Ambersley (Lords of London) Read online

  Frowning, Derek perched on the back of the divan and folded his arms.

  Reggie never told him the whole truth. Triumph surged through her veins, though she kept her voice low. “Reggie was too generous to ever disown you. I understood that. But he deserved a new start, a new family.”

  “I would never have driven a wedge between Father and Curtis.”

  Guilt tinged his words, and she pounced on it. “Remember, you were the one who determined to leave. No one asked you to go.”

  “And none asked me to stay.”

  “My son is Reggie’s true heir. Do you blame me for wishing you elsewhere?” How often, in truth, had she wished him to perdition?

  Derek shook his head slowly. “No, I grant him happy to have a mother’s love.”

  “And what of a brother’s love, Derek? Will you now deny Curtis his due?”

  “That’s not my intent.” He stood and adjusted his coat of superfine as if he found it uncomfortable. “Reginald Vaughan was always good to me. The least I can do is see that his debts are paid and his children’s futures secured.”

  She rose and shook out her skirts. “Curtis and Olivia will secure only condemnation and notoriety if you return to Society and remind everyone of a scandal better forgotten.”

  “I’m well aware what my return will mean. But until I’m certain they are provided for, here’s where I shall remain. I must talk to this Mr. Minton and discover how matters stand.”

  Tamping down her agitation, she tried once more to reason with him. “Derek, you cannot mean to sully a peerage in this way. If anyone proves you’re not Reggie’s son—”

  “That’s not likely, is it?” He turned on her, bitterness darkening his eyes. “After all, you’ve no proof. If you did, the butler would have shown me the door, and Curtis would have been proclaimed the new duke by now.” The rigid line of his jaw relaxed some. “Depend on me to do what is best for everyone’s interests.”

  “Depend on you?” Despite her good intentions, her patience snapped. “You disrupt our lives with your sudden return, you threaten our family’s good name, yet I’m to trust you will provide for us?”

  Derek frowned at her heated argument. This was the Rosalie he remembered from his youth. Her mercurial moods had frightened him then, but now he withstood her outburst with no outward sign of emotion. He knew not how long he’d need to remain here, but he’d be damned if he’d do so at a disadvantage. “If you like not the terms, I suggest you return to Vaughan House.”

  Her lips clamped shut, and he saw the effort it cost her to calm herself. One elegant hand smoothed her dark locks as she released a shallow breath. “Forgive me, Your Grace. Your sudden return has surprised and unnerved me.” She dipped him a small curtsey.

  He nodded. “It’s understandable, but bear in mind, I mean no one harm.”

  “Of course not. The children are my chief concern. Olivia knows nothing about your regrettable parentage, and I’d prefer she not learn of it until she’s much older.”

  “Agreed.”

  “Then let us set aside our differences and cry truce.”

  “Truce,” he conceded. “Lady Vaughan.”

  A feline smile dusted her lips. “For the children’s sake, I think you should call me Mother.”

  Mother? Derek hoped he wouldn’t choke on the word.

  He was spared answering by voices in the hall. The drawing room door opened as if on its own, until Derek’s gaze lowered to find Johnny peering around its edge. Spying him, the boy pushed the door open further.

  “Well!” Rosalie wheeled with a swish of skirts as if a grubby lad in her drawing room were the worst sin.

  “They’re in here!” Johnny called over his shoulder, oblivious to her judgment. He turned back to give Derek a cheeky grin. “Mr. Harry said I might have another coin if I ran you to ground, sir.”

  “Mr—oh, lud,” Rosalie sighed as Harry and a spare man, small and wiry with spectacles perched high on his nose, entered.

  “Here they are, Mr. Minton,” Harry all but crowed. “Told you the boy could find them.” He added with uncharacteristic decorum, “Nigel Minton, my cousin, Derek Vaughan. I believe you’ve been searching for him.”

  “Indeed, I have.” Minton swept a graceful bow. “’Tis an honor to meet you at last, Your Grace.”

  “The honor is mine, Mr. Minton.” Uncomfortable with courtly gestures, Derek offered his hand to the solicitor and did his best to ignore the older man’s scrutiny as he turned back to Rosalie. “You remember my cousin Harry?”

  “How could I forget?” She inclined her head in brief acknowledgment. “You and Derek were forever getting into scrapes together. I wasn’t sure you’d ever grow up.”

  Harry’s eyes lit with anticipation as they did whenever he sensed opposition of any kind. “I stand proof that I have grown up. But then none of us can avoid growing older, can we?”

  Rosalie cleared her throat. “May I offer refreshments, gentlemen?”

  Minton’s eyes sparkled. “While this is a moment worth celebrating, I fear the hour is a bit early, and there are many things I’m eager to discuss with His Grace.”

  “Then perhaps I should leave you gentlemen to your business.” Though politely worded, Rosalie’s lips tightened into a thin line.

  “No need.” Derek stopped her as she walked toward the door. “Our business encompasses this whole estate, and I am eager to see Ambersley Hall.”

  Harry grinned. “Then by all means, let’s not infringe on the lady’s generosity.”

