Red Roses Mean Love (31 page)

Chapter 23

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S
tephen sat in the study in his
London
town house, going over estate accounts with his secretary, Peterson. He massaged his temples, willing his pounding headache away, but it didn't work. Peterson's voice droned on, bringing Stephen up to date on what had occurred during his absence. He'd been home for nearly two weeks now, but he still hadn't caught up on his work.

He stared unseeingly at the papers in front of him, the small rows of numbers swimming before his eyes, making no sense to him at all. For the first time in his life, he didn't care about his business interests. Truth be known, he cared about very little.

"Would you like to review the figures on the
Yorkshire
estates, my lord?" Peterson asked, peering over the rim of his spectacles.

"I beg your pardon?"

"The
Yorkshire
estates. Would you like to review—"

"No." Stephen abruptly stood up and ran his hands through his hair. "We'll have to finish this tomorrow morning, Peterson."

"But, my lord," Peterson protested. "The
Yorkshire
estates—"

"Do what you think is best." Stephen nodded curtly at the dumbfounded man, dismissing him.

Peterson hastily gathered up his sheaf of papers, his amazement apparent. He quickly left the room.

Stephen drained his brandy down his throat, and pushed himself away from the fireplace, replenishing his glass. The last two weeks had been the most miserable time of his life. His town house was perfectly run by his impeccable staff, and his meals formal culinary masterpieces. No children, no dogs, no noise or chaos.

He hated every bloody minute of it.

On his first day back, he'd wandered into the kitchens and struck terror into the hearts of his staff with his unprecedented visit. The marquess would
never
visit the kitchens unless something was horribly wrong with a meal.

On his second day back, he'd asked Sigfried to teach him how to shave himself. The valet had looked at him as if he'd taken leave of his senses, then immediately requested a restorative tisane for his lordship.

Now, sipping his drink, his mind drifted back to the evening he and Hayley had spent in the study. A smile touched his lips when he recalled her tossing back the brandy then nearly choking when the powerful liquor burned down her throat. Then he'd recited a poem to her. And kissed her. He closed his eyes, and was almost able to feel the soft caress of her lips beneath his, her hands encircling his neck, her tongue—

"I don't know what you're thinking about," Justin's dry voice came from the doorway, "but it must be fascinating. I've been trying to get your attention for nearly a minute." He entered the room and helped himself to a brandy. "Care to share your thoughts?"

"No." Stephen frowned at Justin, then completely ignored him.

"I thought you'd be hard at work," Justin remarked casually. He took a sip of brandy and studied Stephen over the edge of his snifter.

"I dismissed Peterson for the day."

"Indeed? Why?"

"Because I couldn't concentrate and I was wasting both his time and mine." Stephen pinned a hard look on his friend. "Is there any particular reason you've invaded my privacy, other than to drink my brandy?"

"As a matter of fact, there are two reasons. The first is we need to discuss the latest attempt on your life."

Stephen heaved a sigh. "What is the point of discussing it again?"

Justin cocked a brow. "Someone tried to run you over last evening outside White's. You don't think that warrants discussion?"

"It seems to me we spoke about it last night."

"The fact someone has once again tried to murder you demands our attention. Clearly we need to watch Gregory very closely."

"Gregory was inside the club when the incident occurred," Stephen reminded him. "I left him at the faro table not five minutes earlier."

"He easily could have hired someone," Justin pointed out.

Stephen shrugged. "I suppose."

"I must say, you appear quite calm under the circumstances."

"How would you have me behave?" Stephen asked. "Perhaps you'd prefer it if I swooned or burst into tears?"

"It would ease my mind if you appeared even the least bit
concerned,"
Justin said. "We must find out who is behind this before they strike again. We may not be so lucky next time. We've delayed long enough. Gregory is our best suspect."

Again Stephen shrugged. "Yes, I suppose he is."

"Then it's time we set a trap for him. I've taken the liberty of setting up a situation where the two of you can be alone together. I've arranged for you to be watched, and when he makes a grab for you, we'll nab him."

"Fine," Stephen said, not caring one way or the other.

"I know it's dangerous," Justin said, frowning, "but we must do something, and fast. If our plan is properly executed, we'll catch him and not a hair on your head will be disarranged."

"And if not properly executed?" Stephen asked dryly. "I suspect in that case more than my hair will be disarranged."

"That will not happen, Stephen," Justin vowed quietly.

"What sort of scenario have you set up?"

"A party. At my home just outside
London
. Large grounds. Lots of people. Gregory will likely attempt to get you off somewhere by yourself and do the deed."

Stephen raised his brows. "Don't you think it unlikely he'd try something with so many people around?"

"I think he'll view this as his perfect opportunity. I believe he'll adhere to the axiom of 'hide in plain sight.' There is more confusion in a crowd, more chance to slip away unnoticed, just like last night. He could leave the room, kill you, and return in a matter of minutes, and undoubtedly find half a dozen guests who would swear they'd seen him the entire time.

