Chapter Three

 

 

From an early age Grant knew he was different. Not because of the fine houses and the nannies and the trips to Bath. Those things certainly helped him understand there was something unique about his family. But what really opened his eyes to the fact that the Hargraves were unlike anyone else was how people treated his father.

When the Duke of Readington walked into a room everyone else immediately stopped speaking. As a young boy, Grant had suspected his father yielded magic powers. Absolute rubbish, of course. But as he grew older and came to know more of the world and how it worked, he understood that being a duke was its own sort of power. And a man had to be very careful about how he wielded it.

Being the third son, Grant was as likely to inherit the ducal title as Mrs. Wadsworth. Both of his older brothers were in robust health and the eldest, Charles, had two sons of his own. Lacking for male heirs the Hargrave family was not. Which was one of the reasons Grant had never concerned himself with finding a wife and starting a family.

While most men would have cursed their lot in life had they been born third in line to one of England’s oldest and most esteemed titles, Grant had always seen it as a blessing. It allowed him the freedom to seek his own path. One that had led him across continents and battlefields before steering him straight towards Bow Street.

He still remembered, with vivid clarity, the day he’d told his father what he was going to do. What he was going to become. The smell of cannon fire and the stench of death had not yet left his clothes when he approached the duke in his private study. As richly appointed as every other room at Litchfield Park, it boasted mahogany wood paneling and towering shelves filled with his father’s beloved books. An oversized liquor cabinet held some of the oldest brandy in all of England, and antique brass wall sconces bathed everything in a soft yellow glow.

The heels of his boots sank silently into the thick carpet as Grant walked across the study and poured himself a drink. His father had not spoken when he’d entered the room, but as dark amber liquid filled the crystal decanter he stood up from behind his desk and raised his voice. 

“Better make it two. I can see you have something you wish to discuss.” It wasn’t a question, but a statement. One he punctuated with a slight narrowing of his eyes.

Tall and broad shouldered, Eric Hargrave was exactly the sort of man one envisioned when they thought of a duke. His black hair had begun to gray at the temples and there were more lines creasing his face than there had been before his youngest son went off to war, but he still cut an impressive – and imposing – figure. Grant looked more like his father than either one of his brothers. Charles and Thomas had inherited their mother’s fair coloring, as well as her sweeter temperament.

There was irony in that, Grant supposed. He was the most like the duke, but he would never inherit the dukedom.

“I do,” he acknowledged as he used the decanter to fill two small glasses and held one out. He met his father’s cold, clear stare without blinking, having learned long ago that it was always better to challenge the duke head on. Any wavering would be seen as a weakness, and Eric did not abide weakness.

“If you’ve come to say you are going back to that damn war, so help me God–”

“No,” Grant interrupted with a shake of his head. “The war is over. Napoleon is finished. All that’s left is to sign the treaties.”

How simple he made it all sound. An entire war summed up in three sentences. Except there had been nothing simple about Waterloo or the bloody battles that had proceeded it.

War was not simple. He had discovered that the hard way. It was hell on earth, and any man who said otherwise had either never witnessed it firsthand or was lying to himself. War was chaos. War was pain. War was muddy fields trampled beneath thousands of boots and soaked in blood. 

When Grant closed his eyes at night he still heard the dying screams of men. Men he had known. Men he had fought beside. Men he had carried letters home for to give to loved ones they would never see again.

But he couldn’t tell his father that. Or his mother. Or even his brothers. He wouldn’t. It was a burden to be carried only by those who had fought, and he knew no matter how much time passed he would always carry the weight of it on his soul.

“Your mother will be happy to hear that.” Eric turned to face the fireplace. The snapping orange flames illuminated his stern countenance and the rigid line of his jaw. A hard man both inside and out, the duke believed in family, personal responsibility, and self-discipline – in that order. The only person who had ever been able to bring out even an ounce of softness in him was his wife.

To look at Caroline, a soft-spoken woman no bigger than a sparrow, one would think her easily cowed by her domineering husband. And during the first few months of her marriage she had been. But then something remarkable and quite unprecedented had happened. The duke had fallen in love with his duchess…and after twenty-six years of wedded bliss there was nothing he would not do for her.

