The Earl's Enticement (Castle Bride Series) (13 page)

And such lovely lips?

A movement behind her father caught her attention. Following her gaze, he half-turned and upon seeing Maisey, motioned for her to enter. Her gaze lowered, she scurried into the chamber carrying a tray. She made straight for the table before the window seat. Uncovering the food, she began noisily arranging Adaira’s breakfast.

Her stomach growled as the scent of fresh cinnamon buns and ham drifted to her nose. Worry prevented her from eating most of her evening meal.

Father glanced at Maisey, then met Adaira’s gaze square on. His voice a low rumble, he said, “His lordship has us at Point Non Plus. Any reasonable suggestion he makes for your punishment, I fully intend to agree with.”

She pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes. “I see.”

Why did she feel betrayed? She’d brought this on herself. Every action she’d taken, every choice she’d made, she’d known the consequences.

At least she’d thought she had
.

Drawing in a deep, fortifying breath, she gave him a shaky smile. “How long am I to be confined?”

“Two weeks.” He shifted his gaze to Maisey once more.

She paused in straightening the bed covers, looking to him expectantly.

“I’ll leave the key in the lock.” Father motioned to the key protruding from the door. “Attend yer mistress, and when ye are done, see ye bring me the key. I’ll be in the library.”

Maisey, her blue eyes round as dinner plates, bobbed her head. “Yes, Sir Hugh.”

She darted Adaira an apologetic glance and tried to smile. It looked more like a sickly grimace.

Adaira followed her father to the doorway. “Is he still here?”

“Nae, he left at first light to convey his brother to Newgate and deliver Ewan’s letters to the Secretary of War.”

She frowned. How would his lordship confer with Father and Ewan about her sentence, then? Perchance, once the earl was back in England, he’d find it too inconvenient to communicate about the matter. For certain, Lord Clarendon wouldn’t return to Craiglocky. He had no more liking for her than she did for him.

What about that kiss,
taunted a voice in her head.

It meant nothing. Lord Clarendon was half-foxed and she, well, she’d allowed her fear about Vala and Maximus, for that’s what she’d named the colt, to overcome common sense.

The kiss meant less than nothing. It wasn’t worth a blink.

Liar
, whispered the same mocking voice.

“Do hush!” Addy muttered crossly, while sweeping her hair behind her shoulders.

Father gave her a quizzical look. “Pardon?”

“Nothing, Father. I was just scolding myself aloud.”

He angled his brow in obvious suspicion. Pausing beyond the door, he said, “Ye cannot have visitors either.”

He inclined his head in Maisey’s direction. “She’ll attend ye twice a day, but she will not stay to dress or talk with ye.”

Adaira’s shoulders slumped in resignation. From habit, she fingered the cross resting on her breastbone. How would she endure two weeks of isolation?

“Would you send some books on animal husbandry from the library, please?” Not that she was overly fond of reading, but she had to have something to occupy her time. She wasn’t about to take up embroidery or tatting. “You’ll see to my horses? Fionn needs to be ridden daily. He prefers me, but will tolerate Jocky or Ewan.”

Father’s features softened. “Don’t worry about your beasties. We’ll see they’re well cared for.”

He smiled then, the first hint of happiness she’d observed in him since this whole debacle began yesterday. “The earl is mighty impressed with yer horseflesh. He’s of a mind to purchase some of the yearlings and spoke of a joint breeding endeavor.”

Adaira gaped at him. Was he serious?

As if she’d
ever—
as long as she had a breath in her body, as long as the Church of Scotland sanctioned marriages at Gretna Green, as long as . . . as Dugall gobbled down Sorcha’s shortbread cookies like a man long starved ever—agree to such a ludicrous scheme.

Ever.

She stifled a hysterical giggle when her thoughts turned to discussing breeding procedures with the earl. How ridiculously discomfiting. Surely the heat infusing her was caused by outrage, or—she cast a glance to the windows, yes, the sun was pulsing off the pane—the temperature outside.

Maisey approached them, wringing her hands in her apron. “Yer breakfast is prepared, and I made yer bed.”

She sliced a nervous glance toward Adaira’s father. “Do ye have need of anything else, Miss Adaira?”

There was a hopeful tone in her voice. She was such a loyal dear.

Adaira sighed. “No, Maisey. I can manage well enough on my own, thank you.”

