The Guardian Duke: A Forgotten Castles Novel (12 page)

Alex thought about the Scripture. She wasn't sure if tearing off to find her parents was God's will or not; truth be told, she had been too afraid to ask Him and hear something she didn't want to hear. But the Scripture Montague quoted seemed a much bigger picture than asking for a specific answer for God's direction. It was almost as if asking no matter what she did or where she went, He would use it to prove her, to make her into what was good and acceptable. She had to only be not conformed to this world and renew her mind. "How does one renew the mind to prove out the will of God?"

"Through Scripture and trials." Montague chuckled. "Your journey should give you plenty of trials."

"Oh, dear," Alex murmured. "I'm not sure I like the sound of that."

Montague barked out another laugh. He didn't say anything else, just nudged the horse's sides and hurried them along to the harbor and the ferry that would take them across the Irish Sea.

THE FERRY,
SAINT PATRICK,
ROCKED along on the Irish Sea, crowded and cold, wet and windy. The wind that had seemed harsh on the road was like a cutting force driving its cold fingers through Alex's clothes on board the deck of the ship. She stood at the rail, looking across at the choppy, gray water while Montague had gone off on some unknown errand. She was learning it was better not to question him too closely about his affairs. His frown when she overstepped his invisible privacy boundary was enough to send a dog scurrying away with its tail tucked between its legs. He would find her when he was ready, she was sure of that. And more, he wouldn't have left her unless he thought her safe.

She glanced around at the people squeezed in beside her. More women and children than she would have thought. The journey was to take four hours to the Isle of Man, the destination of some of her fellow passengers, and then another three to Belfast. It had cost them seventeen shillings each. She'd offered to pay Montague's way, but of course he'd given her that look and she'd let the matter drop like a hot potato fished from the coals.

Thinking of him must have conjured him up, as he came up from behind her. He was holding out a piece of paper.

"After I bought our tickets I went to the post office to check for any correspondence. Seems you have someone of importance writing to you."

Alex bit down on her lower lip and took the letter. Only the duke would be important enough for someone to forward it on to Whitehaven. She had instructed Ann to speed any letters to her along the route to Belfast while she was gone. What if her parents wrote? She had to have her mail.

Taking the letter, she glanced down at the long, bold lines of the duke's familiar handwriting. She thought back to her plea for more funds. Had he believed her? Had he sent it? "Thank you, Montague." She turned away and peeled up the ducal seal. Swallowing hard, she opened it and began to read.

Dear Lady Featherstone,

It has become apparent from your letters that you are in need of guidance and direction. I shall be traveling to Holy Island posthaste to assist you in the calamities that have befallen you since the death of your parents. Fear not, my dear, I shall take care of everything.

Could you relay your measurements in your next letter? I understand you are in need of a new wardrobe, and I would like to have London's best modiste make up the latest in fashionable attire for a young woman of your status. No ward of mine will be found traipsing about the countryside in rags. A description of your coloring might be advantageous as well.

I confess that I am looking forward to the pleasure of meeting you in person and putting a face to the impression you have made in my mind. And I find myself thankful for your prayers and offer to confide in you. We will talk more of this on Holy Island.

Yours,

St. Easton

Alex leaned back against the railing with a groan, her heart sinking with dread.

"Something amiss?" Montague asked, one brow cocked.

Alex nodded and pressed her gloved hand to her mouth. Oh, dear. Yes, something was going to be very much amiss.

G
abriel stumbled through his front door, slammed it shut, and leaned against it. He was breathing as if he'd run from the opera house instead of riding in his comfortable carriage. His driver had taken one look at what must have been the wildness on his face and hurried them through the London streets to home. The whole way Gabriel tried to convince himself he was not losing his mind. Worse, was the feeling that something was not right with his mind.

He remembered an essay he'd read long ago by Jonathan Swift on matters of the brain and wondered if he still had it. Swift and others had written about experimentation with electrical current to correct the brain's function. Maybe Gabriel should start thinking of more alternative methods to gain back more of his hearing. Yes, that was it. He needed to pull out books and old manuscripts he'd studied years ago and find his own cure. He was more educated than the physicians anyway.

