Loving Rose: The Redemption of Malcolm Sinclair (Casebook of Barnaby Adair) (19 page)

Pleased with Drayton’s arrangements, Thomas accepted the two letters that had been waiting for him. Turning from the counter, he nodded to the hotel footmen waiting to ferry their new bags and boxes to the suite, then gathered Rose and the children and ushered them to the stairs. The manager handed the overseeing of the reception counter to a colleague and quietly followed in the footmen’s wake.

Their suite was on the first floor and looked out over Duke Street. Thomas swiftly scanned the accommodations and pronounced himself satisfied. Under Rose’s direction, the footmen deposited the bags in the correct rooms, then they and the manager bowed themselves out.

The door shut. Thomas arched a brow at Rose.

Tugging off her new gloves, she smiled. “Yes, this will do very nicely.”

He hesitated, glanced at the doorway to the smaller bedroom into which Homer and Pippin had already disappeared, then looked at Rose. “They’re known for being very protective of their guests’ privacy, which means you and the children should be safe here, or at least as safe as it’s possible to be. And regardless, your names don’t appear in the register, so short of someone recognizing you or Homer, there’s no reason anyone should come looking for you here.”

Rose nodded. Sinking onto the sofa, she looked pointedly at the two letters he held in his hand. “What do they say?”

Thomas sat beside her; setting one letter aside, he broke the seal of the other. “This one’s from Drayton—he organized the suite.” Thomas scanned the letter. “He says he’s started investigating Richard Percival’s finances but has as yet turned up nothing of note. However, as he states, it’s early days yet.”

Setting that letter down, Thomas picked up the other, broke the seal, and read, saying, “This one’s from Marwell, my solicitor.” He paused, then reported, “If you recall, I asked him for his assessment of Foley.”

Rose met Thomas’s quick glance and nodded. “What does he say?”

“That Foley is sound—a rigid adherent of the strictly conservative approach to the law. In Marwell’s view, Foley is entirely trustworthy.”

When Thomas looked at her, brows rising, Rose grimaced. She thought for a moment, replaying her few meetings with the ageing solicitor, but, in the end, still shook her head. “He might be entirely trustworthy, but that doesn’t mean he won’t assume that everything Richard Percival says is correct, and that any suggestion that Richard might be a villain must be a ridiculous fabrication.”

Thomas studied her for a long moment, then inclined his head. “Sadly, in that you may well be correct. In my experience, villains can, indeed, be represented by entirely righteous men.”

Realizing he was speaking of his past self, Rose reached out and squeezed his hand.

A patter of feet had them both looking forward as Homer and Pippin came rushing up. “Is it dinnertime yet?” Homer asked.

T
hey settled in, and the hotel proved every bit as comfortable as Rose had imagined.

The children had separate beds in the smaller bedroom, and, as on the ship, were out like lights the instant they settled under the covers.

Leaving Rose to quietly close the door, cross the sitting room, and retreat with Thomas into the larger bedroom.

They undressed, him on one side of the large bed, she on the other. Nightgown donned, she went to the dressing table and picked up her brush. As she brushed out her hair, she smiled to herself; she still half expected the floor to rock.

Finally laying aside the brush, she turned and saw Thomas already in the bed, the covers across his chest, his arms folded behind his head, his gaze, steady and somewhat pensive, resting on her.

Lips lightly lifting, she crossed to the bed, turned down the lamp burning on the side table, then raised the covers and slid beneath.

She turned to him. He unfolded his arms, closing them around her as she settled against him. She lifted her face and he met her lips, covered them with his, and together they sank into the never-fading joy of the kiss . . . but, this time, the underlying resistance that from the first she’d sensed in him solidified.

Became manifest.

When she would have pressed closer, he drew back—held her back. Their legs were tangled, their bodies in contact, their arms cradling each other, yet instantly there was space between them.

He looked into her eyes; even through the dimness she could feel the weight of his gaze. He drew breath, then quietly said, “We . . . need to speak about this.” He paused, searching her eyes, then went on, “I want you, you know I do. But . . .” His gaze steadied. “I have no future—no certainty to offer you.” He brushed back a lock of hair from her cheek; his hand, his fingers lingered, cradling her face. “I might want to promise you the moon and the stars, a future of togetherness, of living together . . . but I can’t. I simply can’t. I don’t know what Fate has in store for me . . . what if you get with child?”

