“Leander, I believe he said. These two men often come to our house and closet themselves away in my father’s office. I stood at the door once and listened. They were urging my father to invest in Leander and another consortium. This one was to do with gold mining, I believe.”
Somer took down notes as Ellen talked.
“Only Nightingale Hall in Sussex is entailed, and I have reason to believe my father has sold at least one of his other properties.”
“Until we know what we are dealing with, you must try to put this aside, Miss Nightingale,” Warwick said. “We can make discreet enquires that I assure you will come to nobody’s ears and will send word to you with any news we have. But I must caution you that even if we find something there is little that can be done. Your father would likely need to admit there is a problem and take steps to deal with it. He after all, has complete control over everything.”
“I know what you say is true, but I must at least try.”
“Of course.” Warwick nodded.
“I am most grateful. I know it must seem odd to you that I have come to use your investigative service, and yet I know you are honorable people and—”
“Slightly odd and walking just outside the boundaries of what is acceptable for those in society to be and do,” Somer added.
“Oh no.” Ellen looked upset.
“I did not mean those words to upset you, Ellen. I am merely stating that a family like ours, who rarely cares a jot about propriety or reputation is the absolute best choice for you to confide in.”
“We really are rather lucky to have a duke, marquis, and a baron in our midst, or we would have been shunned years ago,” Dorrie added.
“Oh well… yes.” Ellen saw they were smiling and started to laugh. “Thank you.” She regained her feet. “I will of course pay you for your services.”
“We don’t need your money, Miss Nightingale.” Warwick walked her to the door. “We have plenty, which is vulgar to say, I know. But there you have it.”
CHAPTERTWENTY-THREE
The problem with the best laid plans was they never came to fruition as far as Ash could see. Three weeks ago, he and Baron had left Crunston Cliff. In need of a large meal and bath, they’d found the nearest posting house. Clean and rested, they’d returned to London.
Baron had chastised Ash the entire way about leaving before speaking with his brother and his family. Before saying goodbye to Dorrie, the woman he cared about. Ash had ignored him.
Baron also talked constantly about what the Sinclair family were. What they could do. Ash had told him to shut up, not wanting the reminder of Dorset. His friend had not listened.
Not that he didn’t think about her; she was constantly in his bloody thoughts.
Ash reassured himself that it had been time for him to leave Crunston Cliff. He’d told his brother what he’d needed to hear. He’d helped with the scarlet fever outbreak, and left. There had been nothing more for him there.
Why, then, was he filled with guilt? Why couldn’t he stop seeing Dorrie and his brother’s faces? He dreamed about them. Found himself staring at nothing as a vision of Dorrie would slip into his head.
He still couldn’t begin to understand what he’d learned about them. Now, with distance, he could almost dismiss it as ridiculous. And yet it wasn’t ridiculous, because he’d seen the soft white skin of Dorset Sinclair’s belly after Lilly healed her.
The Sinclair family was a bloody miracle.
Just thinking about her had his body hard. The curve of her breast and sweet taste of her lips as he’d driven deep inside her. He was slowly going mad with his need to see her, touch her again.
He’d spent two days with Devon after Dorrie had left with her sister to return to the castle. It had been a more comfortable time with her gone and the village slowly recovering.
You miss her, them. All of them.
And that was at the root of the constant ache inside his chest. All the time he couldn’t see his brother, Ash had convinced himself he’d moved on. That he would live his life without seeing Gus again, and that was okay.
It wasn’t okay. None of it was okay. He wanted Dorset Sinclair and his brother. But he couldn’t have them.
The part inside him that held memories of Gus he’d kept locked in a sturdy chest had cracked open. He kept thinking about them, and especially her. Holding Dorrie while she bled, not knowing if the knife would end her life.
“Mother of God, this has to stop,” he muttered.
“What has to stop?”
