Along Came a Rogue (32 page)

Taking a moment to gather himself, he paused to lean his shoulder against the doorway of the downstairs morning room and looked in at his sister as she sat on the sofa, her feet curled up beneath her, an open book on her lap. He'd brought her such worry over the past year, and the guilt of the hell he'd put her through only added to the tightening that clenched at his gut.

But for now, she was relaxed, happily humming softly to herself, and absolutely glowing. He smiled at the sight of her.

“Do you have a valid reason for being here, Mrs. Grey,” he drawled, hoping his voice sounded more steady than he actually felt, “or are you simply spying on me again?”

“The latter, of course.” Emily returned his smile as she set the book aside and reached toward the tray on the low table to pour a cup of tea. His sister moved with an inherent gracefulness that turned women green with envy, and the sharpness of her mind only served to distinguish her even more from the other society ladies. “I know you have a visitor waiting for you—Royston wished me good morning when he arrived—but when you're finished with him, I expect you to join me for tea.”

Not a request, he'd noticed. “You know, officially, I outrank you.”

“Only on paper, brother dear.” She took a thoughtful sip. “Although, it wouldn't hurt to put your title to good use and consider calling on some of the young ladies who—”

“No.”

She shot him a peevish glare over the rim of her teacup, which he ignored. He would have to marry someday and produce an heir, but there was no hurry. No need to punish some poor girl unduly by bringing her into the madness of the Matteson family sooner than necessary.

“You came to check on me again,” he accused gently, although in truth, he was glad to see her.

“I came because I had the day to myself for once, and I wanted to spend time with my loving brother.” Despite that obvious lie, she scolded lightly, “Shame on you for insinuating otherwise.”

He arched a blatantly disbelieving brow. Emily was beautiful, charming, elegant…and an absolute pain in the ass whenever she meddled in his business, which was most of the time. But he loved her, and he would gladly lay down his life for her—when he wasn't set on throttling her himself. “Where has Grey gone off to, then?”

“He and the colonel went to Tattersall's to look at a hunter that Jackson Shaw has up for auction,” she answered far too smoothly, clearly having practiced her response in anticipation of the question. She never could lie well, not even as a child. “Kate and the twins are away at Brambly House. And I couldn't bear the thought of being all alone at home, so I came here.”

“You couldn't bear the thought of
me
being all alone, you mean,” he countered, knowing full well that she had her son, his nanny, and a dozen servants to keep her company. “So you came here to torture me.”

With a shrug, she lifted the teacup to her lips. “If you can't torture family, well, then who can you torture?”

“And that,” he pointed out earnestly, “sums up every Matteson family dinner since we were five.”

She choked on her tea. Laughing, she cleared her throat. “Go on, then, see to Royston. I'll be here when you return.”

“Dear God,” he grumbled painfully, “truly?”

He saw the devilish smile she tried to hide behind the teacup, then turned into the hallway.

“And give my regards to Lady Humphrey the next time you…
see
her.”

He froze.
Damnation.

Rolling his eyes, he glared at her over his shoulder. “You've become as much of a spy as that husband of yours.”

With a wave of her hand, she dismissed him. “Torture, spying—it's all Matteson family business.”

Yes, he conceded lamentably as he took the stairs three at a time, he supposed it was. Except for him. Not any longer.

Pushing the black thoughts from his mind, he strode into the drawing room. “Lord Royston.”

“Chesney.” Simon Royston, Earl Royston, warmly clasped his hand. “Good to see you again.”

He smiled shortly at the earl, the warmth of the man's greeting assuming a familiarity much closer than the two men actually shared. Royston was his father's acquaintance. Except for passing greetings at social events, Thomas had rarely spoken to the man.

In comparison to the Matteson family, with its title going back nine generations, the Roystons were recently titled, the current earl only the third of the line. But the earl's grandfather had been well admired among his peers, and Simon Royston carried on that reputation. Because of the man's acquaintance with his father—and more so due to a niggling curiosity about what brought the earl to Chatham House during the off-season, a curiosity that just might distract him for the remainder of the morning—Thomas was willing to receive him.

He gestured to the liquor cabinet. “Whiskey?” Not yet noon, the hour was early for a stiff drink, but Thomas noticed the tension in the older man's body, the dark circles beneath his eyes indicating lack of sleep. The earl could use a drink. And if truth be told, so could he.

Royston nodded. “Please.”

Thomas poured two glasses and handed one over, then motioned for the man to sit. He settled into his chair and watched as the earl tossed back nearly half the whiskey in a single swallow.

“I have to admit,” Thomas said as he studied him over the rim of his untouched glass, “this is a surprise. Of course, as a friend of my father's, you're always welcome here, but surely, you know that Chatham is in the country for the hunting season.” As should be every other man of landed property who had the good sense to avoid London this time of year. Including Royston.

“I came looking for you, actually.” The earl paused. “May we speak in confidence?”

He nodded, holding back a puzzled frown. Whatever could Royston want with him?

The man leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and rolled the crystal tumbler between his palms. “There's been trouble at Blackwood Hall.”

Thomas had never been to the country estate, but he knew of the place, which had been in the earl's family for as long as the title. Situated in the heart of Lincolnshire, the estate was two days' hard ride from London under the best of conditions; at this time of year, with the increasing cold and fall rains, a coach would be lucky to reach the estate in four. So whatever sent the man scurrying to London must have been serious. “What kind of trouble?”

He answered glumly, “Highwaymen.”

“Highwaymen,” Thomas repeated and carefully kept his face stoic, not letting his disappointment register at the mundane answer.

Royston grimaced. “I know what you're thinking—where is there a road in the Lincolnshire countryside that doesn't have highwaymen?”

He had been thinking exactly that but instead offered, “Actually, I was wondering why you didn't go to the constabulary.”

