The Wayward One (The De Montforte Brothers Book 5) (10 page)

Oh, yes, he knew what this was about.

He gave his fancy gold laced hat to the servant and grim-faced, went to meet the duke.

Lucien de Montforte, however, was already coming out of the parlor to meet him.

“Captain Lord.”

“Your Grace.”

“You know why I’m here.”

“I’d be a fool if I didn’t.”

The two men returned to the parlor. Christian poured a glass of brandy for the duke, and another for himself. He was going to need it.

Blackheath, his face lined with tension, wasted no time in getting straight to the point.

“Tell me everything you know about your brother-in-law.”

Christian sat down, wondering where to begin. Roddy. Brazen, reckless, proud, foolish, Roddy. Never in a million years would he think his wife’s older brother would have reason for or interest in harming Lady Nerissa. But Roddy was gone. Lady Nerissa was gone. And that brought him to only one conclusion, one that pained him to even think about because of the hurt it would bring to his wife. It couldn’t be Roddy. There was no rhyme or reason for it. But what other conclusion could any sane person reach? He had exhausted all possibilities and leads. He felt numb from trying to make sense of the senseless. It was easier to just answer the question than to keep letting his mind go round and round in an empty pursuit, to try and figure out why Lady Nerissa had disappeared from his own house—a mystery that he, Elliott and those to whom he was closest had been trying to solve since she’d gone missing after the demonstration last night.

He took a long, bracing swallow of his drink.

“Roddy O’ Devir,” he began, staring down into his glass. “Press-ganged by the Royal Navy back in ’62 from his native home in Connacht.” Christian pursed his lips. Did it matter that he himself had been the young lieutenant who’d led that press gang? “Disappeared in the Service for thirteen years, but managed to jump ship sometime before things got hot in Boston and set himself up as a successful smuggler calling himself the Irish Pirate. Got in tight with Adams, Warren and Hancock, and they had him smuggling arms into the Boston area. He was a local hero. A dangerous complication. I was sent to apprehend him by my brother Elliott, and did so under the command of Sir Geoffrey Lloyd.”

The duke leveled his inscrutable black stare on him. “So there is good reason to believe he hates the Royal Navy, if not the English.”

“He was press-ganged. His father was long dead, and that left his sister and mother to fend for themselves. Yes, he most certainly harbored a good deal of resentment toward us and that’s putting it mildly.”

The duke gave a barely imperceptible nod, his hooded gaze intent. Hard. Penetrating. Christian noticed that he had not touched his drink.

“He was a thorn in our side. The last thing General Gage in Boston needed was an armed populace, and O’ Devir was supplying them with not only arms, but food, supplies, everything that couldn’t be brought in through the closed port of Boston. He was making a laughingstock out of the Royal Navy. Someone figured I could get the job done.”

“And did you?”

“Yes.”
But not without cost.
“I did.”

“Why wasn’t he hanged?”

Christian swirled his drink. He would not disclose the truth, even to the duke. “He escaped. Went back to Ireland with his sister and that was the last I saw of him until he showed up here last week.”

“Why was he not apprehended then?”

Christian leveled his own gaze on the duke. “He
is
my wife’s brother. And I deemed him quite harmless.”

“He’s still a traitor to his king.”

Christian just took another sip of his brandy.

The duke was persistent. “What was he doing in Ireland all this time? And was he even
in
Ireland?”

“Damned if I know. He had a cottage near the sea. A small farm. I assume he was tending to it, trying to eke a living out of it. His father was a fisherman. Perhaps he was doing that. Once I went back and claimed Deirdre, I didn’t really know or care what happened to him.”

“And you haven’t heard from him since?”

“Not until he showed up here last week saying he wanted to met my son. Colin is his nephew. I didn’t think it all that unusual.” Christian shook his head. “Roddy O’ Devir is many things, Your Grace, but he’s not someone who would ever harm a woman, and I can’t think of a single reason why he’d have an interest in your sister. There’s no motive for him to abduct her. And yet….”

Blackheath’s penetrating black stare was on him. “What?”

“I sent him off before your brother demonstrated the explosive. He had no business being there—the explosive was secret, something that the fewer people outside the Navy knew about, the better. Besides, there was a chance, albeit slim, that one of the officers in attendance that night might’ve recognized him and dragged him right back into the Navy or worse, managed to get him hanged. He was a deserter. For his own good and the continuing happiness of my wife, he was best not being there. I asked him to leave, and he did.”

“And where was my sister during this time?”

“Lord Andrew was concerned for her well-being in case the explosive proved unstable or fiercer than he expected it to be, so he sent her back into the house.”

“And O’ Devir was gone by then?”

“I saw him leave.”

“And is there anyone here in London whom he might know, anyone with whom he might be staying?”

Christian shook his head. “He’s Irish. There’s nothing and nobody here for him, except for us.”

“And yet he has not come back. Neither has my sister. That tells you something, doesn’t it, Lord?”

“It tells me that two people are missing and not just one.” He drained the last of his drink and set the glass wearily down. “And before you ask, yes, I’ve scoured London for him. He’s disappeared without a trace.”

Blackheath pursed his lips, thinking. He had barely touched his brandy. He looked directly at Christian. “Are you’re sure he stayed in Ireland?”

“At the moment, I’m not sure of anything.”

“Because I’m wondering if he went right back to America and picked up where he left off.”

“Well, even if he did, it doesn’t explain why Lady Nerissa is missing or what he could possibly want with her.” Christian sighed and kneaded his brow. “In any case, it hasn’t even been twenty-four hours since they both disappeared. He probably went out on the town and spent the day lying drunk in a gutter somewhere. It wouldn’t surprise me if he shows up for tea in another hour or so and has no idea that any of this is going on.”

