Lurking in the shadows of the park across the street from the London residence, Sebastian watched the flurry of activity. He and Tristan had come and gone several times since yesterday afternoon, but now they waited because the sun would soon make its appearance and the deadline he’d given his uncle would be upon them. He didn’t intend to allow the man to remain in residence one moment longer than he’d already declared. It seemed Lord David understood the weight of the threat. Two coaches and a wagon were loaded to overflowing, the horses impatiently pawing at the cobblestone, their whickers echoing through the fog. His uncle had amassed an inordinate amount of possessions in the intervening years.
“I suppose truthfully,” Tristan murmured, “if he used Keswick funds to purchase all that garbage that it’s yours.”
“He’s welcome to it. I have no intention of splitting hairs as long as he takes nothing that belonged to Father. For now I simply want him out.”
“And then?”
“Destroy him. His credit, his credibility. I want him begging on the streets.”
“I still don’t fancy the notion of him drawing in air.”
“Killing him would shorten his suffering. I wish to prolong it.”
“There is satisfaction in that, I suppose. What are your plans regarding yourself?”
“Unfortunately, I shall have to remain here for a time to secure my place and to find a wife.”
He was well aware it wouldn’t be an easy task, but it needed to be done. He didn’t delude himself into believing it would be a love match. He wasn’t certain that he had the ability to love. Not any longer. The years since he left he’d not felt anything toward any woman—other than lust. That he seemed to have in abundance, even where Mary was concerned. Although it had certainly been lacking when Rafe had sent the woman to him.
Flo. He remembered her name only because Tristan had mentioned her several times since, trying to determine his satisfaction with her efforts. Why Tristan should care was beyond Sebastian’s reasoning. He’d forgotten the woman’s name two seconds after she’d given it to him. Which had made it rather awkward ten minutes later when it became obvious that whatever his needs, she couldn’t satisfy them. She’d then sent a raven-haired beauty to him, but he’d had no interest in her either. And he’d greeted the red-haired wench who followed with an immediate request that she depart. If he hadn’t had such a strong reaction to Mary’s nearness, he’d have thought the war had taken more than his sight on one side. But he had reacted. For the first time in a terribly long time. He had reacted with a fierceness that verged on barbaric.
“I realize that we have a good bit of time to make up for, but aren’t you rushing it a little there, when it comes to securing a wife?” Tristan asked. “Good Lord, we’re only six and twenty. I don’t plan to marry until I’m at least forty—if then.”
Six and twenty? How could he possibly be that young? He felt as though he were on the far side of thirty. “I want to be on display as short a time as possible.”
“And do you have a lady in mind?”
“If I did, I would already be on my way back to Pembrook.”
“Perhaps you seek to achieve too much too quickly.”
“Good God, Tristan, I’ve had twelve years to ponder it all. To scheme, to plan, to dream. Surely you have done the same.”
His brother kept his gaze fastened on the activity across the street. “While I’ll admit that I quite enjoyed being unfettered, returning to Society is all I thought of. I quite fancied being a lord again, and having any woman I want at my beck and call.”
“Have you someone in mind?”
“Hardly, but my time at sea gave me a knack for discovering buried treasures. Although I must admit that I take equal pleasure in the search as much as in the discovery.” He nodded toward the residence. “It appears the imposer is set to take his leave.”
Sebastian shifted his gaze to the departing carriages. They didn’t carry the ducal crest. It seemed his uncle had taken his threats seriously. He was to take nothing that didn’t belong to him. The horses and wheels clattered over the cobblestone drive, echoing through the fog as the first rays of sunlight began to ease their way into the city. He listened until the sounds were absorbed by distance, then he gave a nod to the man on horseback waiting even further back in the shadows. The man took off in a trot in the direction that Lord David had gone.
“When you discover where he seeks refuge?” Tristan asked.
“Then I shall know where to confront him when I’m ready and better savor his decline.” He would begin by ensuring all funds to him were cut off.
“How long shall we wait before entering the residence here?”
“I wish to relish the moment.”
“He’s not coming.”
Rafe. He kept impossible hours. Working through the night, sleeping through the day. Still, while he’d known that his brother had important matters with which to deal the day before, Sebastian had hoped he would find the time, make the effort, to be with them this morning as they finally realized the fruition of their efforts. “I fear he despises me.”
“He was ten. Too young to truly comprehend what was happening or the danger that dogged our heels. He saw us both riding away, and didn’t understand that we, too, would part company. He thought we were up to our usual tricks—us, the twins, against him.”
“He told you all this?”
“Of course not, but it doesn’t take a genius to deduce it all.”
“You’ve become quite the observer of men.”
Tristan grinned. “And women. Although I must confess that I much prefer observing the fairer sex. Men are far too easy to understand. But women . . . I rather enjoy the challenge they offer.”
Sebastian chuckled. He laughed so seldom these days that the scratchy noise sounded foreign to his ears. “Do you take anything seriously?”
“Contrary to how it may appear, I take everything damned seriously.” He nodded toward the residence. “Have you done enough relishing?”
He glanced around, felt a tightening in his chest at the sight that had been denied him because that portion of the street was not within his limited line of vision. “One moment more,” he said quietly, but unable to withhold the jubilation that soared through him.
Tristan glanced back over his shoulder. “Well, I’ll be damned. Good thing I didn’t make a wager on this outcome.”