  “I’m more than happy to do what I can for my family, Mr. Coatsworth.”

  Belatedly, Derek recalled his stepmother had never liked his cousin, nor anyone named Coatsworth for that matter.

  Minton either didn’t recognize the veiled animosity between the two, or purposefully ignored it. “My lady, if we might then impose upon you for luncheon?”

  “Of course, Mr. Minton. Shall we say half past twelve?” Rosalie managed to look down her nose at all of them, finishing with the boy, Johnny. “And, Your Grace, I’ll tell Curtis and Olivia of your return.”

  “I look forward to meeting them,” Derek said. He ushered the others out to Minton’s waiting carriage, where Harry paid off the lad. Johnny stared at the gold sovereign with awe, gave a whoop of delight and dashed away, leaving the men to chuckle as they climbed into the coach.

  Churning gray clouds hung low as they pulled up before the Hall once more. The turbulent sky darkened the already sooty façade as if to blot it out completely. Derek couldn’t help but worry for the estate’s welfare if Rosalie became its chatelaine. She wouldn’t worry about restoring its former glory—she’d want to use it to glorify herself.

  “The original Hall was Tudor, but the eighth duke undertook to refurbish it in the Baroque style over a century ago,” Minton explained as they descended from the coach. “As you can see, the fire burned through the main hall and damaged most of the upper floors, destroying many of the servants’ quarters.”

  “How did the fire start?” Derek asked.

  “I’m afraid we don’t know. At the time, the staff expressed concern that the fire had been set deliberately, but I employed Bow Street, and they could find no proof of the claims. It appears it was naught but a tragic accident.” Minton led the way around the right flank of the house. “I had the roof repaired to protect what was left of the interior, but it wasn’t meant to be a permanent remedy. You see it hasn’t weathered the elements well.”

  The solicitor’s words were readily evidenced. “Why weren’t more extensive repairs done?” Derek studied the bricked-up windows as they passed.

  “The estate was rather tied up while we tried to find the rightful heir,” Minton replied. “You’d not believe how many Vaughan men have died young and left no sons. I’ve acted as the executor of the estate for the past four years, but my powers are limited.”

  “Looks as if someone’s been maintaining the roses, anyway.” Harry stopped to inhale one blossom’s sweet fragr
ance.

  Derek studied the rear of the Hall, the worst of its damage hidden at this angle. The golden stone projected a warmth that beckoned him with promise.

  “Shall we?” Minton opened one of the French doors that gave access to the gardens and entered the Hall.

  Derek hesitated on the threshold of the dimly lit interior while Harry peered over his shoulder.

  “Ten to one the place is haunted,” Harry whispered in his ear.

  Derek shushed him as Minton began the tour.

  “This part of the Hall weathered the worst part of the fire.” Mr. Minton led them down a wide corridor where charred walls were beginning to crumble. Ashes, dust and cobwebs dotted the black soot that covered everything like a cracked skin. “This was the newest wing of the house. Much more timber than stone work here.” He led them into a large room where the startled scurry of rodent feet greeted them.

  “This was the late Duke’s study.” Mr. Minton pulled back the heavy draperies masking the nearest window, allowing gray light to filter in through the airborne dust and reveal a rotted rug with large holes and burned edges. Two leather chairs were piled in the nearest corner, their hides scorched beyond repair. Mr. Minton crossed behind a large square desk to pull the drapes back from the second window.

  Derek surveyed the room with a critical eye. “Most of what’s here will need to be discarded.”

  “You might consider keeping the desk. It suffered some damage but could be refinished. It’s been in the family for five generations.”

  Derek ran a hand along the heavy piece of wood. Generations of Vaughan men had used this desk. Real Vaughans.

  “Mind if I let some fresh air into this tomb?” Harry crossed to the far window. A floorboard issued an eerie creak beneath his weight, and Harry, nimble as any deer, sprang forward only to have the boards collapse with a sharp crack. He clawed the air as he fell into a black void.

  Derek immediately rushed forward with his cousin’s name on his lips.

  Minton grabbed his shoulder. “Take care, Your Grace. More of the floor might give way.”

  Derek went down on hands and knees, crawling toward the black cavern. “Harry! Harry!” he shouted into the hole.

  “I’m here. You haven’t got rid of me, yet.” Harry’s familiar voice sounded from below.

  Derek’s initial wave of fear receded. “Here—take my hand,” he instructed, leaning further into the hole.

  “Your Grace!” Minton grabbed his ankles. “What if you fall?”

  But Derek strained to hear Harry. “Derek, I can’t see a thing, and I don’t think I can stand. I’ve injured my knee.”

  “Is it broken? Are you bleeding?” asked Derek.

  A laugh drifted up. “I don’t know. I can’t see a bloody thing.”

  Derek looked at Minton. “What kind of a room is he in? If I jump down there, is there another way out?”

  Minton looked embarrassed. “I’m sorry to say, I don’t know, my lord. I never had cause to tour the underground rooms. However, I would not advise jumping down that hole in any case.”

