Meats and cheeses, nothing complicated.”

He extricated a bottle of claret from his liquor cabinet and opened it as Wharf bowed and headed down to the kitchen. There was heady satisfaction in remembering exactly where to find the wine he wanted. He could just as easily have pulled out brandy, hock, or sherry. Power was being familiar with one's environment.

He topped up his friends' glasses as they made themselves comfortable. “Now—any information?”

“Ned Shipley was a Londoner who worked on the
Enterprise,
” Kirkland said. “According to my source in Glasgow, he was recommended to you for this project because of his experience with steam engines. He kept to himself and didn't talk much, but he knew what he was doing and worked hard. Since the explosion, he's been missing and presumed dead. But with no body found, he might not be dead enough.”

Adam frowned. Shipley. “I have a vague memory of the name. He could be a victim of the explosion—or perhaps a man who knew how to engineer an explosion.”

“We're looking for him here in London. He may have used a false name in Scotland.” Kirkland sipped on his wine. “But I have a detailed description of him. He had a tattooed anchor on the back of his left hand, and a skull on the back of the right one.”

Adam could easily visualize those tattooed hands, but he wasn't sure if they were memory or imagination. “You said that he was recommended to me. By whom?”

His friends exchanged troubled glances. “That's not entirely clear,” Kirkland replied. “But…it might have been Hal Lawford.”

Adam stared sightlessly at his claret. Though it wasn't certain, he would have to accept that perhaps Hal—Lord, his future brother-in-law as well as his cousin!—might be trying to have him murdered. The Ashton title and fortune were a rich enough prize to unbalance many men. “Is there any way of being sure short of asking Shipley or Hal?”

Kirkland sighed. “Probably not. Apparently you mentioned to someone that you were glad your cousin recommended Shipley, but it was vague. It would be very useful if you could remember this last chunk of your life.”

Would that he could do that. “Randall, have you set Rob looking for the assassin from this end?”

“Yes, but so far, he hasn't had much to work with,” Randall replied. “He has his informants looking for Shipley. Also for George Burke, at Mariah's request.”

Adam narrowed his eyes. “Any luck?

“If Burke has returned to London, it shouldn't be hard to locate him since he probably won't be trying to hide. If he's out of town, it will take somewhat longer.”

Adam thought of Mariah's grief when she was told her father was dead. If Burke had lied about that…“When he is located, I will speak with him.”

Randall frowned. “It's dangerous for you to go about London. If yesterday's rifleman had been a better shot, you'd be dead.”

“Yes, but I won't live like a caged animal. I'll take reasonable precautions.” Adam shrugged. “I might need to be out and about to lure the assassin from hiding.”

Randall and Kirkland looked appalled, but Masterson said, “That's sensible. Would either of you accept staying trapped inside? No, I didn't think so.”