Chapter 34

Ryland rose to his feet with Price’s assistance. His eyes narrowed as he took in his aunt’s form, sprawled across the hall floor, skirt trailing through the puddle he had left behind.

“Should we move her, Your Grace?”

He should say no. He wanted to say no.

“Yes. Put her on the sofa in the drawing room. Bind her and set up a watch. Until Miranda is safely home, my aunt is to be kept confined as a person of suspicion.”

Price nodded but paused for a long moment before scooping up the prone body and crossing the hall. Ryland watched them go, trying to process the fact that his last-remaining family wanted him dead. His aunt had crowed over his passing and seemed to think Gregory had orchestrated it. One hand speared through his hair, the clammy feeling reminding him that he was still soaked to the bone.

“Jeffreys!”

The valet strode from the direction of the kitchens, several folds of toweling in his arms. “Would you care for a towel, Your Grace?”

Ryland felt a smile tug at the corner of his lips. How could he find humor when Miranda was missing? He took a towel and rubbed at his hair, face, and arms.

“May I take your coat, Your Grace? Perhaps if we remove some of the wet items, the towels will be more effective.” Jeffreys set the remaining towels on the floor and moved to divest Ryland of his sodden outer garments.

The half smile was firmly in place as Ryland watched his ruined coat get neatly folded and set upon the floor. “You shall make a right fine valet, I think.”

“I’d like to think so, Your Grace. I’ve laid dry clothing out already. I shall be up to assist you as soon as I can find somewhere for these, er, garments.”

Ryland jogged up the stairs and down the corridor, doing his best to avoid the rugs. Despite shedding boots, jacket, cravat, and waistcoat, he was still dripping. A slow smile stretched his lips as he took in the scene in his dressing room. The nondescript garb of a country farmworker draped across a straight-back chair, laid out as elegantly as his finest evening wear.

His spy clothes. He hadn’t realized Jeffreys had kept them. Sliding his legs in the worn brown trousers felt comforting, and not only because they were dry. This was a case, a job. If he could remember that and treat it like one, Miranda would be safe within hours, if she wasn’t ensconced at Hawthorne House already. Until he heard otherwise, he would assume the worst.

Three sharp knocks rolled through the room. Ryland jerked his white shirt down before bidding the knocker to enter.

Jess opened the door wide but remained outside the room, using another towel to try to catch her own drips.

Ryland sent her an inquiring look while he sat in the chair to pull on his scratched and scarred boots.

“There was a bit of a scuffle in St. James’s Square, but there’s no way of knowing for certain if it was her or not. There was a woman on foot and a man in a curricle, and they left together.”

“Gregory.”

Jess froze. “Beg pardon?”

He stomped his foot the rest of the way into his boot and snatched his jacket from the back of the chair. There was no time to bother with the cravat or anything else. He was sure to be wet again soon anyway if he had to run after his errant cousin.

“Gregory. He took his curricle to the club earlier.”

“In this weather?”

Ryland shrugged as he slid past Jess into the passageway. “He didn’t have to go far. And it does have a top.”

“And you think Greg . . . er, Mr. Montgomery took Miranda? Why?”

Why was a very good question. What could Gregory hope to gain by stealing Miranda away? Ryland slid his fingers slowly across the polished newel post at the top of the stairs. He couldn’t run off into the night, hoping to track Gregory’s curricle across London. He needed information.

And he knew just the person who had it.

“Are you sure you want to do this, Your Grace?”

Ryland glanced at Price’s worried face and nodded. “Positive.”

“But . . . the brocade, Your Grace. It will be ruined.” The big man’s head shook back and forth, a look of grim resignation tightening the corners of his mouth.

Ryland swallowed a chuckle as he turned back to the couch upholstered in green brocade and currently holding the limp form of his aunt. Rope stretched from each of the four legs, ensuring she would remain sitting upon the furniture after she awoke.

“Perhaps smelling salts?” Price tried once more to dissuade his employer.

Ryland lifted one eyebrow as he looked his butler up and down. “Do you have any?”

“Er, no.”

“Then water it is.”

With that he threw the flowers from the nearby vase onto the floor and upended the remaining contents on his aunt’s head. She flew up, sputtering, trying to fling her arms over her head, only to find their movement limited by her constraints.

There was something satisfying about being comfortably dry while water dripped from her rapidly blinking lashes.

“Where is he?”

She stared up at Ryland, her eyes darting to the empty vase in his hand. Outrage replaced surprise on her angular features. She spit at him.

He tsked at her, handing the vase to Price before leaning down, just out of reach of his last-remaining female relative. “Such manners. What would the ladies at Almack’s say if they could see you now?”

“Get away from me!”

Ryland straightened and forced himself to maintain a casual appearance. His heart pounded in his chest, the blood roaring through his ears, urging him to hurry. But calm would be his greatest weapon in fighting his aunt. It always had been. When things didn’t go her way, she grew agitated and flustered. He was counting on that now.

“I’ll ask you again.” Ryland leaned his hips against the arm of the chair that sat at an angle to his aunt’s cushioned prison. “Where is he?”

“Who?”

“Your son. Gregory.”

“I believe he went to his club. With the rain he probably decided to stay there.”

