Rafe’s upbringing had taught him to be suspicious of everything and everyone. His entire adult life had been spent watching for even the smallest signs of insurrection, inevitably leading to an innate distrust of even the most genuine of individuals.
He couldn’t deny that his failure to unearth the Revisionist plot had been a blow to his pride, but perhaps at the end of the day that was no bad thing. It was possible that his successes over the past couple of years had made him overconfident. This was a timely reminder that he was neither invincible nor infallible.
There was in truth no evidence that Roan Carew was a traitor. His record as Captain of HMS Albatross during the Napoleonic wars had been exemplary and since then he’d been a businessman of exceptional moral character as well as being a close friend and relative of not one, but five peers of the realm – all of whom had risked their lives at one time or another for their King and Country.
So why the bloody hell was he here?
Raphael gritted his teeth as the carriage door was opened. Climbing down, he nodded to the two ostlers as they heaved his trunk off the roof, one carrying it into the hotel while the otherclimbed up next to his coach driver to direct the carriage and horses to the stable yard.
Carefully picking his way over the muddy cobbles, Rafe eventually found himself in an unexpectedly comfortable lobby. The wet day outside meant that the meagre late afternoon light barely penetrated beyond the front door, but the candleholders with their flickering lights gave a most welcome ambience to a delightfully appointed wood-panelled reception hall.
Ten minutes later he was shown into a small but tastefully decorated bedchamber. His trunk had already been placed in the room, and a cheerful fire burned in the large fireplace.
Sighing, he pulled off his boots and threw himself down on the bed.
Why was he here?
The last thing he needed right now was to antagonise the powerful Duke of Blackmore by hounding the peer’s relatives - and turning up unannounced at the sea captain’s home simply to catch Carew out, would surely reach his grace’s ears. Simple etiquette demanded that, at the very least, he send a note announcing his presence in Torquay. Though of course, a polite note would not guarantee him an audience.
But at the end of the day, what exactly was he hoping to learn? Had he become fixated on looking for connections when there were none? A hostage to his damned pride?
Rafe wasn’t accustomed to questioning himself or his motives. He’d always viewed his decisiveness as one of his greatest strengths. But if that same decisiveness had turned to arrogance, he wouldn’t last much longer in the dangerous game he played.
Raphael allowed his mind to drift. He found that doing so often led him down paths to solutions he would otherwise have missed.
At length, a face popped into his head. Frowning, he focused his mind on the image, seconds later recognising it as Tristan Bernart. Tristan Bernart - but not quite. It was the face he’d seen when he’d looked at his countryman back in Blackmore, and all of a sudden, he knew who it was. Rafe sat up.
His instincts emphatically told him that Roan Carew was no traitor. But, putting his vanity aside, he hadn’t been able to rid himself of the gut feeling that there wassomethinghere. Perhaps it had nothing to do with theRevisionists, but it was definitely connected to the man who’d helped unmask them.
Tristan Bernart. An unknown orphan, who Rafe would wager his entire fortune, was somehow a relative of the once powerful, now deceased, Marquis de Montclair.
Augustus Shackleford couldn’t deny that the solution he finally came up with bore no comparison to the Banbury stories he’d concocted during his heyday, but in fairness, these days he often had trouble remembering his own name.
On stopping to partake of a light lunch in Ashburton, he asked for a quill and paper, and after careful thought, wrote a short missive requesting Percy’s immediate presence in Torquay to assist him in dealing with an urgent spiritual matter involving their dear friend, Dougal Galbraith. Pausing after the wordsspiritual matter, Reverend Shackleford wondered whether adding the possibility of possession might be doing the wholething a bit too brown. Of course, where Dougal was concerned, it wasn’t entirely beyond the realm of possibility, but there was a risk that the Almighty might consider it a step too far.
At the moment, the letter was not a complete bag of moonshine – there had been more than one occasion the Reverend had had spiritual concerns involving the old Scot, although mostly it centred around his own immortal soul when he’d been tempted to wring Dougal’s neck.
Finally, deciding he might as well be in for a penny as a pound, he finished by stating that if Percy felt that Finn’s Christian Education might well benefit from a spot of exposure to the forces of evil, then he should undoubtedly bring the boy along. (In fairness, he didn’t actually write the wordpossession…)
Staring down at his handiwork, the Reverend tapped the feathered quill against his chin thoughtfully. Percy would undoubtedly know that something smoky was afoot – mainly due to the fact that the letter referred to Dougal as theirdear friend, but if he hadn’t included such a complete plumper, the curate might have been inclined to ignore the missive entirely.
He could only hope the Almighty would simply consider the sentiment encouraging, and overlook the bit about the forces of evil…
Three
Henrietta was the first to spot the Duke of Blackmore’s carriage as she was heading upstairs to fetch her book after dinner and for a few seconds she thought it was her aunt and uncle. However, as the door opened and Flossy jumped out, she realised at least one of the passengers had to be her grandfather.
Sure enough, seconds later the little dog was followed down the steps by Augustus Shackleford, and close behind… Dougal Galbraith? What on earth was her cousin Jennifer’s father-in-law doing here?
Henri stared in disbelief, wondering if the rain had finally sent her addled. She thought back to how the Scot had set up almost everyone’s bristles at Blackmore. His unexpected arrival here along with the Reverend of all people was likely to put her father in a worse dudgeon than he already was. Feeling an impending sense of doom, she hurried to find her mother…
‘Well, given the dreadful weather over the last few weeks, I can imagine you must be thanking the Almighty for sending me and Dougal to alleviate the deuced monotony,’ the Reverend commented jovially as they waited for refreshments in the drawing room. The resulting stony expression on his son-in-law’s face was anything but thankful. In fact, Roan looked as though he’d been sucking a lemon. Augustus Shackleford sighed inwardly. It was hardly surprising really, turning up unannounced as they had. But then, the expressions of those who’d actually been expecting them had been little better. Seriously, it was enough to give a man an attack of the mulligrubs.
‘Of course, it’s lovely to see both you and Dougal, Father, though it would have been nice if you’d sent us notice of your impending visit,’ Faith answered, clearly resigned to making the best of a bad job. The Reverend didn’t miss the hard look she cast towards her Friday-faced husband, and after a second, the sea captain offered a smile of welcome, albeit through gritted teeth. Given that Roan was evidently trying to make an effort, the clergyman wasn’t sure now would be a good time to mention that Percy and Finn might well be joining them…
Instead, he gave a small cough and murmured, ‘Didn’t you receive my letter?’ He could see Dougal’s raised eyebrows from the corner of his eye, but before the Scot had the chance to land him in the basket, a knock on the door heralded the fortunate arrival of tea and a small cold collation for their impromptu guests.
‘Didn’t Grandmama object to you visiting us without her?’ Henrietta asked curiously once the tea had been poured and handed round.
