The Earl of Morrey Page 22
“How old is he now?” Sunderland asked. “Must be nigh on sixty, eh?”
“Sixty-three last month.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I believe a journey home is in order. Something’s amiss.”
Sunderland grunted. “Are you presently retained or free to go?”
He nodded. “The scoundrels are lying low for now. My man, Walters, will keep an eye out for any new activity or rumors and send word when I need to return.” Madoc cast another glance at the door. “Besides, I’m long overdue to see my parents. I’ve managed no more than half a dozen visits to Brecken Castle in as many years. I’ve missed the wilds of Wales.”
“I assume Brecken thinks you’re still on a Grand Tour?”
“Since my person of interest has returned to England, the Home Office agreed I could tell my parents that my adventures on the Continent have come to an end. Though I hated lying, my first loyalty must be to the Crown.” He drummed his fingertips against the polished wood of the arm chair. “I’ve been instructed that as an indulged, unmarried heir, I will want to spend much of my time in London. Which is why I had you meet me at Brooks’s rather than White’s.”
“I thought perhaps your travels had turned you liberal.” Sunderland chuckled. “Wouldn’t be the first aristocrat to sympathize with the masses.”
Madoc gave a half-grunt, half-chuckle. “I sympathize with myself and getting back to life as it was before the bloody war. But no, since I need to be aware of murmurs on both sides of the throne, I need to frequent both clubs. To think the past four years, I’ve been dreaming of the humdrum but idyllic countryside, not the smoky dens of London. In truth, I’m tired of looking over my shoulder or wondering what’s waiting for me in the shadows.” Lifting his glass, the well-practiced smile returned. “Here’s to no more spy rings and long, dull days of leisure. May I never take boredom for granted again.”
Sunderland guffawed. “By all means, enjoy them if you can before you become earl. After that, your days may not be filled with intrigue, but you will certainly stay occupied. My estate, properties, and seat in the Lords demand much of my time.”
His friend’s statement gave him pause. “I hadn’t really thought about the future, in that sense, but you’re right enough. I’ve been trained for the title and know what is expected of me. Yet, having the responsibility solely on my shoulders scares the hell out of me.” Madoc sighed. “If I fail an assignment, my disappearance will cause little harm. Another man will take my place, and the task will be accomplished. But making decisions that affect the lives of my tenants, people whose livelihood could be crushed by a man’s whim…”
The earl nodded. “The obligation can be heavy at times, but it’s our duty to maintain our inheritance, our family name. Those who tend the land and the animals, work within our abodes, are all an integral part of the system. Treat them fairly, and with the dignity they deserve, and you’ll do well. It’s that mutual understanding and common goal to make life better that will bond you to them.”
“Blast, if you don’t sound like my father. And a Whig.” Madoc laughed. “Next you’ll be telling me it’s time to find a wife. Speaking of spouses, how is Grace?”
“Trying to ferret out a ghost that she thinks lives in the original stronghold of Sunderland Castle. The last time I ventured to that area, the hairs on my neck rose. My wife seems to think it’s an ancestor.” Sunderland laughed, his dark eyes crinkling. “Good God, I hope I don’t have that effect on people. But if the days get too tedious for you, come to Sunderland Castle. We’ll give you the whole north wing.”
“No, thank you. I prefer an adversary I can see.” Madoc studied his friend. “You still seem happy with the leg shackles. How long has it been?”
“Three years. She’s my life’s blood, I tell you. Flows through my veins. If you want some words of wisdom, the right woman completes a man.” The earl finished off his brandy and set the empty glass on the polished side table with a thud. “Well, Doc, shall we have another or call it a night?”
“One more before I resign myself to the next role of prodigal son. Soon enough, I’ll face my mother’s wrath for not answering her correspondence. I almost prefer the dangers of espionage.”
“Be careful what you wish for.”
“And my father, if he still partakes, prefers whisky to brandy.” He shuddered. “Good God, maybe I should I bring along my own bottle to preserve my sanity.”
“Considering the countess’s temper, I’d recommend a cask.”
* * *
***
* * *
The right woman completes a man.
Sunderland’s words echoed in his head. Madoc squinted against the early morning fog that swirled around the stallion’s hocks and left droplets clinging to the top of his Hessian boots. He mentally sorted through the females of his acquaintance. None seemed to hold the kind of influence described by his friend. He’d met beautiful women, intelligent women, silly women, even a combination of these, but never had he considered even one of them indispensable to his happiness. Perhaps the Countess of Sunderland was an enigma.