The maid dipped a curtsy. Adaira bit the inside of her cheek to stop the smile that threatened. Maisey only curtsied when Father was present. He stepped aside to let the maid pass. She continued down the hallway.

“Don’t be too hasty to say no to the breeding venture, lass. Clarendon has some remarkable horseflesh himself.” He gave her an intent look. “Ye’d do well to remember whose keep this is, and why ye have been allowed yer discretion with the horses, Adaira. The earl may very well make a contract between the two of ye a contingency of yer retribution.”

“Never!” she vowed, fists clenched. Blackmail her, would his lordship? He’d no right to her new line of horseflesh.

Father scowled. “Ye’ll have no say in the matter if it’s what he demands.”

With that dour declaration, he closed the door. Metal scraped against metal as he turned the key in the lock.

“We’ll see about that,” Adaira muttered mutinously.

CHAPTER 14

The deed was done.

Three days after leaving Craigcutty, traveling day and night, Roark delivered Edgar to Newgate. Without a backward glance, Roark left his brother to rot. They’d stopped at Cadbury Park for thirty minutes enabling Roark to exchange the borrowed horse for one of his own. He’d refused to ride in the carriage with Edgar.

Roark made for the War Office straightaway. Maman’s words, spoken to him when he was but eight years old, echoed in his mind as he rode the few blocks.

“You must guide and protect your brother, Rory. He doesn’t have your wisdom or ability to make right choices
.”

May Maman, God rest her soul, forgive him. He was done with guiding or protecting Edgar. Roark clenched his teeth against remorse as he dismounted Tenacity. He handed the reins to an overheated groom in primrose and emerald livery.

Edgar was reaping what he’d sown, ensnared by his evil deeds. Removing his gloves and hat, Roark shook off the guilt niggling him. His brother was well beyond redemption, at least here on Earth.

Roark ran up the steps to the War Office. Edgar’s mocking words still rang in his ears.

“There’s no proof, Rory, damn you to hell. I’ll not hang. You wait and see. I’ll be a free man again, and soon. When I am, you had best watch your back. I’ll not forget your betrayal,
brother
.”

Proof or not, Edgar had let a jot of the truth slip. Roark needed no more convincing. He knew his brother.

The venom in Edgar’s voice, and the hatred radiating from his wintry eyes, raised the hairs on the back of Roark’s neck. Edgar looked and sounded like the old earl.

Roark strode down the musty corridors of the War Office. He had one intent—delivering the missives Sethwick sent to the Secretary of War, Bartholomew Yancy, the Earl of Ramsbury. Then, Roark planned to return to the relative peace and quiet of his estate, Cadbury Park, for the remainder of the summer.

Ironic that his conscience plagued him more for swatting Adaira than it did for abandoning his brother to Newgate. One was more deserved than the other, that’s why. He couldn’t blame his actions in Craiglocky’s stables that night on being half-sprung either. Yes, he’d had a bit to drink, hell, a great deal to drink, but he knew perfectly well what he was doing when he’d spanked her.

Guilt thrummed through Roark. He’d taken his ire out on her, although her irascible behavior was to blame in part. He still didn’t know what possessed him to kiss her. She’d been so pitiful, sobbing on the stable floor. Once he held her in his arms, rational thought had fled. As had his desire to find who’d helped imprison him.

The despair in Adaira’s voice when she sobbed she might go to jail or hang had lodged in the pit of his stomach. He’d been unable to keep from comforting and reassuring her.

And he’d enjoyed every moment.

When the hot-blooded vixen began returning his kisses, he’d been hard pressed not to tumble her in the pile of straw. He might have if the bedding had been clean and fresh. Her passionate responses were not those of an innocent. His groin stirred at the recollection. No, he was confident it wouldn’t have been her first time. The notion rankled.

After two wrong turns amongst the miles of corridors in White Hall, he forced himself to sequester those memories and focus on the task at hand. At last, he reached the secretary’s office. Roark gave a sharp rap on the ornately carved double door.

“Come.” Yancy’s clipped command was muffled.

Opening the heavy door, Roark stepped through the entrance. Yancy sat hunched over his desk. He held several papers in one hand and a quill in the other. He glanced up, his green eyes widening. A grin spilt his face.

“Clarendon! What a pleasant surprise.”

He reared up, dropping the papers and setting the quill aside. Yancy strode across the room. He seized Roark’s hand in a firm grip. Pumping his arm, Yancy slapped him on the shoulder. His astute gaze studied Roark.

“I say, you look like bloody hell.”