His eyes narrowed as he watched Lady Marguerite—he refused to call her his aunt anymore—try to straighten her skirts and sit with all the poise and restraint of a lady calling upon her social enemy.

“He’s not at his club, but that’s not the real matter. He has no real friends so that only leaves a few places he could go. Checking them won’t take long at all.” He looked deep into her eyes, praying for the key, the one thing that would cause her to break. “Price, go ready the weapons. I want as many outriders as we can muster. Make sure we are all amply armed.”

“At once, Your Grace.”

Price’s footsteps echoed from the hall as the color began to fade from Lady Marguerite’s cheeks.

“I’m going to find your son, and when I do, things will not go well for him.”

“Maybe they won’t go well for you.”

Ryland tried to looked surprised. He was certain he failed, achieving a sort of mocking self-confidence instead. Either would serve to anger her. “Are you threatening me?”

She spat at him again. “Of course I’m threatening you. I tried to have them declare you dead, but without a recognizable body, they refused to do so.”

The fact that he frequently communicated with King George and then the Prince Regent might have had something to do with that as well, but she didn’t need to know that. “Seeing as I am very much alive, I’m glad to hear it.”

“You shouldn’t be.”

“Glad?”

“Alive.”

This was getting good now. Ryland resisted the urge to rub his hands together. “God has blessed me by extracting me from more than one tight situation, so He apparently has a different view of the subject.”

“It should be Gregory. He’s the eldest.”

Ryland couldn’t keep the surprise from his face. She did remember that she had married the younger brother, didn’t she?

“Gregory was supposed to be the duke. Gregory should be the duke! He’s older than you. He has stayed in London, has seen the many things this country needs.”

Now he knew that she was out of her mind. The only reason Gregory was staying in London was because Napoleon made traveling to France a life-threatening venture. And the only thing the man ever saw in London was his club, Tattersall’s, and the interior of a scattering of well-to-do drawing rooms.

“With you gone, Gregory would have been able to take his rightful place as heir! He was the eldest, but Richard kept insisting the next duke would be you, you insolent pup.”

Somewhere along the way Lady Marguerite had lost touch with reality. She sat shaking her fist at the ceiling, yelling at a dead man. “Look what you’ve forced me to become, Richard! I begged you to see to this before you died, but you refused! I suppose that makes me the fool for believing you loved me! You never loved me or Gregory. It was always about him. Making sure he got to Eton and played on the best teams for the best houses. Making sure he had a mother figure. You left me with a son and no future. Curse you, Richard! I hope you and your faithless lies are in hell!”

Ryland backed away, eyes growing wide as the woman he’d always pictured as cold and controlling thrashed on the sofa, years of constrained bitterness spilling forth in a torrent she was unprepared to handle.

She lunged for the side table, the ropes causing the couch to drag behind her and impede her balance. The empty vase crashed to the floor, sending shards of fine porcelain in every direction. She clawed at pieces, dragging them against her skin in an effort to cut through the rope.

The first sight of blood drew Ryland from his stunned stupor. “Jess! Price! Jeffreys!”

He heard footsteps scramble down the corridor as he tried to restrain his aunt. The couch kept him from approaching her from behind, and her convulsions made it dangerous to come from the front. She hauled the couch another foot, madness making her stronger than he could have imagined. It was going to cost him a scrape or two, but he had to stop her.

Ducking his head to escape any blows to the face, he dove in and wrapped his arms around her thin torso.

“No!” she screamed. The piercing sound drove to the middle of his brain.

With her arms pinned to her sides, chest heaving with sobs and exertion, she inspired nothing so much as pity. Ryland looked up at his faithful servants, his trusted inner circle. For the first time in a very long while, he was at a loss. “What do I do?”

“Let me go, Richard! I hate you! You practically made me your wife. Why couldn’t you make Gregory your son?”

Ryland struggled to maintain his hold on the madwoman. One rope had worked its way around his leg, threatening to send them both toppling in a dangerous tangle.

Price and Jeffreys looked as clueless as he felt. In all of their years, they’d never been faced with a predicament such as this.

Jess strode forward and swung a fist straight into Lady Marguerite’s jaw. Her head snapped back, cracking against Ryland’s cheek. The sudden limp weight of her still body sent Ryland stumbling back to sit on the couch. He looked at Jess and saw that Price and Jeffreys were also staring in her direction.

She shrugged. “It’s not as if all of you haven’t wanted to do that very thing before.”

They all had to acknowledge the truth of that.

Ryland extricated himself from the tangle of ropes and his aunt’s skirts and laid her out on the couch. “We’ll need someone to watch her.”

Price nodded and left the room. “I’ll get Archibald.”

“Any word on Gregory?” Ryland asked the remaining occupants.

“He’s not at his club or his, er, lady friend’s,” Jeffrey said.

Ryland coughed. He really didn’t want to know about his cousin’s indiscretions.

“None of his acquaintances have granted him shelter either,” Jess added.

Ryland nodded. That didn’t leave a whole lot of options. A roadside inn would tax Gregory’s pockets after a few days. He was due to receive his allowance next week, so he had to be running low. Inns offered too many chances for witnesses; someone who would notice and recognize Miranda and come to her aid.

Which meant there was really only one place Gregory could go with any kind of confidence.