Kathryn Smith (36 page)

“Now I must go. Minnie will be waiting.”

“You are an extraordinary woman, Moira,” Leander remarked as he handed her up into her carriage.

Moira turned to gaze out the door at him as she sat. “No more than any other, Leander. These are simply extraordinary circumstances. Good day.”

With a bemused smile, he shut the carriage door and told the driver to depart. Moira waved to him as the carriage pulled away. Her gaze drifted to the window of Duncan Reed’s office. A man stood behind the tiny panes of glass. It wasn’t Reed. She knew who it was just as she knew that Leander would be at her house that evening.

And she didn’t know which one of them had disappointed her more.

Wynthrope spent the rest of the day and the early part of the evening in his apartments, waiting for Moira to come.

It wasn’t that she had sent word she would come round, or that he was even expecting her, but he had hoped that she might come by, now that she had the tiara back. Even if she did not believe all his actions had been driven by the desire to ensnare Daniels, her curiosity must be eating at her.

But she did not come. She was undoubtedly waiting for him to come to her, which meant that she was still angry with him. And still hurt. Perhaps today’s scene at Bow Street had only served to turn her even more against him. Maybe now she thought him the worst kind of scoundrel. God only knew what she was thinking. She was a woman, after all, and that sex was notoriously difficult to predict.

When he was certain she was indeed not coming, he contemplated going to her, but if she was still angry, the wise idea would be to leave her alone for a bit. As much as he wanted to see her and finally confess all, he wanted her to be willing to hear it. All the truth in the world wouldn’t amount to shite if she didn’t want to believe it.

So he went to Brahm’s instead. His oldest brother had sent a note earlier inviting him for dinner. Normally Wynthrope would decline, but Brahm mentioned that Devlin and North and their wives were going to be there as well. While he didn’t want Brahm to get the wrong idea and think that they were ever going to be the best of friends, Wynthrope could not deny that he didn’t want to spend the evening alone. And Brahm had done so much for him lately, he really ought to be grateful.

His brother wasn’t the villain he’d always believed him to be, but he was not quite ready to name him a saint either. Probably it was petty of him, but his life had been turned upside down quite enough for this new year. He wasn’t prepared to take on any more changes just yet.

The rest of the family was already present when he arrived at Creed Manor. They sat in the drawing room with a
drink—except for Brahm—and waited for dinner to be announced. Everything seemed perfectly normal, but Wynthrope detected a hint of something just underneath the surface—a tension, and it was coming from North. Was his brother still angry with him on Moira’s behalf? If he was, he hoped North kept it to himself tonight. He was in no mood to discuss what he had done. At the time it had seemed like the only course of action available to him. He was not going to defend himself against his own brother, especially when he was going to need all his strength to defend himself to Moira.

After dinner, Blythe and Octavia left them to coffee—rather than port—and cigars. This was definitely odd, as usually the family broke with tradition and everyone retired to the drawing room at the same time. Obviously Blythe and Octavia had things they wished to discuss—or Octavia knew that North wanted to be alone with his brothers.

Not a full minute had passed after the women left before North spoke, “Have you heard?” he demanded of the other three.

“Heard what?” Brahm asked, lifting his cup.

North leaned forward, bracing his forearms on the polished surface of the cherry tabletop. “Daniels has already been bundled off to New South Wales.”

“What?” Wynthrope almost choked on his coffee. “That’s impossible. Not even twenty-four hours have passed since his arrest.”

North nodded, his eyes bright. “I know.”

“Where did you hear this?” Devlin asked. “Your source may be wrong.”

Their half brother shook his head. “I have it straight from Duncan Reed himself. He is not impressed that Bow Street has been denied the chance to question Daniels about his affiliates in London.”

Thank God they didn’t. Wynthrope had been very much aware from the moment he and his brothers had hatched their plan to double-cross Daniels that he was putting himself in danger. Perhaps Reed didn’t believe Daniels when he first insisted he and Wynthrope were connected, or perhaps he did but could not prove it. Regardless of what the magistrate believed, it would have been only a matter of time before Daniels talked enough to raise suspicions. Reed’s loyalty to North would go only so far before the lawman gave in to his morals and had them both investigated.

