But of course, his thoughts followed him as he wound from one end of the gardens to the other, as thoughts tended to do.
No answers, though. No, those were elusive, no matter where he was.
When had everything become so complicated? Until he’d arrived in Fairford, he’d known precisely who he was, and precisely what he wanted.
Vengeance, plain and simple. What was so bloody complicated about that?
He’d go to Fairford, make certain Ambrose St. Claire was good and dead, seize Hammond Court, and finally put to rest the bitterness and anger that had been plaguing him for two decades.
But there was no rest here. No, only more plague.
House parties, and ice skating. Ginger biscuits, and Christmas pudding.
Those things might be harmless enough if he’d been another sort of man, but he was the Duke of Grantham. Ruthless, cruel, and cold down to the depths of his shriveled black heart.
The Duke of Ice. What was the wicked Duke of Ice meant to do with a Christmas pudding?
Taken together with Hammond Court’s crumbling walls, Monsieur Blanchard’s temper tantrums, Lady Emily’s petulant pout, and—worst of all—Viscount Dunwitty’s handsome face and charming manners, what should have been a straightforward case of revenge had become tangled, indeed.
Then there were the green eyes. Lovely green eyes, and a joyful laugh that made him want things he’d never wanted before. That made him wonder, for the first time in two decades, what would be left for himafterhe’d enacted his revenge.
Or even if he wanted to enact it at all.
Come to Fairford, and claim your treasure . . .
What had Ambrose even meant by that? Because with every day that passed, Max became more convinced that he hadn’t been referring to Hammond—
“I might have known you’d do this the hard way, Grantham.”
Max whirled around to find a pair of tall figures advancing toward him down the pathway, their faces lost in the early morning shadows.
“Six days, Grantham.” Montford emerged from the gloom, his hands thrust deep into his greatcoat pockets. “Rather an admirable game of cat and mouse, but we’ve caught you out, at last. I can’t say I approve of the location. You couldn’t have chosen someplace warmer for your theatrics?”
“What theatrics? I’m not—”
“You might have waited until sunrise, at least,” Basingstoke grumbled, joining them on the pathway. “Who has theatrics before sunrise? It’s not very gentlemanly of you, Grantham.”
Good Lord, but he had the most interfering friends imaginable. “I told you, I’m not—”
“Of course, you are.” Montford sighed as if Max were a tiresome child. “You just don’t realize it yet. That’s why we’re here.”
“Indeed. So, what’s the trouble, Grantham? I do hope you haven’t torn Hammond Court to the ground while Miss St. Claire is otherwise occupied. Because such underhanded behavior would be beneath you as both a gentleman and a duke.”
Perhaps so, but at least such machinations on his part would makesense. “If you must know, I’ve asked Townsend to undertake some of the more urgent repairs at Hammond Court.”
Basingstoke glanced at Montford, eyebrows raised. “I’m pleased to hear it, Grantham. May we assume all of your intentions toward Miss St. Claire are as honorable?”
That depended on how one defined the term “honorable.” There were those who’d argue his plan to secure a viscount for Miss St. Claire was as honorable and selfless a deed as one could perform for an otherwise unmarriageable lady.
Except, of course, once they dug a little deeper, they’d find it wasn’t honorable at all.
Montford frowned when he didn’t answer. “Let’s back up a bit, shall we, Grantham? Did you, or did you not leave London and sneak off to Fairford without so much as a word to anyone, so you might seize Hammond Court for yourself, now Ambrose St. Claire is dead at last?”
“Seize it? What an ugly word, Montford. I merely came to investigate the circumstances and see if I could purchase it, and I’ll have you know Ambrose St. Claire himself summoned me here.”
“From beyond the grave? Forgive me, Grantham, but I find that a bit difficult to believe.”
Max rolled his eyes. “Don’t be absurd, Montford. He sent me a note before he died, of course, bidding me to come to Fairford and seize my treasure, or something equally as dramatic and ridiculous as that.”