“She never slept a full night that you were gone,” Eric continued. He sipped his brandy. “The rug in our bedroom has been worn down the middle from all of her pacing. I blame you for that.” His brow creased. “It was a very expensive rug.”

“I’ll buy you another.” The corners of Grant’s mouth twitched, and he hid his smile in the curved rim of his glass. He knew that was as close as his father would ever come to admitting that he, too, had feared for his youngest son.

They were both quiet for a moment as they stared into the fire. It crackled and hissed like a living, breathing thing, the flames lapping at the logs with a desperate, primitive hunger. Skimming a hand across his chin, Grant scratched at the dark bristle he’d allowed to grow since returning to England. 

“I am leaving for London at the end of the week.”

His expression pensive, Eric took another sip of brandy. “You haven’t been home for a fortnight. If it is wenches you’re after, there are plenty to be found in the village.”

Grant cast his father a sideways glance. “I’m not eighteen anymore. I’ve more on my mind than just wenches.”

“You are correct. You’re not eighteen anymore, but a man fully grown. One who has seen more of the world and what our fellow man is capable of than I ever care to.” The duke’s voice turned gruff as he looked down into his drink. “But you’re home now, son. You’ve returned to us. Surely you owe your poor mother more than a fortnight.”

How easy it would have been to stay. To take his inheritance and purchase a modest estate and live a life of gentlemanly pursuits. Find a sweet, mild-tempered lady wife and have a few squalling brats. It was, after all, what was expected of him. And because it was – because it was the only thing that had ever been expected of him – he wanted to do more.

There was a fire inside of Grant, not unlike the one that burned in the hearth. A fire that was driving him to do something that mattered with his life. To do something that counted. It was why he’d gone to war. Not for the glory of it, or the fame.

There was no glory or fame to be found in death.

He’d gone because it had been the right thing to do. Because his country had asked it of him, and he had been obliged to answer. Now he was answering a different call. One that would help people. One that would make a bloody difference in this godforsaken world.

“London isn’t France,” he said evenly. “I’ll only be but a four day’s ride away. Less if you have a fast horse. And I’ll see you soon enough when you come to town for the Season.” 

“It’s not myself I am concerned with,” Eric snapped testily. “It’s your mother.”

His father’s show of temper had Grant lifting a brow. “Yes, well, you can tell Mother that she is welcome to visit whenever he – I’m terribly sorry, I meant whenever she wishes.”

“You always were an impertinent boy,” Eric muttered under his breath. Tipping his glass back, he drained the rest of his brandy and walked to the liquor cabinet to pour himself some more. “It will be Christmas soon. The first one in five years we’ve all been together under one roof. You know how your mother feels about Christmas. Surely you can stay until then.”

Grant shook his head. “I would if I could. Surely you know that. But I am needed in London.”

“Needed?” The duke scowled. “Needed by whom?”

He met his father’s gaze. “John Fielding.”

 

“Felix said you were back,” said Grant as he stepped into his captain’s private office. “He also said you were in a pisser of a mood.” Noting Owen’s surly expression and the shadows under his eyes, he would have to agree.

The two men had met in France when they’d both been assigned to the same infantry unit. Grant had been an officer and Owen a lowly foot soldier, delegated to putting up tents and serving meals and polishing boots. To say they hadn’t gotten on at first would have been a vast understatement.

The common born son of a baker, Owen had very personal reasons for hating the nobility and in his eyes Grant had been the worst of the worst: a fancy lord playing soldier with no intention of risking life or limb. But when Grant had saved his life and Owen had promptly returned the favor, they’d been able to set aside their differences. In the midst of a long, bloody war they had become more than fellow soldiers serving in the same unit.

They’d become friends.

That friendship had followed them back to England and eventually to Bow Street. When Henry Fielding began looking for a new recruit Grant could think of no one better suited for the position than his old battalion mate, and so he’d sought Owen out and convinced him to come to London.

The skills that had served both men so well on the battlefield made them perfectly suited for being runners and they’d both excelled at their jobs, so much so that before Henry announced his retirement he pulled them aside and asked if Grant would be his successor and Owen his second-in-command.

Not wanting to be chained to an office Grant had politely declined the offer, but Owen – a better man than he for willingly shouldering such a burden – had risen to the challenge which was why he was standing behind a desk and Grant was standing in front of it, hands tucked into the front pockets of his trousers and a faint grin curling the edges of his mouth.