"If that fails," Justin continued, "we shall simply make sure you wander off alone into the gardens, far away from the house to allow whoever is behind this a chance to pop you off. I and several Bow Street Runners will have an eye on you at all times. With half the
ton
at the party, even if Gregory should turn out to be innocent, no doubt the true culprit will be present."

Stephen mulled over Justin's words. "All right. Let's just get it over with. When is this party?"

"In four days. I wanted to have it immediately, but
Victoria
insisted she needs that long to make the arrangements. She actually insisted she needed two weeks, but I gave her four days."

"She doesn't know about—"

"Of course not," Justin broke in. "But I could hardly plan a party without her. In the meantime, I have engaged several Bow Street Runners to keep an eye on your brother."

"It seems you have my safety well in hand," Stephen remarked between sips of brandy.

"Someone has to. Your mind is clearly on other matters."

Stephen shot his friend a quelling look. "You said there were two reasons you invaded my sanctuary. What is the other one? Or do I not want to know?"

"I was sent by my dear wife to request your presence at dinner this evening."

"She could have sent a note."

"She believed you'd refuse, thus she convinced me to ask you in person. You've turned down her last three invitations."

"I can't make it."

"It would mean a great deal to
Victoria
," Justin said quietly. "And to me as well."

Stephen polished off his brandy and slammed down his snifter. He strode to the window and looked outside. Across the street stretched the expansive lawns of
Hyde Park
. Fancy carriages and glossy horses carrying esteemed members of
London
's
ton
passed before his unseeing eyes.

"Can we expect you at seven?" Justin asked.

Stephen wanted to refuse. He had no desire to make polite conversation. In fact, he felt wholly incapable of it. But there was little he would refuse his sister, and as he had begged off from her last several invitations, he felt he had to accept.

"Will anyone else be there?"

"Actually, yes. We invited your parents and Gregory and Melissa."

A bark of incredulous laughter erupted from Stephen. "A cozy family gathering? Forget it, Justin."

"I want to observe Gregory's reactions to you in a private setting. You don't have to do anything at all except sit, eat, and drink brandy."

"How much brandy do you have?"

"Enough."

Stephen doubted there was enough brandy in the bloody kingdom to dull his pain. "Very well. I'll be there at seven. This is sure to be a delightful evening."

* * *

The luxurious carriage moved slowly through
Hyde Park
, the lone occupant staring through the window with hate-filled eyes.
You survived again, you bastard. Why won't you die?
Black-gloved hands clenched into fists.
You're the only thing standing between me and everything I've always wanted and deserved. No more mistakes. No more hiring fools. I will kill you myself.

* * *

"You're looking rather pale, Stephen," his mother observed over the rim of her wineglass. "Are you ill?"

Stephen stared across the dinner table at the woman who had given birth to him and then promptly forgotten her son except for such times as suited her. She was undeniably stunning, was a charming hostess, and graced the guest list of every Society function. She was also completely selfish and blatantly uninterested in anything that did not directly concern her own wants. Stephen knew she wasn't really concerned about his health—only the possibility that she might catch whatever sickness he might have, thus interrupting her social engagements. He noticed she wore a new bauble around her neck, a large square-cut emerald surrounded by diamonds. Obviously a token from her latest lover—her husband had ceased purchasing her jewelry years ago.

"I'm fine, Mother. How kind of you to inquire."

His sarcasm sailed over her head, as he'd known it would, and she smiled, clearly relieved.

"Are the accounts of the
Yorkshire
estates ready for my review?"

Stephen turned to his father. At fifty-two, the Duke of Moreland still cut a tall, imposing figure. Gray streaked his dark hair and deep lines bracketed his unsmiling mouth. He had the coldest eyes Stephen had ever seen. "No. I need another day to finish them."

"I see." The duke accompanied those two words with a long, silent, frigid stare that clearly indicated his disap
proval. He returned his attention to his dinner, dismissing his
son as effectively as slamming a door in his face.

Stephen realized that that exchange was the longest conversation he'd had with his father since his return to
London
.

"I heard an interesting bit at White's this afternoon," Gregory said, accepting more wine from a footman. "The betting book is filled with wagers on the outcome."

Stephen's gaze moved down the table and settled on his brother. Signs of Gregory's dissipated lifestyle were taking their toll, marring his handsome face, and the alcohol-induced bleariness never completely left his eyes anymore. His high color announced his inebriated state. If Gregory weren't such an immoral bastard, Stephen would feel sorry
for him.

"What did you hear?"
Victoria
asked.

"There's talk that a
woman
has been writing a series of stories appearing in
Gentleman's Weekly
magazine."

Stephen froze. "What?"

Gregory gulped his wine, spilling burgundy drops on his white cravat. "Do you read
A Sea Captain's Adventures
by H. Tripp in the
Gentleman's Weekly?"