Blackheath steepled his fingers and leaned his brow against them. He said nothing, just thinking. After a long moment he picked up his glass and drained it. He put the vessel down, rubbed at his noble forehead with one elegant finger, and stood up. His eyes were fierce. As black and cold as a winter night.

“Thank you, Captain Lord. It seems I have work to do. I will be staying at de Montforte House here in Town. Send word immediately to me should this brother-in-law of yours show up for tea or show up at all. I have a hunch that he will not.”

Christian got up and walked him to the door. “I still don’t think he did it.”

“You are too close to the family to be objective in your judgment. Time and perseverance will tell whether or not you are wrong. And if he did do it, I can promise you this.” The duke’s black eyes were chilling as he looked over his shoulder on the way out the door. “He’s a dead man.”

* * *

Lucien went directly to Perry’s townhouse himself, though his every instinct told him that he was on the wrong scent. That Nerissa’s disappearance had nothing to do with her former betrothed and everything to do with Captain Lord’s rebel brother-in-law who, whether or not he was responsible for Nerissa’s absence, should have had his neck stretched back in Boston the minute he’d been apprehended as this so-called Irish Pirate.

Perry received him coldly. He was deep in his cups, sullen, and clearly annoyed at what he said, in no uncertain terms, was harassment when he’d already told Andrew all he knew—which was nothing. Disgusted by both his attitude and his lack of concern for the woman he had once purported to love, Lucien went to the Admiralty and spent the rest of the waning day poring over naval records and dispatches from the spring of 1775, trying to learn all he could about Roddy O’ Devir and any clues or insights he could glean as to the man’s character. There was a flurry of information about him from the time, but in the years since, nothing.

It was hard not to conclude that he really had gone back to—and stayed in—Ireland. If he was anything like Captain Lord had described him—a braggart, a man who loved attention—surely he would have resumed his identity as the Irish Pirate.

But there was nothing more here.

Nothing.

It was dark by the time Lucien finished poring over old log books, dispatches, naval orders. He left the Admiralty and made his way home, feeling more frustrated, powerless, and increasingly afraid, than he had ever been in his life.

Andrew met him at the door. He was as eager for news from Lucien as Lucien was eager to hear that Nerissa had come safely home. Andrew’s face fell when his infallible, seemingly omniscient brother returned empty-handed. Lucien seeing it, turned wordlessly away and headed upstairs. He was failing his sister. He was failing his family. He needed time alone.

To think.

He went to bed with nothing in his stomach but black coffee, tossed and turned and stared up into the darkness until he finally fell asleep sometime in the wee hours, and was up at first light, ready to pound on doors and call in favors. He strode into the dining room and found Andrew already there, his face haggard as he watched a footman pour tea into his cup and put a plate before him.

The footman began to set a plate down in front of Lucien. He put up a hand and gave a barely perceptible shake of his head. The footman took it away.

And the butler entered.

“This just came for you, Lord Andrew.”

The butler offered a silver tray to his brother, on which lay a folded piece of vellum. Andrew’s gaze met Lucien’s as he took it and slit the seal. Lucien was already on his feet and coming around the table, looking over his brother’s shoulder as Andrew opened the letter and both began to read:

To Lord Andrew de Montforte,

By now, all of London must know of the disappearance of your sister. While you’re all turning the city inside out in your search for her, I thought I’d make things a little easier for you. The lady is with me, and in return for the explosive that you invented—as well as the formula on how to make it—you can have her back, unharmed.

I will expect these demands to be met at the port of Saint-Malo in France, where my agents will be waiting to make the trade at noon this coming Saturday at Le Cheval de la Mer tavern. You will know them as they will greet you with the code word, “America.” They will know you as you will be wearing black coats and red waistcoats and there will be no more than two of you. Do not come armed, as my men will be stationed in places that defy your knowledge. Do not attempt to trick me, or you’ll never see your sister again.

Further details will be forthcoming.

Failure to comply with my request will, of course, merit the lady’s future unpredictable.

My regards to both yourself and the Duke.

— Captain Ruaidri O’ Devir, of the American Continental Navy

Rage burned behind Lucien’s eyes. His hunch had been right. This wretched bucket of Irish scum had
his little sister
, thought he was calling the shots, and was about to find that his days, indeed, his hours, were sharply numbered.

They said that death didn’t hurt.

Lucien would make sure, very sure, that it did.

His eyes savage, he shoved the missive into his pocket and called for his horse.

* * *

Two hours later, a black coach drawn by two grey cobs stopped within the courtyard of an esteemed brick building facing Whitehall and discharged its occupant just outside the great portico and the four tall columns that supported it. The man hurried purposely up the stairs between the two innermost ones and into the Admiralty.

It was a building he knew well. Three stories of brick built in the shape of a horse-shoe, it was the seat of Britain’s naval power.

Hat under his arm, he strode down the corridors of that hallowed institution. Another might have taken time to admire the beautiful architecture, the gilt-framed paintings of naval battles and heroes, but not him. Beeswax and polished floors. Elaborate plasterwork, high ceilings, men in uniform bustling past, some grim-faced, some wearing an expression of harried impatience. Admiralty’s stately tradition and formality suited Captain Lawrence Hadley the Fourth quite well. He was a naval man, as his father and grandfathers had been before him, and the awe he’d felt when first visiting the Admiralty as a youngster had long since faded into one of perpetual but well-disguised dread as he wondered what its fate would have in store for him this day. Resplendent in a gold-laced uniform so starched and carefully pressed that it appeared he’d been poured into it, he was shown by a young lieutenant into an office lit with dingy London sun struggling to get through the grime and soot on the opposite side of the window.