If he tilted his head and squinted a bit he could just make out the dark cloud hanging over Owen’s head. Complete with thunder and intermittent flashes of lightening. Something had crawled up his friend’s arse, but he wasn’t about to go searching for it. Grant knew when to pick his battles...and when to leave well enough alone. 

Putting down the stack of letters he’d been organizing into neat piles, Owen lifted his head, his blue eyes as dark and impenetrable as the hidden depths of the sea. “Felix needs to learn to mind his tongue. What do you want?”

Pisser of a mood indeed.

“Just checking in on the stiff from this morning,” Grant said easily. “He was a peer?”

“A viscount.” Owen crossed his arms. “Lord Rodger Sherwood.”

“And you think he was murdered?”

“I know he was. He fell because his girth snapped.”

“That sounds more like bad luck to me.” It wouldn’t have been the first time a peer had gotten drunk at the theater and tried to ride home, only to find himself sprawled on the ground with his face in the muck. Or in this case sprawled on the ground with a broken neck. Unfortunate business to be sure, but nothing about it pointed to murder.

“Not when his girth was cut,” Owen said matter-of-factly.

Grant whistled under his breath. “That’s one way to make a murder look like an accident. Bloody clever if you ask me. Sherwood…Sherwood…” Eyes narrowing, he rubbed his chin as he struggled to place the name. He knew he’d heard it, but he couldn’t remember where. “The name sounds familiar. I’m sure I’ve met him before.” With one foot planted in Bow Street and the other in Grosvenor Square, Grant had the unique position of being in two entirely different worlds…but not truly belonging to either one.

Jaw clenching, Owen looked as though he was about to say something else about Sherwood…but then he shook his head and abruptly changed the subject. “Did you ever catch that burglar who’s been breaking into the townhouses on Thistle Street?”

Now it was Grant’s teeth that grinded together. After being responsible for catching some of London’s most dangerous and notorious criminals, he still couldn’t believe he’d let a common jewel thief slip through his fingers. A jewel thief with the greenest eyes and softest lips he had ever seen…

Bloody hell.

What the devil was wrong with him?

He knew some men fancied other men. But he wasn’t one of them. And he certainly wasn’t after fancying young lads. For as long as Grant could remember he’d been in love with women. He adored everything about them, from their plump thighs to their soft breasts to the little mewling sound they made when they came.

Given his physical appearance and rakish charm, he’d never lacked for female companionship. Of course it also didn’t hurt that he was the son of a duke and a Bow Street Runner. The former made him one of London’s most eligible bachelors. The latter made him forbidden fruit. It was an enticingly seductive combination that he used to his advantage without any trace of guilt or remorse.

A woman knew precisely what – and what not – she was getting when she caught the wandering eye of Grant Hargrave. He never promised forever. Never even eluded to it. He may have loved women, but he wasn’t the sort of man who fell in love. Pleasure was what he sought. Sheer, unadulterated pleasure. And out of his long string of lovers and mistresses there was not a single one who could say she’d been left wanting in his bed.

Or on his writing desk.

Or on his dining room table.

Or, in the case of one very adventurous blonde, leaning over the edge of his balcony.

He was as skilled at lovemaking as he was at avoiding marriage. And never, in all of his years, had he ever looked at a member of the same sex and felt the stirrings of lust. It just didn’t make any damn sense. Unless the boy wasn’t really a boy…

His brow creased. He knew there were female thieves. But they were usually pick pockets who stole coins and pocket watches, not priceless pieces of jewelry from some of the most well-guarded houses in all of London.

“Not yet,” he said, frustration creeping into his voice as he replied to Owen’s question. “I always seem to be one step behind the bugger, but he’s bound to make a mistake sooner or later.”

“Better make it sooner. I’ve got Lord Munthorpe breathing down my neck. He wants his wife’s diamond necklace returned.”

“Cheap bastard,” Grant snorted. “As if he couldn’t afford to buy her a dozen more.”

“Some nonsense about the necklace being a family heirloom.” Own lifted a brow. “Either way, see to it. This has gone on long enough.”

“I agree.” The quicker he caught the lad the quicker he could put all this nonsense behind him. Then he’d never need to think about a green-eyed thief with long lashes and lush red lips ever again.