  “The drop isn’t all that dangerous if you’re expecting to do it.”

  “Not for you, but you could easily injure Mr. Coatsworth by landing on him.” Minton retrieved a heavy sash cord from the nearby drapes. “Here, see if this will help.”

  Derek smiled. “Well done.” He lowered one end over the edge of the precipice. “Harry, we’ve got a rope. Can you reach it?”

  “Wait.” Within the hole, something fell with a clatter and Harry cursed under his breath. “Yes, I’ve got it now.”

  It took a little patience—though Harry muttered a few more colorful curses—but with Derek and Minton working together, they managed to pull him up until Derek could reach Harry’s coat and pull him over the edge of the broken boards.

  Silent for now, Harry lay on the floor, pain etched on his face.

  Derek kneeled over his cousin, panting from the exertion of lifting him out. “I believe you’ve put on some weight.”

  His cousin smiled gamely at the quip. “It’s that damn lack of exercise on board the ship,” he said through partially clenched teeth.

  “Which I’ve more than compensated for. Maybe you should pull me from a hole.”

  “Yes, I’ll do that—as soon as you are obliging enough to fall through one.”

  Derek’s eyes widened to see blood seeping through the cloth of Harry’s breeches. “Harry, lie still. You may have hurt yourself more than you think.”

  Harry looked down at his leg and then his hands, which were smeared with blood. “That explains why my knee felt sticky. Can you tell how badly damaged it is?”

  “Not without more light.” Derek removed his neck cloth and tied it around Harry’s thigh just above the injured knee. “This will help stop the bleeding, but we’ll need a surgeon. Minton, is there someone local?”

  Minton suggested they retire to the Dower House and fetch the local barber to look at Harry’s leg. Derek heartily seconded the motion, and between them, they managed to help Harry limp to the carriage.

  Chapter 5

  Derek continued to fret over Harry’s wound in the coach. He’d seen enough leg injuries in the cavalry to recognize that prompt treatment would do Harry the most good.

  Clucking over the injured guest, Paget ushered the three men into the familiar cream and gold drawing room.

  “Thank you, Paget,” Minton said. “Send Rory for the barber immediately.”

  Paget stood back as Harry was settled onto the divan. “Yes, Mr. Minton. May I do anything else?”

  “Yes, I’ll need a knife and a bottle of brandy,” said Derek, preoccupied with removing Harry’s boot from his swollen leg. “Harry, I hope you won’t mind, but I’m going to cut the leg off your breeches.”

  “So long as you don’t cut off my leg,” Harry bit out from his seat on the ivory brocade.

  “No, I’ll save that task for the barber.” Successful with the boot, Derek looked up to find the butler hadn’t moved. “Was I unclear, Paget?” It didn’t bode well if the staff wouldn’t carry out his commands.

  “I’m sorry, sir, there is no brandy. The duty and all. If necessary, there is a bottle of cognac the late duke laid aside for—”

  Derek waved off the details. “Cognac will do. Fetch it.”

  Paget bowed his head. “Yes, Your Grace. I should point out that the cognac is meant to be aged for another ten years to reach its full potential.”

  “What do I care what it tastes like? I’m going to pour it into the wound.” With care, Derek placed a small pillow under Harry’s knee.

  “P-Pour it into the wound? My lord, surely there’s something else in the wine cellar.”

  Derek’s head snapped around at this further hesitation. The men in his cavalry unit had never questioned him. “Enough shilly-shallying, Paget. When I issue an order, I expect it obeyed. Knife. Cognac. Now, go!”

  Paget retreated, his face flushed.

  Derek released the tourniquet’s pressure and watched the wound seep slowly through the torn fabric. He monitored it while he massaged Harry’s ankle and lower calf. “Do you feel your whole leg, Harry?”

  “Yes, thank you, I do, and I rather wish I didn’t.” Harry grunted when Derek’s hand moved too close to the bruised knee.

  “No, believe me, the pain is a good sign.” He studied the wound as best he could, noting the tiny wood slivers still piercing the skin. “I can clean the cut, but I think it will need to be sewn up. Shame Cushing isn’t here. He sets a pretty stitch.” Derek looked shrewdly at his cousin’s perspiring face. “Does it hurt much?”

  “Like the devil,” Harry admitted.

  Paget returned bearing a tray with a large knife and a dust-coated bottle still sealed. He set the tray next to where Derek kneeled by the divan and retreated from the room before Derek could thank him. Concerned he’d been too abrupt with the retainer, Derek started to call him back only to have the words catch in his throat as Rosalie entered t
he room with her children and a drab woman in tow.

  “Oh!” She stopped at the sight of Harry bleeding on the divan.

  Derek’s only greeting was to raise the large knife and test its blade, before he returned his attention to Harry. No one spoke as he sliced through the breeches and removed the blood-soaked shred of cloth.

  “What is all of this?” Rosalie demanded.

  Mr. Minton stepped forward and explained the situation quietly while the duke uncorked the cognac. “This will likely sting, Harry,” he warned and then quickly doused the knee.