Chapter 13

CHAPTER 13

ONE WEEK LATER

L ionel felt eyes on his back and turned. A beech spread its boughs over his head, casting a deep shade across him. The castle was silhouetted against the bright morning sky behind it, the sun not yet visible. He knew that he was looking towards the distant south tower. Was she at the window watching him? The distance was too great for him to see but an instinct told him that she was. He had caught her once before doing just that.

For a long moment, he gazed at the dark tower, imagining the beautiful face at the window. Such beauty as he had never beheld. It had seemed fortuitous when she had appeared at the ball after so many years. An opportunity presented by fate for him to set the record straight, to tell her the truth about her brother. And perhaps to court her. The last time they had met, he had been enamored of Arabella Wycliff, foolishly so he now saw.

Now he was free.

Except that he wasn't.

Free of romantic entanglement—but not free to pursue his heart.

Fate had brought Cecilia back into his life to taunt him, to show him what he might possess if he gave up his quest for revenge. For Lionel was convinced that the two desires could not co-exist. He could either have Cecilia or take his revenge on Thorpe. An innocent lady was not something that should ever be compromised by the depravities of vengeance. That was the decision he had made a week before after his confrontation with Cecilia and the kiss they had shared. So far, he had managed to maintain his resolve.

He turned away, letting the deeper shadows of the grove swallow him. After just a few yards, the earth path that had led him into the woods had vanished. Long grass brushed his boots with dew. Saplings grew amongst each other in a tangle of young, pliable branches. Older trees towered overhead filtering the daylight through broad, green leaves. He followed an unerring path through the thick undergrowth, stepping carefully around rocks and roots, gritting his teeth against stabs of pain from his leg under its brace. At the corpse of a lightning-blasted willow, he turned, crossing a clearing of bramble and grass, and then following the course of a small stream. Where the banks of the stream became low and the stream bed choked with pebbles, he crossed, the water barely deep enough to reach his ankle. On the far side was a line of ash trees, planted in a double row. In between was an ancient trackway, old before even the convent that predated the castle was built. Lionel followed it, noting the occasional stones that were the only remains of the antique road. It curved along the outer edge of the wood, marking the far northern boundary of his estate, before descending into a narrow valley.

Lionel limped down a stair made of protruding tree roots and old stones until he reached the floor of the valley, which spilled away to the north, curving out of sight. Before him was a shape swathed in ivy and brambles. Trees poked their heads through a broken roof and blackberries bloomed in jagged branches thrust through windows. A wooden door hung on a solitary, rusted hinge.

As he approached, he saw the corroded long still waterwheel. The mill was not as old as the track that led to it but rather had been placed there to take advantage of the busy stream that began back in the wood. Here, it tumbled over rocks into the valley and its merry tinkle would once have been a ferocious roar. Except it had long since silted up and become a still, green-tinged mere next to the long idle wheel of the mill. A secret place, long forgotten by the servants of Thornhill and the people of the village alike. Tucked away in a fold of the land, quiet and secluded.

He pushed past the door and into a room that belied the overgrown exterior. Inside, the vegetation had been cleared. Furniture had been moved from the dustiest cellars and attics of Thornhill to provide some comfort. An old, leather armchair whose upholstery was cracked and missing in several places. A bureau propped at one corner by bricks. In another corner was a wrought iron safe, secured by a combination lock and a chain thick enough to anchor a ship.

Lionel fished for the chain he had placed around his neck. On the chain was a long, bronze key. He undid the padlock and then swiftly turned the combination dial to open the safe. Within were an assortment of papers and a writing box. He took all out and sat before the bureau, brushing from its surface stray leaves. He spread the papers before him and tried to focus on their contents. But his mind was not on his work this morning.

A head of fiery red hair, brown—almost hazel eyes, and luxuriant, olive-shaded skin kept intruding into his mind's eye. He ran a hand through his hair, then pinched the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes tightly. Almost a fortnight past, he had given in to his desire and made love to Cecilia. It should not have been a subject of consternation. She was his wife. Legally and in the eyes of God. They were married and nothing was more natural. But it was a source of consternation for Lionel. He did not wish to use Cecilia like that. It bothered him that she might think he was using her. Trying to have his cake and eat it too. He had married her as she had become embroiled in scandal because of him. A trap set by Sir Gerald Knightley and Sir Rupert Sinclair, for reasons best known to themselves. He had stepped innocently into it and marriage seemed the only honorable way to remedy the situation.