Something in her leapt; her heart expanded but felt crushed at the same time . . . then a surge of emotion, of determination and will, rose and steadied her. Shored her up and strengthened her. She held his gaze, then shifted to frame his face with both hands, forcing him to keep his gaze locked with hers. “Understand this.” She spoke slowly, letting her determination resonate in her tone. “I don’t care.” She paused to let each word strike and sink in, then continued, “What I do care about is us, this, what’s grown between us.” Drawing breath, she forced herself to admit, “No, I don’t know where this might lead us, but I’m willing to go forward and find out—and make the best of whatever comes. And if that means that we will, in the end, part—and make no mistake, I will fight that to the last—but, if it should come to pass that there’s no other choice, and I am by Fate’s decree left with child, a child of yours and mine, then I will treasure and love that child until my dying day.”

She paused; her words, uttered with such conviction, all but echoed in the shadows. Still she held his gaze; following his thoughts, she added, “I’m wealthy enough that you don’t need to worry. Once I regain my identity, I will be able to live more than comfortably and care for any child we might have.”

He didn’t attempt to shift his gaze. “But you will be alone.”

She found the answer on her tongue. “I’ve always been alone, until you came.”

Thomas heard her words, and all she hadn’t said. Her wish to live her life with him, her determination to, if at all possible, do so. He wasn’t averse—oh, no! Living the rest of his life with her, growing old with her—having children with her—was now his most yearned-for dream.

A dream he was certain he would not live to make real. Would not, one way or another, be allowed to commit to.

She seemed to understand; as had happened so often, she seemed to see deeper into his soul than he, himself, could.

Shifting, her gaze still locked with his, she reached out and clasped his hand with one of hers, urged him to twine his fingers with hers and grip. “Give me your todays.” She rose to lean over him; her head above his, she looked down at his face, into his eyes, and whispered, “And if Fate takes your tomorrows, at least we’ll have had . . . this.” Dipping her head, she brushed her lips over his, then sank into the kiss.

And he followed.

Held her, and loved her, and followed her lead, seized their today, and left tomorrow in Fate’s hands.

Chapter

9

F
our days later, Thomas leaned against the railings of a town house in Albemarle Street and studied the house across the street and two doors down.

Idly twirling his cane as if he was waiting for some friend to join him, he reviewed, yet again, the events, or rather the lack of any significant achievement, over the past days. Despite Drayton’s best efforts, nothing he’d uncovered in Richard Percival’s finances could remotely be construed as providing sufficient motive for murder. The only thing Thomas, himself, had been able to confirm was that, if one inquired in the right quarters, it was common knowledge that Percival was, and had been for years, pushing hard to have his nephew hunted down.

That much was definitely true, which meant that the threat to William was very much an ongoing one.

Thomas hadn’t been in any position to further pursue who Richard Percival had hired to do his hunting; there was a limit to how far he could press without alerting those he was seeking—and that he was in no hurry to do. As matters stood, if anyone grew suspicious enough to follow him, he would, ultimately, lead them to William. Of course, he routinely took steps to ensure he wasn’t followed, but errors could be made, even by him.

There had been no advance on the legal side, either, although Marwell was holding himself ready to act in whatever manner Thomas wished.

Thomas wished . . . that it hadn’t come to this, but in accepting the need to come to London, he had always suspected that it would.

Pushing away from the railing, he looked right and left, then strolled across the street. Climbing the steps of Number 24, he halted before the town house’s door, composed his mind, then rang the bell.

A shortish, slightly rotund—Thomas’s gaze flicked over the man’s attire—not butler but majordomo opened the door. The man looked at him in polite query. “Yes, sir?”

“Is Mr. Adair at home?”

The man didn’t miss a beat. “I’m not sure, sir, but I can ask. Who shall I say is calling?”

Thomas had timed his call for ten o’clock, the earliest possible time for a polite call and sufficiently early that it was unlikely the gentleman of the house had as yet stepped out. Reaching into his pocket, Thomas drew out a calling card. “He’ll know me.”

The majordomo took the card; he frowned slightly when he noticed the second name Thomas had scrawled across one corner. But then the man stepped back, holding the door wide. “If you would like to wait in the hall, sir, I will inquire.”

An “Honorable” on a calling card usually sufficed to get one at least into the front hall. With an inclination of his head, Thomas crossed the threshold and stood to one side of the elegant chamber. With a bow, the majordomo went off, disappearing down a corridor that led to the rear of the house.

Hands clasped over the head of his cane, Thomas glanced idly around, noting not just the elegance of the decor but also the little touches that, no doubt, had been contributed by Adair’s wife. Although unmarried when their paths had crossed five years ago, Adair, the third son of the Earl of Cothelstone, had since married Penelope Ashford, daughter of the previous Viscount Calverton, sister to the present incumbent, and connected via two of her siblings’ marriages to the powerful Cynster clan.

