“I’ve no earthly clue. My daughter shows no poise or grace whatsoever,” he said, his exasperation clear. The baron shot him a speculative glance. “She needs a man who knows the importance of keeping her unwieldly ways in line. Someone to give her sons. Not merely two girls.”
“She had a husband, and I know for a fact that he ruled her with a heavy hand.” Griston took a cheroot from an inside pocket and lit it from a nearby sconce. “But the clod had the unmitigated gall to take a ball to the chest and drop dead.” He tipped his head to the far side of the desk, smiling slightly. “Right in that very chair, I believe.”
Wimbley grunted, handing over a tumbler of brandy. “Yes, well. Perhaps Maudsley was a bit too harsh. It’s not as if I wanted the gel injured.”
“The man deserved his fate.” Griston took a long drag on his cheroot and held in the smoke before exhaling, hiding a grin behind a large gray cloud. “I may be just the man you are looking for, Baron.”
The baron’s brow furrowed. “In what way?”
Griston considered his words carefully. While he didn’t wish to overplay his hand, having Brockway in the mix threatened Griston’s goals for Cecilia considerably. “I hesitate to derogate one of my own class; however, I feel obliged to speak up. Lord Brockway is a well-known reprobate.”
Wimbley’s mouth turned down.
He gave the end of his cheroot a thoughtful look and measured out his words. “There was an article in theGazettea few days back regarding children being abducted and used for nefarious purposes. I fear the marquis may somehow be involved.” He met the baron’s shocked eyes. “I am, of course, looking into the matter.”
The baron downed his brandy then swiped his mouth with his sleeve like a commoner; slammed his glass down on the desk. “I don’t like the sound of that. Those are my granddaughters. A man like that should be locked away or hung.”
Griston inclined his head. “I’m doing all I can for the situation, sir, I assure you.”
Twenty-One
B
rock saw Ginny and the girls into their carriage as rain sluiced from the gray sky in droves, muck covering his usually highly-shined hessians.
“You should come with us, Brock,” Ginny said. “You cannot possibly ride in this mess.”
Brock swiped the rain from his face, attempting to pull his thoughts together. “Do you mind if we stop by my townhome?”
“Of course not,” Irene answered for her mother.
Smiling softly and rolling her eyes, Ginny said, “I concur with my eldest daughter.”
“I don’t relish riding in this downpour. We’ll drop my horse.” He stepped inside and took Ginny’s hand in his. His emotions were a riot of chaos. He was touched by her faith in him, presenting a united front to her father and Griston. It was a great honor she’d lauded him. More than anyone, he knew how crucial she deemed her independence. Giving her children safeguarding lessons was the perfect proof. And stunning him by other benefits he hadn’t unexpected: deeper insight to Ginny’s heart; shock at the joy of knowing Cecilia and Irene on a whole other level. Revelations that solidified his feelings that he belonged within the intimate family circle Ginny had masterfully created.
It also brought to the forefront just how desperately he missed his father.
After his sister Rachel’s death, Brocks’ father, the duke had sunk into a secluded desolation, where he remained to this day. Remotely alone. Brock’s guilt over the tragedy had kept him away. Unnecessarily possibly. Perhaps it was time to face his past. His entire past. Face his father’s condemnation. He deserved no less.
At Brockway House, he said, “I’ll just be a moment.” He untied his horse from the back of the carriage and tossed the reins to the stable boy. Once inside the house, he shook the rain from his body like a pooch who’d just endured an unwanted bath. Punkle met him at the door. “There’s a message from Kimpton, my lord.”
He accepted a proffered towel, took the missive, and broke the seal. It was just as he’d thought.
No word on Harlowe. Tragically, however, his wife appears to have swallowed a massive amount of laudanum. She still lives but remains unconscious at this writing. Lorelei has sent for Lady Maudsley and her daughters. Though why she’s insisted on including the children is beyond my simple male brain. Any words of wisdom would be appreciated.
Yours, Kimpton
Corinne was a quiet girl. Her mother, Maudsley’s first wife, had perished birthing her. The previous Lady Maudsley’s lady’s maid had been one of Maudsley’s victims of sexual assault, later becoming one of the most sought-after courtesans in London, Rowena Hollerfield. The truth of whatever had transpired in that household had evaporated with Miss Hollerfield’s death last year. From what Brock and Kimpton had discerned at the time, Rowena had absconded with the baby Corinne and disappeared, raising her as her own sister. He suspected a story of epic proportions.
Brock dashed up the stairs. “Punkle, forget the bath.”
“Trouble, my lord?”
“You could say that. I need a fresh shirt.” At the porcelain bowl, he dipped his head then ran his fingers through his hair. The cold water helped in clearing his muddled mind. He stripped off his cravat and waistcoat then pulled his shirt over his head, tossed it aside, and donned a clean one. “Harlowe’s wife is on her death bed.”
Punkle’s eyes flashed, but he refrained from commenting. He’d been with Brock for years. Through the search for Brock’s sister, Rachel, on the continent. Through assisting him in nursing Ginny from Maudsley’s beating that had very nearly killed her. The man was savvy enough to keep his questions to himself, for which Brock was grateful as he had no answers.
He slipped into the waistcoat Punkle held out, then yanked the cravat out of his hand and tied it himself in a less than perfect yet simple knot. “I don’t know when I shall return.”