He and North might be masters of concealment when they wanted to be, but Duncan Reed had taught North everything he knew. There would be no hiding from him for long.

“Did Reed tell you what happened?” he asked.

North turned pale blue eyes on him. “Apparently there wasn’t much to tell. No one has given Duncan any more information than they’ve had to.”

Devlin rolled his eyes as he stirred his second cup of coffee. “Basically nothing then.”

“Exactly.” North’s own expression was a mixture of resignation and curiosity. “Rumor has it that Pitt was involved with the decision, but that is all I have been able to find out.”

Silence fell around the table as the brothers pondered the situation and drank their coffee. It was then, as the silence grew heavy, that Wynthrope realized Brahm hadn’t expressed surprise at the turn of events. In fact, Brahm hadn’t expressed anything at all, which was odd for his eldest brother, who generally seemed to consider himself an expert on all things.

As he stared into his cup, Wynthrope’s brow knitted. Slowly he turned his head without raising it, to regard the man seated at the head of the table. Brahm appeared disinterested, cool, composed, and uncaring. Apprehension immediately bloomed in Wynthrope’s chest.

When Devlin had first gotten involved with Blythe, he had knocked the senses out of the Earl of Carnover, who had been a good friend, for making improper and forceful advances on the woman who was now Mrs. Devlin Ryland. Overwhelmed by guilt, Devlin had embarked on a path of self-destruction. Everyone had gone searching for him, but it had been Brahm who had found him, feverish and chilled in a dockside tavern. It had been Brahm who, for all intents and purposes, had saved their youngest brother. He had also given Devlin the proof he needed that he had been loved by their father.

Just this past season, when North had been prepared to sacrifice his love for Octavia because of the danger associated with his profession, it had been Brahm who stepped in. And when North’s nemesis, Harker, had him at gunpoint, ready to kill him, it had been Brahm who surprised everyone by slaying the villain so North didn’t have to, so North’s budding career in politics could continue without blemish.

Both times Brahm had surprised them all. Both times the eldest Ryland had stepped in on behalf of his brothers and changed circumstances so that each brother had been able to go on to the kind of life and love he deserved.

With Daniels gone, not only could North rest easy, but Wynthrope certainly could. There was no danger of his shameful past coming to light now. There was nothing preventing him from telling Moira everything because he no longer had to worry about her safety.

Good God.

“It was you,” he whispered hoarsely.

His brothers stared at him. He could feel Devlin and North’s gazes, but he kept his own focused solely on Brahm. He had thought he and North were good actors; they had nothing on their eldest brother.

Brahm’s expression was perfect bewildered innocence. “I beg your pardon?”

Wynthrope wasn’t affected. “You engineered Daniels’s deportation. I do not know how you managed it, but it was you.”

His brother appeared amused by his allegations. “I appreciate your faith in my abilities, Wyn, but how in the name of God could a pariah like me accomplish such a feat?”

“I do not know, nor do I care,” Wynthrope replied. “What I want to know is why?”

Again Brahm tried to deny it, but he was stopped this time by Devlin. “He’s right. It was you, wasn’t it, Brahm? You are responsible for getting rid of Daniels just as you were responsible for ridding North of Harker and ridding me of the fears that kept me from Blythe.”

“Christ.” North’s tone was thick with disbelief. “How did you manage it?”

Under the force of all three convictions, Brahm gave up all pretext. Sighing, he pushed his cup aside and slumped back in his chair.

“How is not important.”

“Not important!” North stared at him, mouth gaping. “I think I would be very interested in knowing how a ‘pariah’ could influence some of the most powerful men in England, and you would have to in order to get Daniels on a boat so fast.”

Brahm pinned him with a stare that told him there would be no further discussion. “Someone owed me a favor.”

Devlin let loose a low whistle. “That must have been some favor.”

Brahm smiled slightly, his lips curving up on one side in the Ryland grin. “It was.”

North’s eyes narrowed. “That’s it? That’s all you’re going to tell us?”

Brahm’s head nodded once. “That is already more than you need to know.”