“I have, but to no avail.” He finished off his whiskey. “It's a puzzle, that's what it is. A damnable mystery.”

With his interest pricked at that comment, Thomas stood to refill the empty glass. “How so?”

“There appears to be no pattern, except that there is.” When Thomas frowned at his enigmatic choice of words, he continued. “The only robberies in the area have been guests returning home from Blackwood Hall, and then, not all the guests and not all the time.” He grimaced. “We're being targeted. My guests.
Me.
”

“I wouldn't go that far.” He tried to keep the patronizing tone from his voice, but truly, the description of the robberies struck him as simple paranoia. “You're a landowner in Lincolnshire. Highwaymen rob wealthy travelers, so more of your guests than—”

He shook his head. “
Only
my guests, Chesney. No one else.”

Well, that was odd. Still…“It doesn't mean you're being targeted.”

“When the carriages are stopped, only the men are asked to hand over their valuables. And one man in each coach, no matter how many other men are inside, and never anything from the women. Not even when openly displaying diamonds and pearls.”

A highwayman who robbed only one man per coach and left jewels? Finally, Thomas was intrigued. He leaned forward. “How long has this been happening?”

“On and off for the past two years.”

He arched a brow. “You're just now noticing the pattern?”

“I've noticed, I'm ashamed to say.” Royston glanced down at the whiskey in his glass. “But it never needed to be addressed until now.”

“What's changed?”

“I have hopes for the Lords next session. Some important positions will be opening, and I want to make my mark. You of all people should understand that.”

Thomas stared at him inscrutably, wondering exactly how much the earl thought he knew about him, then lied, “I'm afraid I don't.” He set his whiskey aside. “Besides, I'm not involved in anything of importance in the government.”
Not anymore.
“So why did you seek me out?”

Royston leveled his gaze on him, and his face took on a hard expression. “I know things about you,” he answered quietly. “I have connections in the War Office who have vouched for your…special skills.”

Thomas remained silent, unwilling to either deny or validate the earl's assumptions about him. Those special skills they'd assured Royston he possessed were the same ones they no longer wanted.

“I want you to come to Blackwood Hall and investigate this.” Asking for help from someone twenty years his junior was clearly difficult for the proud earl, but judging from the exasperated look in his eyes, he'd found no other solution. “I want this stopped, no matter the cost.” His gaze dropped unassumingly back to his drink. “And if it goes well, I see no reason why I shouldn't put in a good word for you with Lord Bathurst, assuring him that you have my full support and confidence.”

Bathurst.
Thomas froze even as a shot of adrenaline jolted through him. This could very well be the opportunity he'd been seeking. Royston wasn't wrong—he possessed a set of finely honed talents that had served him well as an agent, and he ached to use them again, even for something as small as this. Something that could bring purpose back to his life.

“Do we have an agreement, then, Chesney?”

Thomas nodded slowly, outwardly calm despite his racing heart.

“I'm hosting a party next week.” Royston set aside his glass and stood. “A fortnight at Blackwood Hall and a chance for a group of peers to gather to break up the boredom of the country season. An irresistible target for the highwayman, I presume.”

Nodding, Thomas rose to his feet. “Make certain the guest list is common knowledge to your household staff.”

Royston hesitated, incredulity flashing over his face. “You think it could be someone within my own house?”

“I think it could be anyone.” Thomas slapped him on the shoulder and walked him downstairs. “See you next week, then.”

He took his hat and gloves from Jensen and left the house. “My thanks, Chesney.”

And mine to you.
More than the earl would ever know, because this might just prove to be his opportunity to show the War Office that he was not only fully healed and ready for another field assignment but that he was just as sharp and vital as ever. If not more.

His body pulsed with excitement and the first real hope he'd had in a year. Arresting a highwayman in Lincolnshire certainly wasn't on par with the spying he'd done before, but it might just get him noticed. And at this point, with all other avenues blocked, he would claim whatever small victories he could.

Small victory?
He laughed at himself. Who was he trying to fool? He knew the truth, no matter how reluctant he was to admit it.

Two weeks at a boring Lincolnshire party might just save his life.

“Business concluded, then?” Emily looked up from her book as he sauntered into the morning room and slumped down heavily next to her on the sofa.

“Not business.” He grinned, feeling like the cat who'd gotten into the cream. “Pleasure.”

Her lips twitched. “And here I'd thought Lady Humphrey had already departed.”

He shot her an icy look that made grown men quake in their boots but only seemed to amuse her.
Brat.
“Royston invited me to a party he's throwing next week at Blackwood Hall.”

“Oh?” Her bewildered expression spoke volumes, incredulous that her brother would so eagerly gallop off to a party certain to be filled with dull dandies and old gossips.

He dissembled, “Apparently, the earl has political aspirations and wants counsel on some recent matters that have been troubling him.”

“And he picked
you
?” Astonishment rang in her voice. “He wants to succeed at these aspirations, does he not?”

He grimaced at the teasing insult. She was needling him, trying in her own fashion to get the truth from him, but he would keep this investigation to himself. Emily was one of the few people who truly knew of the hell he'd gone through—was
still
going through—and he didn't want to concern her. If the trip to Lincolnshire went as well as he hoped, he would tell her afterward when all was set to rights again.

And if not…well, there would be little she could do to help fight back the anxiety he knew would come, the clawing blackness that would eventually devour him whole.

“You know, getting away from London might do you good,” she added thoughtfully. “You might be introduced to a whole new group of potential wives.”

Stifling an exasperated groan, he kicked his boots onto the tea table. “You know, brat, when you were a child, I sold you to the Gypsies,” he told her bluntly. “I'm still waiting for them to take you away.”

Emily laughed, her brilliant blue eyes shining with affection, and offered him a cup of tea.

Dukes Are Forever