Once a Rake (Drake's Rakes) (7 page)

“If you will wait here, my lord,” the rotund little butler intoned with a bow. “I will notify the marquess.”

Alex didn’t even bother to respond. He just walked across the vast salon to look out the window. It was better than looking around what was one of the coldest, grimmest rooms he had ever entered. Not that it was dingy or dark. The windows were at least ten feet tall and facing south, so the sun should have warmed him. But there was something off-putting about the unrelieved white of the marble floor, the spare blue and gold décor, and surgically precise positioning of the various priceless porcelains.

The Leyburn marquessate was older than Noah, a venerable title built up over centuries with royal loans, favorable marriages, and the judicious switching of allegiances. Alex might have expected this house to reflect such history, much as his own home, a gray stone behemoth of venerable splendor that rambled over the ground like a hodgepodge of the ages of Britain.

He couldn’t have been more wrong. He suspected the house truly was as old as the title. But recently the exterior had been tightly wrapped in severe, geometric Palladian sterility, the footprints of history well camouflaged by acres of stark white marble.

He should have anticipated it, really. After all, the only other time he had met with the marquess had been at his townhouse in St. James Square, and that home had been just as bleak, a gleaming white sepulcher decorated in marble statues and condescension.

Alex hated it. He wondered where in this mausoleum Fiona would find comfort from the news he was about to impart.

I am so sorry, Miss Ferguson. I have some bad news. Will you sit?

Fiona, sit down. This is going to be hard.

At least you’re safe here with your grandfather. Ian accomplished that at least.

Alex had been testing his script since he’d received the order to break the news to the Hawes family. Surely there was a better way of telling the girl.

Doesn’t it help that you’re living in luxury instead of the slums of Edinburgh, where you grew up? Don’t I get a reprieve for helping to find your grandfather?

Miss Fiona . . .

“Mr. Knight!”

Alex spun around to see Fiona Ferguson stepping through the open door. The sight of her literally took his breath.

Four years ago he had predicted that Fiona Ferguson would mature into a rare beauty, a redhead majestic enough to shame Boadicea. And she had. Standing at least five foot seven, she was blessed with statuesque proportions and magnificent auburn hair caught up in a thick knot that ruthlessly contained the lush curls he remembered. Her square face was high-cheeked, her mouth broad, her eyes a startling blue.

She took a step forward, and he realized he’d been staring. “Lady Fiona,” he greeted her with a bow.

She dimpled. “Mr. Knight,” she responded, dropping a matching curtsy. “No, that’s not right. I heard that your uncle passed away. I am so sorry. That makes you Lord Whitmore now, doesn’t it?”

“Guilty as charged, ma’am.”

She motioned to one of the ice blue velvet chairs that had been positioned before a white satin settee, and took the other herself, lowering into it with all the poise of a duchess, her jonquil dress a splash of life in the sterile room.

That was when Alex noticed that something was…off. Not her looks; she had more than fulfilled the promise he had recognized four years earlier when he’d first caught sight of her hanging from a carriage window. Her elegance did not disappoint, nor her kindness. But something…some spark was missing. Some animation.

His impression sharpened as he watched Miss Ferguson order tea. She was paler than he remembered, the saucy scattering of freckles missing from her nose. Her movements were tidier, smaller, as if meant to fit into a less expansive space. The Fiona Ferguson he remembered had stood toe-to-toe with him, eyes flashing lightning, nostrils flared like a horse scenting battle, hands on generous hips. Now she seemed…dimmed. Oddly colorless, even with her magnificent looks.

Was this the natural outcome of her years spent learning to fit into her new role as granddaughter to a marquess? Or was it something more? Did the opulence of this place weigh her down too?

“It is so very good to see you,” Fiona said, her smile quiet and her hands crossed demurely in her lap. “What brings you so far north?”

Alex blinked. Oh God, he thought. He had been so caught up in her metamorphosis, he had all but forgotten his intent here. He had come to break her heart.