Had Cecilia behaved as though she were part of the scheme, he could cheerfully have ignored her and nullified the wedding when the social furor had died away. But she behaved as though she were entirely innocent. Worse, she believed that he had killed her brother. That was not true but he couldn't tell her the truth without proof. And not without potentially revealing his hand to the man he intended to destroy. If one word reached Thorpe that Lionel had revealed the truth of what happened that night, he would know that he was not safe. He would look hard at every decision he took. It was his reckless nature that Lionel had come to rely on to destroy him. That and the fact that in his arrogance, he had come to believe that he had been able to commit murder and get away with it. All of Lionel's plans depended on secrecy. It was so ingrained in him that he could not bring himself to change the habit.

Lionel's fists closed tightly, only to spring open when he realized that he still held the precious papers. These were the instruments of his revenge. The information that would allow him to utterly destroy the Viscount of Thorpe.

"Do I intrude, Your Grace? I did knock," came a voice in a lilting Scottish accent.

Lionel jumped to his feet, whirling, and causing himself a stab of pain in his left leg. A man stood just inside the ruined doorway, his approach rendered silent by Lionel's deep introspection.

"Not at all, Lennox. I was expecting you," Lionel started, forcing a smile and offering his hand.

Lennox was gray-haired and pencil-thin with a beak of a nose and powerful eyebrows. He took the hand offered and shook it before holding up a leather satchel.

"I have the information you requested, Your Grace. And interesting reading it makes. I believe we have reached a turning point in your plans with this. May I?"

Lionel stepped back and allowed Menzies Lennox, formerly Master of Police for the city of Glasgow, to take a sheaf of papers from the bag. He spread them on the bureau and stepped back, hands clasped behind his back. Lionel placed a hand on the table and leaned in to peruse the documents.

"What we have here, by means which it would not be wise to scrutinize too closely, is a record of trade for a particular shipping company which carries goods in and out of the river Clyde. This includes imports from as far away as the United States and India. This is a company registration for three vessels with Lloyds of London," he pointed to one paper, "and this is a charter for said corporation. There are three names on that charter. Sir Reginald Cox MP, Sir Gerald Knightley, and Mrs. Nancy James."

Lionel frowned. "I recognize the first two names and am not surprised to see them. Sir Reginald testified to the innocence of Thorpe at the time of his attempt on my life. Knightley is a young villain recently come into my life, though I see now he has been an enemy for longer than I have known. But who is this woman?"

"A question that vexed me for quite some time. It took me from the Merchant City in Glasgow to Bristol, Chester, and finally, to Cornwall. There I discovered an inn owned by a former merchant seaman named Nathaniel James. The son of an American who remained loyal to the British during their War of Independence and found himself unwelcome in Boston subsequently. He settled in Bristol and met a woman who had been given a tidy sum by an English aristocrat to buy her silence. Together, they purchased a lovely seaside inn just outside Penzance. Can you guess who the generous aristocrat was, Your Grace?"

Lennox loved nothing more than spinning his investigations into a yarn, a pastime only surpassed for enjoyment by the slow reveal of exactly how clever he had been. Lionel had no doubt the man had made an excellent Master of Police in Glasgow's nascent police force but had little patience this morning.

"Out with it, man. Tell me!" he snapped.

Lennox sighed and muttered something in Scots dialect too alien for Lionel to follow.

"The gentleman was Charles Grisham, then Duke of Thornhill. Later to be father to you, Your Grace," Lennox added patiently.

"Mrs. Nancy James was paid off by my father?" Lionel said, the truth dawning on him.

"She was, Your Grace."

"I can only think of one reason why a man like my father would do such a thing…"

"If she were carrying his child?" Lennox suggested gently.

"My god," Lionel inhaled, "my father had a…a…"

"A bastard, yes, Your Grace. You know, of course, who that bastard must be?"

"Thorpe… It all makes sense now. You are sure that he was born before I? That he is the elder?"

"By a matter of months," Lennox finished, producing another paper. "Here is a copy of his birth certificate. He was born in Glasgow where Nancy James was sent to have her child in the house of her mother, a housekeeper for a cotton merchant in the city. She moved with the child to Bristol with the money paid to her by your father, and there met the man she would marry. They're still at the inn, the Sea Sprite Inn. And it's a very homely place too."

"My father… he—he never told me I had a brother…" He was suddenly sitting but had no memory of doing so. Lennox bowed his head, nodding gravely. "He wants the Dukedom. That is why he attempted to take my life five years ago," he breathed. "This… this is bigger than I thought. Could I retaliate against my own blood?"