Admiring the lad’s courage, if not his skills, Cal had waded in, sent the bullies packing then turned to inspect the damage. Bentley was a sight—probably the most unprepossessing youngster Cal had ever seen, with a too-big head balanced on a long skinny neck, and ears that stuck out like bat’s wings. Dripping blood, he had a black eye and a swollen nose and was covered in scrapes and bruises, but he was grinning from ear to ear as he thanked Cal profusely for his help. And asked would Cal give him boxing lessons.
That kind of courage had to be rewarded. Cal and his friends had befriended and protected the boy, and they’d remained in sporadic contact ever since.
Beneath the unpromising looks, Bentley turned out to have a brilliant mind. He’d taken a first at Oxford and joined the diplomatic corps. He’d made his mark in the negotiations at the Congress of Vienna, and the last time Cal had seen him, he’d just been given a responsible diplomatic position in Portugal.
Bentley’s widowed mother had also kept in touch. She’d written to Cal when Bentley was first posted abroad and asked Cal to look out for her son. He’d promised he would.
And then the Scorpion had shot Bentley down, right in front of Cal.
Cal still had nightmares sometimes, seeing Bentley’s head explode, seeing the lanky young body crumple like an old rag, his blood spilling out on the pale Portuguese tiles. Thatfine brain, the dauntless spirit snuffed out like a candle—all the lad’s hopes and dreams and plans for the future, shattered by a bullet.
And Cal’s promise to Mrs. Bentley, broken.
Bentley’s death haunted him. Catching the murdering bastard was Cal’s first priority. After that? Who knew?
He couldn’t imagine living a settled, domestic life in a quiet corner of England, having dull meetings with estate managers, going over account books, talking to tenants about repairs and leaking roofs. And drainage. And sheep.
Or the even duller duty of sitting in Parliament listening to long and dreary speeches. And worse—having to make them.
Cal shuddered.
And then, because he owed it to the title to beget an heir—and the whole blasted world knew it—he would be hunted endlessly by the likes of the Misses Frampton. And their mothers. And brothers.
And finally he would give in, and make a dutiful marriage to some highborn lady. Even then it wouldn’t stop—there would be the obligatory social rounds, the meaningless, endless politenesses. Morning calls. Balls. Soirées. Almack’s. Ratafia.
Conversation over breakfast.
He shuddered again. He was only twenty-eight, dammit. He had years before he needed to provide the estate with an heir. He had neither the time nor the inclination for petty family matters.
The carriage swept smoothly along, the hooves of the horses beating a rhythmic tattoo on the hard, even surface of the toll road—English roads were better than those on the Continent.
Cal watched the scenery slip by. England was so green; he’d forgotten that. Green and peaceful. And dull. He stretched out his legs, leaned back against the padded leather squabs and dozed.
***
It was dark as they drove into Bath, the moon hidden behind a thick blanket of cloud. Three Mile Cross had provedto be a wild-goose chase. Cal had found a former sharpshooter, but he wasn’t the Scorpion. This man was employed as gamekeeper on a local estate, and his movements over the last few years were fully accounted for. He hadn’t left the village, let alone the country.
Still, he’d shared some suggestions with Cal and brought him up to date on the whereabouts of some of the men on Cal’s list, so the visit hadn’t been a waste of time. And at just after seven o’clock, Cal was knocking on his aunt’s door.
It was opened by an elderly, white-haired man with a familiar-looking face that Cal couldn’t for a moment place. Then it struck him. “Logan, isn’t it? I didn’t expect to find you here. How are you?”
Logan had been a groom at his father’s estate when Cal was a boy. Unusual to find a groom acting as a butler, but hard physical work would be beyond the man now—he must be sixty-five or more. Aunt Dottie always did have a soft heart.
Logan grinned. “I’m very well, thank you, sir—my condolences on your loss. Losses.” He took Cal’s coat and hat. “We were expecting you, of course, only not quite so soon.” He must have seen the surprise on Cal’s face, for he added, “Mr. Phipps sent word you’d be coming, though he didn’t say when. Miss Dottie was that thrilled when she got his letter this evening. You always were her favorite.”
It wasn’t quite the thing for a butler to be so confiding, especially of his employer’s feelings, nor yet to refer to her familiarly as Miss Dottie, but Cal supposed an ancient retainer groom-turned-butler couldn’t be expected to know the finer points of servant-mistress etiquette.
“You’ll find her in the back parlor—that being the warmest room in the house—she does feel the cold these days. It’s second on your right, down the hall, sir—my lord, I should say.” He gave Cal a rueful grin. “Hard to get used to it.”
Cal couldn’t agree with him more. “Lord Ashendon” still sounded to his ears like his father.
When Cal opened the parlor door he felt a sudden pang. Aunt Dottie was as small and plump as ever, but her famed peaches-and-cream complexion was now like softlycrumpled silk, and her hair, once a charming, unruly froth of amber curls, was now the purest silvery white.
“Aunt Dottie?”
She jumped up with a small squeak of excitement, sending balls of scarlet wool and knitting flying, and embraced him fervently.”Dearest boy, let me look at you—so tall you’ve grown—and so handsome! And will you look at those shoulders!” She tilted her head critically, scanning him from head to foot, then gave a small decisive nod. “By far the best looking of all the Rutherford men! I shall be the envy of every lady between the ages of fifteen and a hundred when you escort me to the Pump Room in the morning.”
Cal laughed and bent to collect her scattered needles and wool. “A hundred, Aunt Dottie?”