“I need to speak with your grandfather and sister as well,” he said, trying hard not to betray his own distress. “Did the butler tell you?”

“Mims is getting grandfather now. I believe he is in his office. As for Mairead—” Her smile was rueful. “She is still asleep. She was up most of the night, after all.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “She is not ill, I hope.”

Fiona chuckled. “No. She is just Mairead. I will share your message with her when she rises, if that will serve. Can you not tell me what the news is? It might help to anticipate grandfather’s reaction.”

He didn’t answer right away, still badly off-balance. He had brought bad news before. But
this
. . .

He must have given something away, because suddenly Fiona’s smile died. Her hands tightened in her lap, as if she were holding onto something. Her gaze sharpened, and her breath caught. “Oh, God,” she whispered. “Ian.”

Alex was reaching for her hand, as if he could somehow cushion the impact of his words, when the door swung open. Alex found himself back on his feet as an older man strode through. Fiona’s grandfather. Alex recognized the sharp blue eyes and square face that was replicated so exactly in the old man’s grandchildren.

The marquess was much smaller than they, in height and bone, but handsomely turned out. Leonine white hair, the posture of a cavalry officer, and a hooked proboscis that would have put Old Nosey himself to shame. But he had cold eyes. Impatient eyes, as if the world was meant to serve him, and forever fell short.

“Lord Whitmore?” the man asked, his bushy white eyebrow raised. “Ah, yes. I remember now. Old Whitmore’s great-nephew. We do go to great lengths to secure heirs, don’t we?”

The marquess’s voice was soft and deep. Nonetheless, Alex heard the unbending steel beneath. Alex gave a formal bow. “Indeed, sir.”

“Grandfather,” Fiona said, her voice sounding strained. “Allow me to introduce Alex Knight, Earl of Whitmore. Alex, my grandfather, the Marquess of Leyburn. I think Alex has news of Ian, grandfather.”

“We have met, granddaughter,” the marquess said, again in that curiously quiet voice. “You need not belabor the relationship.”

Again she sat. The two men followed suit. Alex snuck a look at Fiona to see a betraying flush in her pale cheeks.

“Is it?” the marquess asked, his tone changing not at all. “About John?”

Alex saw now that the older man’s fingers were digging into his knees, and he felt a fresh grief for the news he brought.

Clearing his throat, he faced the marquess. “Ten days ago,” he said, wishing he could instead watch Fiona, who had lost that brief color, “an attempt was made on the life of the Duke of Wellington.”

Fiona gasped. Her grandfather sat unmoving. Alex did not want to share the rest. He wanted to walk out right now and leave them with something. Anything.

He couldn’t. “Reports have come that Ian was the one who fired the shot.”

“No,” Fiona said very clearly, very definitely. “Absolutely not.”

The marquess waved off her objection. “The duke?” he asked, his voice brisk.

“Is unharmed. Other men protected him.”

The marquess let out his breath, as if the news relieved him.

Fiona leaned forward. “That is absurd. You know Ian. He has too great a respect for the duke. He would never harm him.”

Alex almost smiled. It was true. Often enough when in his cups, Ian had declared to all and sundry that the Duke of Wellington was the only Sassenach worth the powder to blow him to hell, and that even a Scot would be a fool not to follow him.

“Miss Ferguson, I promise,” Alex said, finally taking her hand. “We are doing everything we can to learn the truth. But I’m afraid there were witnesses.”

She had no answer. Her hand was cold, though, and trembling.

“Where is he?” the marquess asked.

Alex snapped back to attention. “Wellington?”

“John.”

Alex noticed that the older man had not once called Ian by his Gaelic name or identified him as his grandson. It made Alex remember the day four years earlier when he had tracked the marquess down to bring him long-awaited news. The marquess’s grandson, missing since childhood and long since given up for dead, had been found. He called himself Ian Ferguson, and was a colonel in a Highland Brigade. Until the truth had been revealed to him, Ferguson had believed himself and his sisters bastards.