Madoc shivered, pulled up the fur collar of his great coat, and adjusted his beaver hat. With a well-placed kick, he urged his horse into a canter. He wanted London far behind him. His luggage would follow, but he needed air and time to prepare himself mentally for the upcoming encounter. His last visit had been more like a stay in a mausoleum than one’s boyhood home. His father’s mumbled responses and lackluster eyes had not prompted any lively conversation—until the end.
* * *
“I’ve completed my final year of university. Are you sure you want me to leave again so soon?” Madoc leaned against the mantel, the smoldering peat in the grate hot against his riding breeches. The May sun poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows and mocked the thin, dour man wrapped in heavy wool blankets. Where had the Earl of Brecken gone? That man had been larger than life with a booming laugh, an iron fist, and cunning wit. A man his son had looked up to, imitated, his every action in the hope of gaining the glow of his father’s approval. The kind of man who commanded attention merely by walking into a room. And therein lay the problem.
The silence stretched. Perhaps the earl had fallen asleep. His gaze fell on his father’s bony fingers, clutching a shawl about his rounded shoulders, as if it were his last defense. Madoc swallowed as his father’s hazel eyes narrowed. The brown and green flecks, passed down to his only son, sparked with anger.
“Every young man needs to see the world. It’s part of your basic education. Do you think I’m unable to manage my own affairs because I cannot walk?” rasped the earl, pushing back a limp strand of gray from his forehead. “Do you think the inability to use these feckless limbs affects my brain?”
“No, Father, but I believe it has affected your spirit.” He went down on one knee and took a cold, papery hand between his warm palms. “Please, let me take you for a ride in the carriage, get out and see some of your tenants. Your soul is in this land. It would do you good.”
“I don’t need you to take me anywhere. If I wanted to leave my home, I’d do it,” bellowed the old man with surprising volume. His shoulders slumped as if the admonishment had depleted what little energy he’d possessed. “Go! Enjoy your youth while you have it. Lady Fortune is a capricious, evil female. You never know how long happiness will perch on your shoulder.”
Madoc’s jaw tightened as he gave the earl a rigid nod and left the room. Why was he surprised? Delaying his response to the Home office, he had hoped for one last bid to bring his father back to the land of the living. By God, he’d tried. Now, he’d take the assignment with no remorse, working under one of England’s most brilliant spymasters. At twenty-two, he was making a name for himself. The danger and intrigue made him feel alive, a welcome and vivid contrast to the quiet hills of the Welsh countryside.
His parents suspected nothing, assuming their son had come from Oxford rather than Belgium. This “Grand Tour” would provide the perfect ruse
to be abroad, his title gaining him entry into the right circles to mingle, charm, and… listen. Napoleon had been declared an outlaw and was wreaking havoc again. The Crown needed every available set of eyes and ears. It may be years before he was able to return. If he returned. Lord Risk was as fickle as Lady Fortune.
He stopped at the front door, his palm on the cold handle of the door as he looked over his shoulder, a final glance around his childhood home. An ancient castle with the countess’s modern touch. The large receiving hall had been paneled with oak, the stone floor covered with narrow, polished planks, and the windows enlarged to allow more light. The furnishings had come from London by way of France and Italy, the earl sparing no expense for his new, young wife. Painted silks and satins hung on the walls and dressed the glass panes.
“Must you leave, Madoc? Can you not put off your trip for a year or so?” His mother appeared at his elbow, the familiar martyred expression creasing her face. Her slender fingers clutched his riding coat. “He was so looking forward to your visit.”
Madoc snorted. “Mama, you know my passage has been paid. Father has been quite adamant that I go.”
“You don’t understand what he’s been through, what it’s like for him. He’s bitter, that’s all. If you stayed, he’d come round. I’m certain.” Her onyx eyes watered conveniently, and she laid a hand on his cheek. Rays of light shed a halo about her black chignon, at odds with the growing venom in her tone. “Have you become one of those dandies, then? Looking for pleasure and living off your father’s money and good name?”
He ground his teeth, his jaw tense. “He’s been like this for six years. My presence for a few weeks will not produce a miracle. I will obey my father’s wishes, ma’am.”
Madoc turned on his heel and stormed out the door. A chestnut gelding stood patiently waiting in the courtyard. He mounted and turned the horse to face the veranda, hooves and cobblestones reverberating in the warm afternoon air. “Good day, Mama.” With a bow and sweep of his hat, he added, “Until we meet again.”
* * *
Four years ago. Four long years.