It wasn’t, however, Adair’s social connections that had brought Thomas to his door but rather Adair’s unusual association with Inspector Basil Stokes of Scotland Yard. Along with keeping up with financial matters, Thomas had also made a point of keeping abreast of developments in the lives of those he’d known in his past life—so he could avoid them, but, as had happened with so much in this case, Fate had turned his intention on its head.

In order to successfully expose Richard Percival and remove the threat to William, and thus accomplish the task Fate had spared Thomas for—the one only he could fulfill—he needed help of a sort he didn’t have access to, but to which, if the news sheets spoke true, Adair did.

If Thomas had wondered if Adair would remember him, the sudden thunder of boot heels striding up the corridor was answer enough—but the lighter, tripping footsteps following were a surprise.

Adair—older, a touch harder, definitely more mature than he had been, but with his hair a golden halo and his frame long and lean, much as Thomas remembered—appeared in the mouth of the corridor, Thomas’s card in one hand.

Incredulous, Adair’s gaze pinned him.

Across the hall, Thomas met that challenging gaze calmly, serenely.

Adair slowed, confusion washing over his features. Halting, he glanced down at the card, then at Thomas. After a stunned moment, he said, “Mr. Thomas Glendower, I presume?”

He’d known Adair well enough to be certain that the man would recognize him. Thomas half-bowed, the best he could manage without risking overbalancing. “Indeed.”

A dark-haired lady, the type described as petite, had come up behind Adair. She’d halted alongside him, her hand gripping his sleeve, more to ensure he took her with him, Thomas sensed, than any wish to hold her husband back. Now she looked from Adair, to him, then, releasing Adair, she calmly came forward. “Good morning, Mr. Glendower.” She held out her hand. “I’m Mrs. Adair.”

Thomas glanced at Adair, but the man was still staring at him, not dumbfounded but rather with his mind whirling at full speed, and with no thought to spare to give him any sign. So Thomas looked into Penelope Adair’s dark eyes, took the small hand offered him, and bowed over it. “A pleasure, Mrs. Adair. But it’s your husband I came to see.”

Penelope Adair smiled—and Thomas realized he’d misjudged her. There wasn’t just steel but iron behind that smile. “Indeed. I collect that you wish to consult with my husband, in which case, you will need to speak with us both.” Boldly, she took Thomas’s arm and with a wave turned him toward the doorway to his left. “Let’s go into the drawing room and make ourselves comfortable, and you can tell us all. And then we’ll decide whether we can aid you.”

Thomas accepted the implied rebuke meekly and allowed himself to be steered into the drawing room and installed in an armchair to one side of the hearth.

Adair dallied in the hall to speak with the majordomo; Thomas didn’t need to hear the words to guess what Adair’s instructions were. Then Adair followed them into the room, a faint frown still hovering in his eyes—as well it might. He’d just had a man he’d thought long dead appear in his hall, damaged, perhaps, but clearly still alive.

Once his wife had sat with a swish of fashionable skirts on the sofa, Adair sank into the armchair alongside, facing Thomas.

Adair tapped Thomas’s calling card edge-down on the chair’s arm, then simply asked, “Why are you here?”

Thomas held Adair’s very blue gaze and simply stated, “I’m here to throw myself on your mercy.”

Adair’s frown materialized. “Why?”

“Because I need your help. Not for me, but for three others who . . . are dear to me.” The admission of vulnerability hadn’t come easily, but he sensed he would be ill advised to keep even that back.

Penelope Adair leaned forward, her dark gaze acute. “Tell us.”

Thomas considered her for a moment, then he ordered his thoughts and began. “Two months ago, after spending five years in a monastery on the shores of Bridgewater Bay, recovering from my injuries”—with a wave, he indicated his face, weakened side, and leg—“I returned to a house I, as Thomas Glendower, owned, a small manor house at Breage, in Cornwall, a little west of Helston. I had installed an older couple as caretakers long before, but they had retired, and when I reached the manor, I discovered I had a new housekeeper, a widow with two children. Over the course of the next six or so weeks, I learned that the widow was not a widow but a lady by the name of Rosalind Heffernan, stepdaughter of the late Robert Percival, Viscount Seddington, and the children were Percival’s, Rosalind’s half siblings—a nine-year-old boy, William Percival, fourth Viscount Seddington, and his six-year-old sister, Alice.”

Penelope Adair looked intrigued. “How fascinating. Why were they hiding in Cornwall?”

