Chapter Thirty-Seven
Devlin pulled up on the reins of his horse, urging the heaving stallion to a trot as they crested the rise and rode up to the gates of his factory on the outskirts of Dartford.
He felt an icy fist grip his heart as he looked past the steel bars of the entry gate toward his factory. He had prepared himself for the worst, for the cinder and ashes to be swirling in the cold mid-morning breeze. The screams of agony wrenching through the air. The smell of recently burned timber, combined with the destruction of years of his work, laid bare on a blackened floor of soot.
What he had not prepared himself for was what he was currently looking at.
There was no soot, no cinder, no burned and blackened ashes. Instead, his factory was standing tall and proud, just as it always had, with workers bustling about the yard, going about their jobs.
“Can I help you, my lord?” One of the men walking past the gate stopped to attend him.
Devlin glanced down at the stocky man and dismounted swiftly. “Where is Mr. Sinclair?” he asked. The letter had said he’d died in the fire, but since there was no fire, he dared to hope that his factory foreman was also alive and well.
“In his office,” the man replied.
Relief flowed through him, followed closely by a strong sense of foreboding. Devlin threw him the reins of his horse. “Take my horse and see he gets water immediately. I’ll also need another one to replace him with. Is there a spare horse kept here?”
The man’s eyebrows furrowed. “Well, there’s Mr. Sinclair’s. His stallion’s been having a nice old time relaxing in the stables this morning. But sorry, sir, don’t know if he’ll be willing to part with his animal.”
“I’m Huntington,” Devlin informed him. “Mr. Sinclair shan’t have a problem with me borrowing his steed.”
A spark of recognition lit the worker’s eyes as he recognized Devlin’s name. “You’re the owner!” the man exclaimed. “I ain’t ever met a Duke before.”
“See to my steed, then saddle Mr. Sinclair’s horse for me and have him waiting out the front.” Devlin didn’t wait for the man to reply as he pushed open the gate and walked into the courtyard of the premises. He had to find Mr. Sinclair and find out what the devil was going on.
He strode over the cobblestones toward the smaller building attached to the large factory. The door swung open before he could even reach it, and the foreman of the factory rushed out to greet him.
“Your Grace.” Mr. Sinclair reached out and shook Devlin’s hand. “Wasn’t expecting you for a few weeks. Is all well?”
Devlin reached into his breast pocket and pulled out the letter. “Someone sent this to me.” A sense of urgency pulsated through him as an inner voice whispered that something was terribly wrong.
Mr. Sinclair opened up the parchment and quickly scanned the contents of the letter. Shock flooded his brown eyes. “I do not understand? As you can see, there is no fire here, and thankfully, I am alive and well, as are all the other men.”
“So I see,” Devlin said, a muscle in his jaw beginning to twitch as the implications of just what that meant hit him. Someone had deliberately deceived him and had done so in a manner that ensured Devlin would go tearing off to Dartford, miles away from…Sophie. He felt the color drain from his face.
She was in danger, and his distance from her meant he was helpless to do anything to protect her. Devlin spun on his heel and strode to the other side of the yard, where Mr. Sinclair’s horse was saddled and happily lapping up some water from the trough. “I’m borrowing your stallion. I shall see he is returned to you promptly.”
“Well, of course, my lord,” Mr. Sinclair said as he followed from behind. “Do you think perhaps one of your friends was jesting with you, my lord?”
Taking ahold of the stallion’s reins, Devlin swung up and onto the saddle. “Not a friend, Mr. Sinclair. Definitely not a friend.” He’d made many enemies over the years, and narrowing down who had such a vendetta against him would take time.
“Who would dare to trifle with you?” Mr. Sinclair replied as Devlin swung the horse around and spurred him from the yard.
“A dead man.” By God, if even one hair on Sophie’s head was touched, there was no place the fiend would be able to hide that Devlin would not find him and rip him to shreds. He remembered the Scotland Yard Inspector describing to him the way in which the two other girls had been firstly tortured before being killed. The possibility that the madman who had committed such atrocities was now after Sophie sent a bolt of sheer dread deep into the very center of his heart.
He tried to banish the horrid images, instead focusing on the rage he was feeling and not the fear. If he dwelt on the fear, and the image of Sophie in peril, he would be undone.
Devlin urged the horse through the gate and down the road to the outskirts of town, pushing the steed as fast as he could. “Come on, boy,” he called to the horse as he dug his heels into the stallion’s flank. God! How could he have been so stupid, to fall for such a thing?