Roark offered him a rueful smile as he handed over the packet. “From Sethwick. You’re to read them at once.”

At Yancy’s raised brow, Roark explained. “I just came from Craiglocky.”

“Ah, yes, I knew Sethwick was there. Something to do with escorting Miss Stapleton, I believe. Care for a drop of brandy?”

Yancy made for a small cherry-wood cabinet, tossing the packet onto his cluttered desk as he passed by. “You look like you could use a stiff drink, old chap.”

“Yes, well, as to that, I’ve spent the past three days traveling here in rather a hurry. One of Sethwick’s sisters mistook me for Edgar. She locked me in the keep’s dungeon for another few days.”

He pointed to his cracked lip. “She also gave me this.”

A vision of Adaira’s swollen pink lips, moist from his kisses widened his smile. By Jove, the chit kissed like a wanton.

Yancy’s jaw dropped, the brandy decanter poised in midair. “The devil she did!” He poured a generous splash into the glass, glanced at Roark, and added a dab more. “Which one?”

“You’ve met Sethwick’s sisters?”

Yancy nodded before taking a drink himself. “Yes, at a house party given by the Marquis and Marchioness Betheridge, two, maybe three years ago. I believe you’re acquainted with their son, Flynn, the Earl of Luxmoore. They’re distant relations to Giselle Ferguson, if I recall correctly. I believe Luxmoore’s paternal grandmother was also Scots and is somehow related to McTavish.”

Roark nodded. “Yes, I know Luxmoore well. We were boyhood chums. His father has a hunting lodge a few miles from my estate. The chap’s an eternal optimist with a perpetual grin on his face and curvaceous woman on his arm.”

Yancy chuckled. “Yes, that’s him. As to the daughters, one was quite young and painfully shy. Another had eyes like Sethwick’s.” A far-off expression flitted across his features. “‘Pon rep, truly the most exquisite woman-child I’ve ever seen,” he murmured.

Roark gave Yancy a sharp look.

The secretary raised his glass and grinned. “And the eldest, a dark-haired, petite hoyden who let a snake, a rather large snake I might add, loose on the dance floor in the midst of a waltz.”

Yancy laughed. “The ladies were not amused, especially since the night before, a dozen baby rabbits had been released in the music room. Earlier in the day, she hid all the chamber pots.”

He topped the crystal decanter. “Come to think of it, she never confessed. She just glared daggers with those black eyes. Hostile bit of fluff.”

“That would be Adaira.”

And
her eyes aren’t black. They’re coffee brown with citrine flecks
.

Blast. Had Roark said that aloud? A quick glance at the secretary told him he hadn’t.

He was neither surprised nor entertained by Yancy’s revelation. Neither did it please Roark that he remembered what color Adaira’s eyes were. He fingered his lip. The swelling was gone. Only a small scab at the corner indicated he’d been clobbered recently.

How old had she been two years ago? Seven and ten? Eight and ten? Old enough to know better. He rubbed his forehead. Yes, she most definitely needed instruction in proper decorum.

Yancy picked up the second glass, his signet ring clinking against the crystal. “Adaira, your jailor?”

Humor laced his voice. His gaze dipped to Roark’s lip, and he flashed another sardonic grin.

“Yes.” Roark’s clipped response was harsher than he’d intended at the reminder of his imprisonment. He unbuttoned his coat, grateful for the cooling draft wafting in through the open window behind Yancy’s desk.

He wrinkled his nose.

Unfortunately, not only did the din of the city carry into the office, London’s summertime stench, the putrid Thames and rotting refuse and excrement piled along the streets, did as well. He yearned for the freshness of Cadbury Park.

Or the balmy heather-scented air of Craiglocky
.

“By-the-by, my stepsister is Viscountess Sethwick now.”

Yancy’s russet brows shot to his hairline. “Indeed?”

He chuckled, a low delighted rumble. “Sethwick, married.” He shook his head and chuckled again. “You’ll have to fill me in about that
on dit
, and that dungeon bit too. Sounds most intriguing.”

A sly smile teased the secretary’s mouth.

Roark’s lips twitched. “Undeniably.”

“And a blow to your male pride, I imagine.” Yancy made no attempt to hide his delighted snicker.

Roark was taken aback. Yancy was right. Roark’s pride did sting. He’d been taken in by a slip of a girl. He arched a brow, then shook his head chuckling in agreement. “Indubitably.”