For up the street strode Rafe. While he always dressed properly when wandering about his establishment, his clothing this morning was a cut above. Black jacket, pristine white shirt and cravat, gray waistcoat, and fawn trousers. He used a walking stick to pace his steps. His beaver hat sat at a rakish angle. He could have been any lord out for a morning walk. In fact, he was.
“Did I miss Uncle’s parting?” he asked as he came to a halt near them.
“Unfortunately yes,” Sebastian said.
“Not unfortunate. He’s gone. That’s all that matters.”
“It matters that the three of us are here,” Sebastian assured him. “I’m grateful you were able to join us.”
Rafe shrugged, as though it were of no consequence. “I finished with my ledgers earlier than I anticipated and had a bit of extra time. Shall we cross the street so you may take up residence?”
“By all means. Let us reclaim Easton House as ours.”
Their footsteps resounded and the fog swirled as though anxious to get out of their way. Sebastian could only imagine how they must have looked to anyone glancing out a window. Three men—he in the middle, his brothers flanking him and following one step behind—their walking sticks hitting the ground in perfect synchronicity. They passed through the gateway, the wrought iron gate having been left ajar in his uncle’s haste to leave. He wondered what sort of welcome the servants would give him. He’d seen no one he knew the night of the ball. If his uncle had replaced them all, he might very well be doing the same. He wanted no one about whose loyalties could be questioned.
He and his brothers marched up the drive, climbed the steps. They’d just reached the top, when the massive oak door swung open, and the butler stepped out. His was a familiar face. His hair had begun turning white, but he still had a proud, erect carriage. He bowed slightly. “Your Grace.”
“Thomas.”
A sparkle lit his brown eyes. “You remembered, sir.”
“How could I forget? You slipped me lemon drops when my father wasn’t looking.”
“I thought you did that only for me,” Tristan said.
“For all of you, sirs. Welcome back to Easton House. Anticipating your return, I have taken the liberty of assembling the staff. There are some who will no doubt not meet with your approval, but I believe you will find most are willing and anxious to see to your needs.”
“I appreciate it. Let’s see to business.” As he stepped through the doorway into the marbled foyer, his nostrils twitched as he caught the rancid stench of his uncle. Then he heard a gasp, a breath catch, and a tiny squeak. Three of the maids had lowered their gazes, and he wondered why he could so easily forget that his face was a shock to most who first saw him.
“I am the Duke of Keswick,” he announced. “My brothers, Lord Tristan Easton and Lord Rafe Easton.” Each nodded when introduced. “We are here reclaiming what is ours. If you doubt our claim, I will help you find employment elsewhere for I will tolerate no disloyalty to myself or my brothers. It would behoove you to be honest with us now if you cannot serve us as we require, for you will discover that forgiveness is not our strong suit.”
No one moved. No one spoke.
“Excellent then. I want everything in this residence washed, aired out, and polished until all looks new and I will be unable to find even a hair from the previous resident. Do I make myself clear?”
Heads bobbed. “Then see that it is done.” He turned to Thomas. “You and I shall meet in the library in an hour to discuss the particulars of this household.”
“Very good, Your Grace.”
With his brothers beside him, he began his tour. The familiarity of the surroundings was settling into his bones and beginning to feel welcoming. The one thing he noticed were the occasional empty spaces on the wall. Portraits of his father were not to be seen. He remembered as young lads that he and Tristan had stood for a portrait—one facing one way, one the other. Later they’d all had a portrait done with their parents. Those were also missing.
“Where do you suppose the paintings are?” he asked.
He didn’t need to elaborate.
“In the attic, hopefully,” Tristan said, “although I’d not put it past Uncle to have burned them.”
“I’m quite surprised he lived here,” Rafe said. “I would have thought Father’s ghost would have haunted him.”
“Only a man with the ability to feel guilt can be haunted by his actions,” Sebastian said. He spoke from experience, but he was not going to share that with his brothers.
They reached the library. A footman opened the door for them. For some reason this room was more difficult to face than the others. Perhaps because it had been their father’s domain. Their mother had a smaller library, more of a sitting room, with vibrant colors and books that appealed to her. But this room possessed a darkness, a boldness. Leather books lined mahogany shelves. Hunter green chairs were arranged in intimate sitting areas. Within reach of each was a table of crystal decanters. Their father had entertained here.
Sebastian didn’t want to consider that their uncle may have as well. He strode across the room to the large table near his father’s massive desk. He retrieved three glasses and filled each with whiskey. After each of his brothers took a glass, Sebastian lifted his. “To Father and reclaiming what belonged to him.”
“And what now belongs to you,” Tristan said.
“To all of us,” Sebastian corrected. “It may be entailed, but make no mistake, I consider it ours.”
A resounding clink filled the corner as the brothers touched their glasses together. He didn’t know why he didn’t feel as though he was yet home.
But he downed the whiskey, relished it burning, and swore that he would never again abandon his legacy or his brothers.
He heard a door opening and glanced over as Thomas strode in carrying a silver salver. “A missive was just delivered for you, Your Grace.”
Sebastian took it, dismissed the butler, and set aside his glass to open it. He read the elegant script with a measure of dread.
“What is it?” Tristan asked.
“We’ve been invited to a small dinner party at Lady Ivers’s this evening.”
“Lady Ivers? Isn’t she Mary’s aunt?”
“Yes.”
“Then I don’t see how we can decline.”