“No,” Wynthrope argued. “We—
I
—need to know why.”

Russet eyes darkened, revealing an emotion that brought an uncomfortable tightness to Wynthrope’s chest. “You are my brother.”

That was it? That was his explanation? “A brother who has been a complete bastard to you since we were children.”

His brother shrugged his wide shoulders. “But my brother nevertheless.”

“No.” Wynthrope shook his head almost violently. “That is not good enough. Maybe it was good enough when you stepped in for Devlin and North because I could believe you felt so deeply for them, but not for me.”

Brahm frowned. “Why not for you?”

“Because I do not believe all this brotherly love shite. You never liked me either, so why are you doing this now?”

Laughter was not what he expected in response. “We were children! I have never harbored the same resentment for you that you felt for me. And even if I did, do you honestly think I would stand by and watch your life potentially be ruined when I had it in my power to prevent it?”

Wynthrope held his gaze. “Why?”

“Why?” Devlin and North repeated in unison.

There was no escape for Brahm this time, not when faced with the three of them. “Because I owe it to you.”

“Owe us?” North scowled. “What the hell does that mean?”

Shoving back his chair, Brahm seized his cane and pushed himself to his feet. For a moment Wynthrope thought he might actually leave the room. He limped over to the mantel instead and stared up at the portrait of their father that hung there.

The former Viscount Creed had been a handsome man. Brahm looked much like him, save for the brown eyes. Wynthrope had his father’s eyes—North too to an extent, although much paler. Devlin and Brahm’s dark eyes came from Lady Creed.

But drinking and other excesses had taken their toll on their father’s looks. By the end of his life he developed a hollow look about the eyes, a puffiness to his face that all hard drinkers seemed to develop. Wynthrope could not remember ever seeing his father without a glass of brandy in his hand, or whiskey. He had preferred whiskey.

Wynthrope had tried to drink with his father one night, but the old man hadn’t known when to stop, and he could drink more than the average man. Brahm was the only one who could match him. Brahm had been able to best him. At one time Wynthrope had envied his brother that ability as well, but not after seeing what it did to him. Brahm Ryland was not a man you wanted to be anywhere near when he was deep in his cups. As vicious as he could be jovial, as complacent as he could be wild, Brahm had been completely unpredictable when he drank, and totally uncontrollable.

Brahm stood beneath the portrait, staring at it for what seemed an age. His brothers exchanged questioning glances, silently trying to decide what they should do next. They were saved from having to make the decision by Brahm turning to face them.

“I owe you because I am responsible for Father’s death.”

His brothers gaped at him.

“That was an accident,” Devlin reminded him.

“You said you didn’t remember anything,” Wynthrope’s tone was a bit harsher than he’d intended.

Brahm nodded. “I do not—not much of it, at any rate. I do remember that we were racing Pemberton when it happened.”

“When what happened?” It was North who dared ask.

Brahm turned back to the portrait, as though it helped him collect the details in his mind. “We were practically flying we were going so fast. I told Father to give me the reins. I didn’t think he was in any condition to control the horses.”

“And you were?” Wynthrope scoffed, earning himself a dark glance from North. Chastised, he fell silent.

Brahm shot him a rueful smile. “Perhaps not, but I believed I was. I had not imbibed as much as Father had that night.”

“What happened next?” North prodded.

Leaning on his cane, Brahm turned his attention back to the painting. “I remember him laughing at me, telling me to go to hell, of course he could control his own cattle.” His tone was a mixture of amusement and sorrow. “The horses were running wild. I tried to take the reins from him. We fought. Neither of us was paying attention to the road. I managed to get the reins from him at last. We swerved. I remember being tossed through the air as the vehicle tipped. Then there was nothing.”

“You do not remember dragging yourself down the road for help?” North inquired incredulously.

Brahm shook his head, his back still to them. “No, although my hands were bandaged because of the cuts from the rocks. I do not remember finding anyone. I do not remember being brought back to the house. I don’t even remember being told that Father was dead. All I remember is taking the reins and then waking up one morning unable to walk and being told Father was to be buried that day.”