There had been a time in his life when he'd wished he was not a duke and could study medicine and become a physician, not that he'd breathed that thought aloud. A short bark of a laugh escaped his throat as he pushed away from the door and imagined the look on his father's face had he dared mention his many interests over the years. Dukes were supposed to conduct themselves in the powerful realm of politics, social politics mostly, but in times of war a duke's influence could, and many times did, impact history.

And it wasn't that he didn't cultivate the appropriate relationships, he did. But it was all so easy, and the only thing to keep the numbing boredom at bay was a constant challenge. He'd always craved intense study and then, after learning all he could on a topic, he became bored, despondent for a while, until the next stage of interest surfaced. The pattern repeated itself all through his life—diving into study and discovery with heady glee and then plummeting into despondency when he'd learned all he could on the topic. By his thirtieth birthday he had studied every branch of science, history, geology, agriculture, languages, mathematics, philosophy, and religion, not neglecting the physical challenges of swordplay, the mastery of all sorts of weapons, wrestling, horse breeding and racing; the list was nearly endless.

When all that failed to impress him any longer, he turned to the last unknown—the arts. Avenues of endless creativity. Painting, sculpting, drawing, he tried his hand at poetry and even inventing. But music had become the only passion he knew would never fade. He had one of the most elegant music rooms in the world back home in Wiltshire. He'd spent hours there, trying to learn the pianoforte, the violin, voice. And he'd failed, miserably failed. He saw the natural ability, the genius of Mozart, Beethoven, Bach, and Handel and knew he would never, not if he studied the rest of his life, master a miniscule piece of score as they had.

Seeing his butler approach, he pulled himself back to the present and took off his coat, handing it over.

"You have a caller, Your Grace."

"Eh?" Gabriel said the word and then bit down on his tongue. The butler's voice was probably loud enough to wake the dead, but Gabriel had to pay close attention to hear him. He watched the man's lips move as he repeated the phrase.

"A caller? Who is it?" He couldn't imagine seeing anyone right now, except maybe for Albert, but he'd gone back to the country, the place where Gabriel
should
be—hiding out, not attending operas and planning trips to Northumberland.

"Sir Edward Brooke, Your Grace." The butler held out a calling card.

Gabriel took it and read the name. Edward Brooke. One of the prince regent's advisors and a friend to the prime minister, Earl of Liverpool, a most powerful man. How the deuce was he supposed to carry off a full conversation? He had to face facts. By taking this meeting he would risk everything. Once the royal court knew of his fate, it wouldn't take any time at all for the gossips to inform the whole of English society.

Gabriel pictured the crumbling of the empire he'd spent the last nine years building. They would lose faith in him. If he showed any weakness, they would not trust him. It was all a house of cards anyway, investments based on relationships based on other investments. But what could he do? Brooke was obviously bent on seeing him if he had waited for his return from the opera. Gabriel couldn't avoid him forever. One did not refuse the regent's men when they called. It was tantamount to refusing the prince regent, and that kind of behavior could lead all the way to treason and the tower.

Taking a bracing breath, he nodded to his butler and turned toward the front salon where guests were received. He reached for the door handle and paused. His hand trembled, fear pounding like a shadow against his soul.
Stop it.
He could still hear well enough to help. Between that and reading the man's lips, he might muddle through. He turned the handle and pressed open the door.

"Sir Edward, what a surprise. I am sorry to have kept you waiting."

The man, a stocky gentleman with deep sideburns and a head of black hair heavily threaded with gray, stood and gave Gabriel a brief bow. He said some polite trifle about inconveniences with a hand motion of brushing them aside. Gabriel walked over to the sideboard and motioned toward the crystal decanters.

Brooke nodded in response. Gabriel turned his back to him to pour the drinks but glanced over his shoulder as he did so to see if he was speaking. He was not. Gabriel took the glass over to him and held it out. He turned and seated himself across from Brooke and then tapped his ear, inspiration coming to him. "I fear I am suffering from a dastardly cold that has clogged my ears up something terrible. You may have to speak up, and if that doesn't work, write down the nature of your visit." He waited, breath held, for the reaction.