Even though he’d rushed here thinking men had been injured and killed, at the back of his mind, he had been more focused on his project being at risk. He hadn’t really stopped to consider anything else. He’d just wanted to get out of Sophie’s presence and away from his feelings.
He was a fool to have left her alone, regardless of her assurances. A part of him had known that, but still he’d done so. He’d taken the easy option, distancing himself from a woman who was wearing down the carefully constructed barriers he’d erected around his heart. And now, because of his cowardice, she was most likely in grave danger. His gut twisted at the thought that he might never see her again.
He laughed bitterly, realizing in that moment that his business meant nothing to him compared to what Sophie had come to mean. And he’d pushed her away. He’d convinced her that she meant nothing to him. When in reality, she meant everything to him. She was all that mattered.
And he loved her.
The realization nearly knocked the wind out of him. He loved her? No, he could not love her. He respected and admired her greatly, but love? It was too dangerous to love others; he had learned that the hard way. After all this time, he’d thought himself incapable of love. But somehow, he had allowed her to wind her way into his heart.
God help them both, but love her he did. And she was in danger, while he wasn’t there to protect her.
He forced himself to clamp down on the gut-wrenching fear starting to wind its way around his throat. He could only hope she had done as he’d asked of her and was now safely at her townhouse. But he knew she was too stubborn to meekly sit back if she thought she could help. A chill went through him. A part of him could sense she was in jeopardy. He felt it in his bones.
He urged his horse faster still. Damn it, the only other two people he had ever loved had been taken from him. He was bloody well not going to let the woman he loved be stolen from him, too. He couldn’t. He would be a shell of a man without her.
And for the first time since his parents had died over twenty-five years ago, Devlin began to pray, hoping that this time the Lord would be listening.
…
Sophie peered out of the carriage window as the vehicle came to a halt in front of the Dowager Marchioness of Brampton’s town house. So much for the woman’s declaration that Devlin gave her a pittance, for if the impressive edifice standing before her was any indication, she and her daughters were well looked after.
“I don’t know if this is a good idea, my lady.” Abby’s voice held a hint of censure as she peered out of the window too. “Shouldn’t we have stayed at home after visiting the orphanage? You really should be getting ready for your wedding.”
“I shall have plenty of time later.” Sophie pulled her gloves on. “However, this is a visit that unfortunately must be made. Particularly after discovering a calling card was left for me by an Inspector from Scotland Yard.”
There was a wash of confusion in Abby’s brown eyes as the girl turned back to regard Sophie. “An Inspector from Scotland Yard? Oh my.”
“Oh my, indeed.” Clearly, the inspector must think Devlin to be a great deal more involved in the whole situation than she’d realized. She had to stifle the sense of unease creeping up her spine. If she didn’t convince the Inspector, Devlin had nothing to do with the deaths, then the real killer may very well get away with murder. “Do you understand now how important it is I speak with the Duke’s aunt?”
Abby’s eyes were like wide saucers. “If Scotland Yard are trying to speak with you, it does seem the Duke’s a suspect in their eyes, doesn’t it?”
Sophie squared up her shoulders. “Not for long, if I can help it.” And even though she was dreading the thought of speaking with Devlin’s aunt again, it would be far easier to visit and ask for her assistance while Devlin was out of London and unable to antagonize the woman further. Not that the woman didn’t necessarily deserve to be antagonized; she was rather horrid to be sure. However, Lady Brampton was the only one who would be able to identify if the ring in Scotland Yard’s possession was her late husband’s missing one—and hence she was the only person that could exonerate Devlin.
“But, my lady, I don’t think the Duke would be particularly happy about you visiting his aunt without him. Even if you are trying to help him.”
That was putting it mildly. “Of course he won’t be happy, Abby. But Lady Brampton may unknowingly have vital information regarding these murders, and as my fiancé is too stubborn to speak with her himself, it falls upon me to do so.” Particularly as Scotland Yard were now not only wishing to formally question him, but were also wishing to speak with Sophie, his fiancée. And no matter what Devlin said, with a ring bearing the Huntington crest found under a dead girl’s body and without any other suspects, they could easily move to make an arrest. She would not lose her soon-to-be husband to the gallows, maddening as he was.
“Still, I ain’t got a good feeling about all this,” Abby said.
“Neither do I, Abby, neither do I.” But Devlin had left her with no choice when he himself had refused to speak with his aunt about the ring. Though Lady Brampton’s house certainly had an air of cold menace about it, Sophie would be safe inside, surrounded as she was by servants. And as soon as she’d finished convincing Lady Brampton to help, she’d go straight home. Devlin would be none the wiser until he paused to wonder why Scotland Yard no longer wished to speak with him. At least, that was her intention.