So much had happened in that time. He’d changed, lost his naivete, his youthful optimism. His skills belonged more to a soldier than a titled landowner. He had a relentless grip on a sword, excellent marksmanship, and a wicked right punch. He could go days without sleep. His superiors regarded him as the man with a seductive smile and honey-like charm that could distract top officials—or their wives—while correspondence was pilfered in their own libraries for secrets that could hasten the end of the war. He’d become the perfect chameleon, as comfortable playing a discontented foot soldier or a common thief in the rookeries as he was the polished dandy spending his father’s fortune.
It had taken its toll.
Madoc trusted few people, rarely heard a conversation or request without discerning a hidden implication or ulterior motive, and was bone-tired. He wanted to sleep until the sun was high in the sky. Ride across his childhood estate, nod at tenants, and have no greater worry than balancing the ledgers and deciding which country dance or dinner to attend. It was time to begin his life, the life he’d been born to, the life that had called to him when he’d stepped onto English soil again. Yes, he was ready for the role he had only pretended at the last four years.
* * *
***
* * *
A tired and dusty Madoc trotted toward the village of Breckenknock. He crossed the stone bridge, drew in a renewed breath as the clear water rushed and splashed under the arches. The slate mountains and snow-capped peaks seemed to be stacked on top of each other, as if a crowd trying to see over the next shoulder, and provided the perfect background for his brooding mood. Curiosity would greet him in the village. Waves and questions about the master when the tenants realized it was Lord Madoc riding through. A frigid wind whipped at his face, and he hunkered inside his coat.
He cursed himself for not waiting on the carriage and his valet. It was demmed cold. The sun peeked out from a billowy, gray cloud. He squinted at brightness, his watery vision barely able to discern the outline of the small town looming in the distance. As he drew closer, Madoc blinked and wiped his eyes with his palms. Was he lost? Had it been so long since he’d been home?
He slowed his chestnut gelding to a trot and made his way to the square, taking in the dilapidated buildings. The main thoroughfare—that made him chuckle as they kicked up dust along the dirt and gravel road—was crowded with people buying last-minute wares from vendors closing up and hurrying home before dark. A growl in his belly reminded him he hadn’t eaten since breakfast, but his mind was on the derelict condition of Breckenknock.
There were no inquiries or smiles. No hoorays or nods from the men. Filth trickled like a brown and yellow brook from the alleys and puddled near the street. Roofs were in disrepair and walls had been patched and re-patched. The tenants’ clothes were worn and shabby. What in blazes was going on? His lovely village had gone to ruin.
“Good day,” he called out to the blacksmith he’d known since a boy. “I’ve just returned home and can’t help but notice…” He made a long sweep with his hand to encompass the sight before him. “What has happened?”
“Ask his lordship,” boomed the man before ducking his head and removing his cap. “Or the devil in his pocket.”
“And does this devil have a name?”
“Aye, it’s Caerton’s son, Niall.”
“He’s taken over for his father, then?”
“He’s taken… That’s a true statement, to be sure.” The man turned away and disappeared into his smithy.
“By God, I’ll get to the bottom of this,” Madoc yelled to the retreating figure.
Four generations of Caertons had managed the estate for the Earls of Brecken. The last time he’d seen Mr. Caerton, the old man had been in decline. Finding it difficult to maintain the physical responsibility of managing Brecken’s vast holdings, he had begun training his oldest son, Niall, to replace him. Madoc had never liked him growing up. He remembered the boy picking a fight and cheating by throwing dirt in the other lad’s eyes to win. Of course, that had been years ago. People change. He was living proof of that.
It got worse as he cantered toward the castle. The fields were overworked. At a glance, he knew there had been no rotation of land. Less fertile soil, less crops, less profit. Perhaps Caerton had died before he’d been able to instruct Niall in all aspects of management. He’d give the steward the benefit of the doubt until he had the facts. If the past years had taught him anything, it was that appearances could be deceiving. A mirthless laugh scratched his throat, thinking of the disguises he’d donned over the years.
Madoc kicked his horse into a gallop as he passed a paddock of thin plow horses. He was glad he’d come home. It was time to take over for his father and have a word with the Niall Caerton. As he clattered onto the stone courtyard, the butler appeared at the door. The smile and twinkle in his blue eyes belied the blond hair streaked with gray.
“Lord Madoc, it is so good to have you back.” He held the door open for Lady Brecken, who rushed down the steps to greet him.
“Oh, my sweet son. The lord has answered our prayers. You’ve come home just in time.”
* * *
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Her Wicked Proposal
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The Last Wicked Rogue
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The Wicked Beginning
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The Duelist’s Seduction
The Rakehell’s Seduction
The Rogue’s Seduction
The Gentleman’s Seduction
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Standalone Stories
Tempted by A Rogue
Bewitching the Earl
Boudreaux’s Lady
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Seduction
Climax
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