Chapter 22
It was a wet and wild night on the Lambourn Downs, too. The wind drove through the vale in which Ravenscombe nestled, tearing off a roof tile here, snapping branches from a copper beech there, whistling up and over the high downs and through the gatehouse of Blackheath, where it made the roses in the garden thrash and bob, moaned around the mighty castle, rattled the windows in their casements, pummeled the ancient stone with rain. But the castle stood firm and high and invincible. It had thwarted both man and the elements for five hundred years and would probably thwart them for five hundred more. Its great towers stood out against the black sky, its close-cropped lawns were an expanse of dark velvet. Only the library windows glowed with light, proclaiming the presence of one who had not yet gone to bed.
In a chair beside the cold hearth sat the duke, his face grim as, by the light of a single candle, he opened the missive that had just arrived from his man in London.
My dear duke,
I hope it will set your mind at ease to know that his lordship your brother married Miss Juliet Paige this morning under special license (and at great expense, I might add), and that all went as well as could be expected. This evening, Lord Gareth brought his family to Mrs. Bottomley's; careful inquiries have assured me that they have merely taken a room there for the night, nothing more, and so, satisfied of their safety, I have taken my leave of them and will reassume my clandestine vigil in the morning, at which time I shall report again.
C.
Lucien leaned forward, set the note on a table, and kneaded his brow. So he'd married her. Good. But as he gazed out over the rainy, night-shrouded downs and thought of them all off in London, he could not take pleasure in his success. Leave it to Gareth to bring his family to a whorehouse, of all places. God only knew where he'd take them tomorrow ...
He rose to his feet, pacing slowly back and forth, hands clasped behind his back. Was he right to have placed any faith in his brother? Was he right to have any faith that the girl could turn him around, make something of him? And why had she consented to stay at a whorehouse? Lucien swore softly beneath his breath. If it weren't for Gareth's fierce pride — and Lucien's own dwindling hopes that, through adversity, Gareth would finally straighten himself out — he'd order Armageddon saddled, ride to London, and drag them all back here himself. Nerissa had begged him to do it. Andrew, who wasn't speaking to him, had threatened to go himself. And now to hear that Gareth hadn't taken his family to respectable lodgings but to a damned brothel ...
He shook his head. No. He would not intervene, no matter how tempted he was, no matter what lows his brother had sunk to. He had to give Gareth this chance to prove himself.
Had to allow him this chance to grow up.
He picked up the candle, pocketed the missive, and moved silently from the room, the meager flame glowing against Blackheath's ancient stone walls as he moved through the silent, shadowy corridors. He began to climb the stairs. Sleep might evade him, as it often did on these nights when the wind moaned around the castle and he relived that terrible moment when he'd discovered his father dead on the tower stairs all those years ago, but at least he could find peace in one thing: Gareth might be up to his usual depravity some miles away in London, but through his informer, the Duke of Blackheath was watching over him most keenly, indeed.
He had already lost one brother.
By God, he would not lose another.