The footman, who had been waiting for Sophie to unlatch the door, opened it fully and depressed the lever deploying the steps from the carriage. Sophie took the hand he offered and alighted from the carriage. She looked back over her shoulder at Abby’s somewhat mutinous expression. “I shall not be long.”
Sophie walked up the landing to the front door and rang the bell. She had to wait a moment before the butler responded.
“Yes?” he inquired, his lugubrious voice reminding Sophie of an undertaker.
She pulled out her calling card and handed it to him. “Please inform Lady Brampton that I must see her at once.”
The butler looked down at her name and then back up to her. “Lady Brampton is not receiving any callers at the moment.”
Sophie smiled grimly. “She shall receive me. Tell her it is in regards to her late husband’s ring.”
“But as I said—”
“Tell her now.” Her voice brooked no argument.
The butler looked down his rather elongated nose at her before closing the door abruptly.
She stood there with her mouth agape. Why was it that recently, butlers seemed to be in the habit of slamming doors shut in her face?
Squaring her shoulders, she raised her fist and began pounding on the wood, stopping only when she heard footsteps running back toward the door.
It opened, and the butler, panting slightly, squinted at her. “No need to bang like that! I was checking if the Lady would see you.”
“It would have been polite to say so then.”
The butler glared. “Lady Brampton will see you.” He looked pained to say the words, with his lips compressed into a tight line.
“I rather thought she would,” Sophie replied, stepping into the foyer. Immediately, she noticed the gleaming marble floors and a lovely crystal chandelier adorning the entrance hall. She would have expected no less from the dowager’s house.
“This way,” the butler intoned through his pinched lips.
She followed him through the entrance hall and down a corridor until he stopped at a doorway to his left.
“Please wait here,” he said as he stepped into the adjacent room.
Sophie rolled her eyes at the pomp and ceremony with which he announced her.
The butler returned and motioned her to enter.
She stepped into what was the sitting room. There at the far end, sitting alone at her writing desk and surrounded by her correspondence, was Lady Brampton.
The woman herself did not have a hair out of place and was dressed in a demure but perfectly tailored black gown, as she had been the last time Sophie had seen her. She reluctantly stood.
“Thank you, Digby,” Lady Brampton said, dismissing the butler. “So,” she pinned Sophie with a glacial glare, “I hear you are engaged to my nephew.”
“I am,” Sophie acknowledged.
“Do not say I did not warn you of him the other evening.” She sneered at the mere thought.
“I shall not, Lady Brampton,” Sophie assured her.
“Well, what do you want, girl?”
“I do thank you for seeing me,” she began.
A thin smile touched the dowager’s face. “Did I really have a choice? The banging coming from the entrance suggested otherwise.”
Sophie arched her brow. “I rather thought your interest might have been piqued by news of your husband’s ring. At least, that is why I thought you agreed to see me.”
“You are an impertinent girl!” Lady Brampton declared, sitting down on a red velveteen armchair.
“Perhaps,” she conceded as she took a seat across from her. “But when it is in regards to matters of life and death, I would choose to be impertinent any day than simply sit by and do nothing.”
Lady Brampton eyed her shrewdly, assessing the comment. “A touch melodramatic, Lady Sophie? Even for you.”
“No, unfortunately, it is not,” she answered.
“Say whatever it is that you have to say then,” Lady Brampton enunciated in a highly belligerent tone before closing her lips tightly. It rather reminded Sophie of the butler’s expression. Perhaps he had learned it from the Lady, for she was a master at it.
“I heard that your late husband’s ring was lost a very long time ago.”
Lady Brampton’s eyes became thin slits. “Yes, when he died over twenty years ago. What of it?”
“Well…” Sophie began. “It appears it may have been found.”
“In your fiancé’s possession, no doubt,” came the Lady’s clipped reply.
“Why would you say that?”
“Though the authorities declared my husband’s death an accident, I never thought it to be so. Even when I told them my husband’s family ring was missing, they said it must have fallen from his finger when he fell from his horse. Have you ever heard of anything so ridiculous?”
“So you thought he was murdered then?” she said.
“Yes, I did,” Lady Brampton replied. “In fact, I still think so.”
Sophie clasped her hands in her lap, trying to keep her voice calm and level. “If you think he was murdered, why would you believe the ring would be in Devlin’s possession? After all, he was only a boy, who had never met either of you, and was living on the other side of the country when your husband died.”
“Is it not obvious?” Lady Brampton said. “Devlin’s father, James, killed my husband. And since Devlin has had the ring all this time, he undoubtedly knew.”