Thomas inclined his head to her; that was, indeed, the most pertinent question. “Four years ago, Robert Percival and his wife, Corinne, who had been unwell, set out for a day’s drive from Seddington Grange, which I’m told is near Market Rasen in Lincolnshire. It appears they headed to Grimsby, where Percival, who loved sailing, kept his yacht. The next day, Percival and his wife were discovered drowned, their bodies trapped in the sails of the yacht, which had apparently capsized off Grimsby. The deaths were put down to a tragic accident.” He paused, then went on. “Rose—Rosalind—is twenty years older than William, and as her mother had weakened after William’s birth, and weakened further with Alice’s birth, Rose had largely taken over the day-to-day care of the children. With news of the deaths, quite aside from her own grief, she had to comfort the children. The funeral came and went, and on the evening afterward, Rose by accident overheard Robert Percival’s younger brother, Richard Percival, boasting to one of his friends about how he had arranged Robert’s and Corinne’s deaths, and of his plans to do away with William so that he would inherit the estate.”

“Well!” Penelope sat back. She flicked a glance at Adair, who had been listening closely, his expression impassive. “That,” Penelope declared, “is certainly a sound case for investigation.”

Adair’s gaze remained steady on Thomas. “What did she—Rose—do?”

“There was no member of the Percival family who lived at the Grange at that time, no one Rose knew enough to trust. As a young lady of twenty-four, as she then was, and not a Percival herself, she had no confidence in her ability to sway the family solicitor, and certainly not to have her word given credence against that of Richard Percival, who in his brother’s will had been named William’s principal guardian. In short, she feared to lose William and Alice—the children she’d vowed to her mother that she would care for and protect—to the man who had killed their parents. And more, Percival’s confession accounted for an inconsistency Rose had seen in the verdict of accidental death by drowning. Her mother, Corinne, suffered from excessively bad mal-de-mer and wouldn’t have been able to so much as set foot on a yacht without becoming wretchedly ill.”

“So given Corrine was already sickly,” Penelope said, “why on earth would her husband have even suggested going out on his yacht?”

“Exactly.” Thomas paused, then met Adair’s bright blue gaze. “Rose took the children and fled. That very night. She had enough cash to get by for some time, but she knew Richard would search for them. And he did. However, she avoided the areas in which she knew he would look. In time, she reached Cornwall and, as luck would have it, found a position assisting my then ageing caretakers. After two years, they retired, and she continued as the manor’s housekeeper. The manor was the perfect refuge—it’s isolated, and because the older couple had had all the deliveries arranged, Rose, much less the children, didn’t need to be seen even in the villages. The locals knew she and the children were there, but in that part of the country, everyone minds their own business.”

“A perfect refuge, until you, the owner, arrived.”

Thomas met Adair’s gaze, then said, “Even then, the fiction remained and they were safe—until Richard Percival’s men appeared asking questions.”

Penelope straightened. “He found them?”

“No, not yet. Apparently, he’s been using inquiry agents to hunt for them.” Thomas glanced at Adair. “You know the sort.” When Adair nodded, Thomas went on, “I’ve used them in the past and recognized the two who turned up at the manor as members of the fraternity. After I sent them on their way with a believable lie, one that would at least buy time . . . after that, Rose confided in me. Subsequently, I used my own contacts here, in London, to verify much of her story. Her parents’ deaths occurred as she’d described. She and the children did indeed disappear on the night of the funeral. Percival is behind the inquiry agents, is William’s principal guardian, co-guardian with William’s great-uncle, a much older and apparently ineffectual man.” Thomas paused. “I started investigating Percival’s finances, looking for the motive behind his need to inherit the estate. But then more inquiry agents arrived in Helston, a dozen or so this time, and they’d brought with them Robert Percival’s valet—according to Rose, the man would recognize both her and William.”

“Good heavens!” Penelope all but jigged. “How did you escape? I take it you did?”

Thomas inclined his head. “I’d seen the inquiry agents before they’d seen me, and I’d learned that we had a day’s grace—they were searching in a different area that first day. So Rose and I agreed we had to come to London, face the challenge here, and resolve the issue—that we had to expose Richard Percival’s scheme, his murder of Robert and Corinne Percival, and so remove the threat to William’s life.”

“Well, well—murder and a threat to someone’s life?”

Thomas glanced toward the now open doorway and the large, dark-featured man who filled it. Thomas had never met Stokes before; instinctively, he reached for his cane to stand, but Stokes waved at him to remain seated. Thomas watched as slate-gray eyes, wintry, their expression steely, studied him.

Then, saturnine features entirely impassive, Stokes inclined his head. “Mr. Glendower.” He came forward. “I believe murder and threat is my cue. It seems you have need of my services.”