“Ah, do I detect a smattering of derision, my friend?” It was the secretary’s turn to arch his brows.

“You know you’ll be mocked when word gets out, Clarendon.” He crossed to Roark. “And it will. You cannot keep something like that a secret, old chum. Too many parties involved.”

“I’m aware. Sethwick and I hope to keep the murmurings to a minimum, nonetheless.”

“I assume there’ll be no complaint filed?”

“Not by me, and I’ve not authorized anyone else to do so.”

Yancy nodded. “Good. A female relative of a peer having charges laid against her, and Scotswoman to boot—” He swiped a hand through his hair. “Ugly, complicated business that.”

“Indeed, which is precisely why I’ve negotiated a different recourse with Sethwick,” Roark said.

At least he’d been saved the task of calling Sethwick out, although the circumstances surrounding the viscount’s marriage to Yvette were highly unusual, to say the least.

Canon Law proved to be quite convenient when expedited marriages were necessitated in Scotland. Now that Yvette was married, her honor was intact. He was prepared to ignore the tongue wagging surrounding the betrothal. Compared to Edgar’s imprisonment as a traitor to the Crown, the betrothal gossip was trivial.

Roark swallowed an oath.

So much for preventing further smears against the family name
.

“Here.” Yancy handed Roark his brandy.

“Have a seat,” the secretary waved, indicating the black leather wingback chairs before the room’s unlit fireplace, “while I take a look at Sethwick’s missive.”

Roark sank into the comfortable chair with a welcoming sigh. Raising the glass, he took a long drink. The brandy burned his lip, then trailed to his gut. He closed his eyes, barely noting the crackle of papers as Yancy removed them from their leather covering.

Lord, but Roark was tired. He hadn’t had a decent night’s rest in nigh on a week. No, it was closer to a fortnight. A pair of saucy dark chocolate eyes and rosy lips interrupted his musings.

“Well, I’ll be damned.”

Yancy’s oath yanked Roark fully awake.

“Edgar’s finally been apprehended.” Staring off into space, Yancy drummed his fingers on his desk. “But is there sufficient evidence to convict him?”

His fingers stilled, and his compassionate gaze sought Roark’s. “How fare you in this? Must be ruddy uncomfortable, his being your brother and all.”

Roark winced inwardly. That was putting it mildly. He chose to ignore the second question. “Edgar insists there isn’t enough proof, and I fear there might well be some truth to his claim.”

Roark took a sip of brandy.

“Even Sethwick’s sources could find no conclusive evidence of my brother’s involvement in either the poisonings or traitorous activities. Hell, Edgar helped the Crown by killing the two Italian spies who held Yvette after Aubry turned her over to them.”

“Aubry?” Yancy interrupted, a puzzled frown furrowing his forehead.

“A jealous Ferguson cousin, I believe.” Roark crossed his legs and took another swallow of the amber liquid. “The conniving chit fled after the deed was done.”

A droll smile tilted Yancy’s lips. “You and Sethwick do have some . . . ah, interesting relatives in your family trees.”

The secretary relaxed against his chair. “Edgar eliminating two spies may work in his favor, blast it.”

He tapped the papers before him with an ink-stained forefinger. “That doesn’t absolve him of his attempts to abduct Miss Stap— er, Lady Sethwick, in America. But, as he well knows, England’s courts won’t prosecute him for those crimes.”

“Or the deaths of Maman and Gideon.” Roark shoved to his feet. He lifted his glass. “May I?”

Yancy waved him toward the liquor cabinet, as he sifted through the papers once more. “By all means, help yourself.”

Roark crossed the Turkish carpet, his boots sinking in the plush depths. “There was no indication of poisoning, you know. From my medical studies, my guess is he used evening nightshade.”

Damnation, how could he stand here talking calmly about the methods his brother used to murder their mother and stepfather?

Yancy nodded. “Sethwick suspected either that or arsenic. Both are undetectable, and their symptoms often mimic those of a fever.”

After pouring another dram of brandy, Roark turned and rested his hip against the cabinet.

“My gut tells me my reprobate of a brother is responsible, although Yvette and Gideon were his targets, not Maman. With Yvette and her father out of the way, Maman would have been the sole heir to the Stapleton fortune. I’ve no doubt my brother planned on convincing Maman to bestow a generous settlement on him.”

Roark shook his head. “Edgar could always manipulate our mother. As for the treason, who remains to testify against him? Will it make any difference?”