Anyone would have thought the old man would have been over the moon. The search for an heir had been protracted, the marquess’s only son having died four years earlier without other legitimate sons. If Ian had not been found, the title would have most likely reverted to the crown upon the marquess’s death.

But upon reading the official notification, the marquess had crumpled the letter up and tossed it in the fire, his only words, “Damn Scottish witch.”

Alex had not been there when the marquess had finally met his grandson, but it seemed that he had not gained any affection for him.

“He’s dead,” Alex said anyway. “Ian is dead.”

Alex braced for tears, for denials and recriminations. Instead, he was met by silence. The marquess looked pensive. Fiona turned to her grandfather, perfectly composed, except for her eyes, which had grown large and glittered with unshed tears. She was trying to gauge the old man’s reaction, Alex realized.

“Are they certain?” the marquess demanded, his voice unchanged.

Alex nodded. “I’m sorry, but it is almost certain. He was shot and went off the side of a ship in the Channel. An extensive search was mounted without success.”

The marquess nodded, as if Alex had imparted news no more disturbing than a cancellation in his schedule. “In that case,” the man said, abruptly getting to his feet, “I will need to go to London to see the Prince Regent. He will not refuse to help me protect the title. I will not forfeit everything this family has built up because of one traitor.”

Alex stared. He had been so stunned by Ian’s death, he hadn’t even considered the ramifications. If it was proved that Ian as Viscount Hawes had committed treason, all titles, lands, and possessions belonging to the marquessate could well be forfeited.

“He is
not
—” Fiona objected, rising as well.

One cold look from her grandfather silenced her. “After I see to that business,” he said with a sharp nod, “I must contact my new heir.”

Fiona, her eyes bright with unshed tears, abruptly looked up. “Ian was your only heir.”

The marquess glared down at her. “Not only. Only, unavoidably, the nearest. It would have been far better if he had never been found.”

Without another word, the marquess stalked from the room. And Alex was left alone to bear witness as Fiona, in perfect silence, broke her heart against the rocks of loss.

Near Richmond

“He’s dead, then,” the gentleman said, never slowing his pace as he strode across the harvested field, a Manton shotgun broken over his elbow.

Alongside him a thinner, younger man attempted to keep up in boots not meant to be scuffed on the jagged remnants of broken wheat. “We assume so, sir.”

The older man stopped so suddenly that his guest almost caromed off him. “You
assume
? Why does that not comfort me, Stricker?”

Stricker wished he could wipe his brow. Even with the autumn chill, he was suddenly hot and uncomfortable. “We’ve searched now for almost two weeks, sir. No one could have survived that sea. No one.”

“What about the flask he is supposed to have had?”

“He had it. He took it from my belongings. It is also lost.”

The older man looked off, as if able to pull up the scene. “Then it is either at the bottom of the Channel, or Ferguson has it.”

“And he is at the bottom of the Channel.” It was all Stricker could do to keep from fidgeting. “Believe me, sir, I had reason to make sure. If Ferguson could have proved the thing had been in my possession, I would have been hung. So I have as much reason as you to make sure.”

His companion turned on him. “No, Stricker,” he said, his voice too quiet for Stricker’s peace of mind. “You do not. You don’t have the welfare of this empire on your conscience. If Ferguson manages to throw a spoke into this plan, we could lose everything, and what would happen to us then? You think the French Revolution cannot happen here?
Do
you? Just leave that fool prince in charge another year, and you’ll see.”

For a long moment, the old man was silent, the furrow between his graying eyebrows deep. Stricker held absolutely still. He knew what happened if a person displeased these men. He had met their pet assassin once. He didn’t want to again.

“Consider this, though, sir,” he finally said. “Even if Ferguson survives, we have so discredited him, no one will believe him, no matter what he says.”