Lionel stepped back and allowed Menzies Lennox, formerly Master of Police for the city of Glasgow, to take a sheaf of papers from the bag. He spread them on the bureau and stepped back, hands clasped behind his back. Lionel placed a hand on the table and leaned in to peruse the documents.
“What we have here, by means which it would not be wise to scrutinize too closely, is a record of trade for a particular shipping company which carries goods in and out of the river Clyde. This includes imports from as far away as the United States and India. This is a company registration for three vessels with Lloyds of London,” he pointed to one paper, “and this is a charter for said corporation. There are three names on that charter. Sir Reginald Cox MP, Sir Gerald Knightley, and Mrs. Nancy James.”
Lionel frowned. “I recognize the first two names and am not surprised to see them. Sir Reginald testified to the innocence of Thorpe at the time of his attempt on my life. Knightley is a young villain recently come into my life, though I see now he has been an enemy for longer than I have known. But who is this woman?”
“A question that vexed me for quite some time. It took me from the Merchant City in Glasgow to Bristol, Chester, and finally, to Cornwall. There I discovered an inn owned by a former merchant seaman named Nathaniel James. The son of an American who remained loyal to the British during their War of Independence and found himself unwelcome in Boston subsequently. He settled in Bristol and met a woman who had been given a tidy sum by an English aristocrat to buy her silence. Together, they purchased a lovely seaside inn just outsidePenzance. Can you guess who the generous aristocrat was, Your Grace?”
Lennox loved nothing more than spinning his investigations into a yarn, a pastime only surpassed for enjoyment by the slow reveal of exactly how clever he had been. Lionel had no doubt the man had made an excellent Master of Police in Glasgow’s nascent police force but had little patience this morning.
“Out with it, man. Tell me!” he snapped.
Lennox sighed and muttered something in Scots dialect too alien for Lionel to follow.
“The gentleman was Charles Grisham, then Duke of Thornhill. Later to be father to you, Your Grace,” Lennox added patiently.
“Mrs. Nancy James was paid off by my father?” Lionel said, the truth dawning on him.
“She was, Your Grace.”
“I can only think of one reason why a man like my father would do such a thing…”
“If she were carrying his child?” Lennox suggested gently.
“My god,” Lionel inhaled, “my father had a…a…”
“A bastard, yes, Your Grace. You know, of course, who that bastard must be?”
“Thorpe… It all makes sense now. You are sure that he was born before I? That he is the elder?”
“By a matter of months,” Lennox finished, producing another paper. “Here is a copy of his birth certificate. He was born in Glasgow where Nancy James was sent to have her child in the house of her mother, a housekeeper for a cotton merchant in the city. She moved with the child to Bristol with the money paid to her by your father, and there met the man she would marry. They’re still at the inn, the Sea Sprite Inn. And it’s a very homely place too.”
“My father… he—he never told me I had a brother…” He was suddenly sitting but had no memory of doing so. Lennox bowed his head, nodding gravely. “He wants the Dukedom. That is why he attempted to take my life five years ago,” he breathed. “This… this is bigger than I thought. Could I retaliate against my own blood?”
CHAPTER 14
Cecilia strode across the gardens towards the looming grove of trees. She had chosen one of the new dresses, provided for her by her husband. It was dark green with bronze highlights that she felt complimented her hair. It was a fine dress and, she flattered herself to think, one that suited her very well. She realized that she had no clue what Lionel’s favorite color might be but would discover it, if only by trying on each hue of the wardrobe she had been provided with until she found it.
A week had passed since her last contact with Lionel. He had assiduously avoided her for that time, dining alone each day. But Cecilia had observed him entering the grove once more. And on that occasion, she had seen a stranger in the castle, taking tea in a sitting room. He had introduced himself as Mr. Menzies Lennox and claimed to be of service to the Duke but unable to elaborate for reasons of confidentiality. Scottish, polite but unbending in his refusal to speak more or on any subject other than polite conversation.
On the eighth day, after bathing and dressing there had been no sign of Lionel at breakfast once more. She had been informed by Blackwood that His Grace was occupied on business matters. The butler had refused to state precisely where Lionel was, which had precipitated Cecilia to begin an exploration of the grove.
The grass was still moist with dew which wetted the bottom of her skirt as she crossed the garden. For the walk, she had chosen a sensible pair of shoes to replace the soft slippers she wore within the house. Birds were chirping noisily in the trees and the air was filled with the pleasant aroma of damp grass and mossy bark.
For a moment she stood, looking at the trees for any sign of where Lionel might have gone. She could not be sure of the point at which he had entered the grove. There was no path to follow and the vantage point of the window had provided a very different view to that which she now saw. Then she noticed the branch of a sapling, bent where it had been brushed aside and subsequently become caught behind another. Her eyes went from that sign down to the long grass and she saw where broken stems had been crushed under a heavy boot. The grass around it had sprung back up but not entirely. Cecilia had learned much of hunting and tracking from her brother, though her preference was to stalk in order to watch animals rather than shoot them.
She stepped forward, moving carefully through the undergrowth, looking for more signs. Once her eye was in, they were not hard to find. Lionel was a large man and though he was probably as skilled a hunter as Arthur had been, it would still be difficult for a man of such bulk to move through a crowdedwoodland like this without leaving some signs of passage. She noticed moss scraped from a stone by a heel, a soft patch of earth bearing half a boot print, a broken branch, and a snatch of cotton on the arm of a bramble. All pointed her in the right direction, she hoped. It could be that she was following the trail of Mr. Hardcastle, the groundskeeper, but she had no other clue as to where she might find Lionel, so she pursued it nonetheless.
The trail took her through a clearing created where a tree had been struck by lightning, then along the course of a merry stream. Where the stream descended steeply into an ax-cleaved valley, she began to doubt her own eyes. Surely Lionel would not have wandered so far? But she continued, slipping and sliding, skirts brushing through leaf mold, mud, and moss. Finally, she stood beside what was now a wider and deeper stream, staring at a dilapidated old mill.
Two clear sets of footprints led along the soft earth of a path, right up to the door of the mill. Cecilia cleared her throat as she approached.
“Hello? Lionel? I hope I am not disturbing?”
As she reached the door, it was opened from within. Lionel stood in the doorway. Cecilia was stopped short by the expression on his face. It was as though he had been disturbed from a deep slumber, or else caught daydreaming. He blinked, rubbing his eyes.
“You seem surprised to see me,” Cecilia said brightly.
“I am. How did you find this place?” Lionel asked.