Brooke's eyes narrowed but he nodded and spoke louder, his lips clearly enunciating the next words. "I'm sorry to hear that, Your Grace. Have you seen a doctor? The prince regent's own physician may be available if you would like me to put in a request."

"No, no, it's nothing." Gabriel waved away the concern. "I have excellent physicians on the case. Should just be a matter of time and then"—he tapped his temple three times—"good as new."

"Oh, well, that is a relief, isn't it?"

"What can I do for you?"

Brooke looked off to one side for a brief moment, as if collecting his thoughts, and then his intense, intelligent eyes met his. "I have a favor to ask of you. Actually, the prince regent has a favor to ask."

"The prince regent? I hope I haven't done anything to displease His Majesty." Gabriel took a bracing drink and set the glass on the table. Just what he needed. The prince regent wanting a favor from him.

"Not at all." Brooke assured with a wave of his hand. "I know you are a member of the Antiquities Society, yes?"

Unease coiled within Gabriel like an awakening snake. The fellows of that society were an odd lot, feverish with their passion for the earth's treasures. "Antiquities, you say?"

"Yes." Brooke nodded.

"I am a member of the society, as with most of London's societies and clubs, but I've been little active of late. My collection is far inferior to most of the members' collections. It was one of my passing phases of diversion, I'm afraid. Why do you ask?"

Brooke pressed his lips together and breathed deeply from his nose, his barrel-shaped chest lifting in and out as he regarded Gabriel with alarming intent. For some reason the prince regent needed him. And Brooke wouldn't want to write it down; he wouldn't want that evidence, Gabriel was sure. Pinpricks of unease mixed with curiosity caused him to lean forward toward Brooke. Gabriel rested his elbows on the perfectly tailored breeches and lifted his brows in interest.

Brooke leaned forward as well, speaking slowly. "Have you heard of Hans Sloane?"

Gabriel looked away, thinking. The name rang a distant bell. Ah, the physician for King George II, wasn't it? A century or so ago? And the foremost collector of antiquities of his time. He nodded at Brooke. "An avid collector of antiquities, if I recall. Wasn't he the recipient of the famed collection of William Courten?"

"Yes, yes." Brooke's eyes took on an enthusiastic gleam. "Cabinets full of books, manuscripts, prints, drawings, flora, fauna, medals, coins, seals, and all sorts of curiosities."

"And with King George's library, they started the British Museum with the lot of it, yes?"

Brooke nodded with a small smile. "I had hoped you would know of it."

"Well, as I said, I am no expert on the topic. Most people know of Sloane." What could Brooke want with him on the matter? There were men far more knowledgeable than he on the subject.

"Your Grace, there is a manuscript long missing from the collection. It has come to the attention of the Crown that we must find that manuscript." He paused, took out a handkerchief, and dabbed at his forehead. "Many months ago I was assigned that task. I hired investigators, treasure hunters you might say, very well known for finding missing or hidden things from all ends of the earth." He paused again and waited, probably to see if Gabriel heard and understood.

"Yes, I understand. It's an interesting story but why involve me? I am not an expert at such things."

"No, but you are connected, recently, and the prince regent felt you should know. Actually, the prince regent insisted you know."

"Know?"

"Your ward, Lady Alexandria Featherstone."

Gabriel's head jerked up, a protective instinct rising inside him. "Yes?"

Brooke took a long drink and then set the empty glass on the table in front of him. He looked Gabriel in the eyes. "Her parents were the treasure hunters I hired. They had been looking for this manuscript for nearly a year, and then they disappeared. It seemed best to the prince regent to declare them dead, to throw off any others looking for them, but we are . . . not sure what has happened to them. We needed Alexandria to be under protection, and the prince regent thought it time to put you to good use, for you to do your duty to the Crown, so to speak. In truth, you are no relation to the Featherstones, but it was the best way to explain your involvement. Alexandria could be in danger. Until we know the fate of her parents and find the manuscript, she will need your powerful protection. Do you see?"