Richard’s eyes scanned the front letter addressed to him in the bold elegant hand of his eldest son, Perkin. As he read it again, tiny hairs on the back of arms began to stand on end. Davenport’s name was on the list of suspected investors attached to the second missive, but there was another name on there that troubled Richard more.
Dear Father,
As you are reading this, I hope your mind is at ease with the knowledge that Thomas, Dalton and myself are all hale. We made port three days ago and have uncovered a number of people we believe to be involved. I have sent a letter to our Queen with the list. However, I wanted to get this in your hands as well for a few of these men sit rather close to you in Parliament. One of the names will not surprise you, I am sure. Attached are my findings.
Your loving son,
Perkin
Richard flipped to the attached list of names, confirming what he had already seen. Sure enough, there were quite a few names he recognized. The one that worried him the most was surprisingly not Edward’s childhood enemy, Davenport. That one, as Perkin had predicted, he had expected. It was another scribed name that was responsible for the chill in his veins. Ratcliff.
Richard had first heard that name when it came time for Edward to receive his title, the Earl of Wellington. The Queen granted it to Richard’s second son after the late Earl of Wellington passed, leaving behind no known heirs. John Ratcliff was a distant cousin of the late earl. When Ratcliff learned Edward would be gaining the title over his own claim, he became incensed, demanding it go to him.
Nevertheless, The Queen’s wishes reigned supreme and the title went to Edward. Ratcliff was furious. The Queen, still young and eager to appease her people, felt he should be mollified with something, so she gifted him a title of his own.
Ratcliff became a baron and all was good until he had the misfortune of getting pinned under a rig during a carriage race. The newly established lord perished at the crash, leaving his title to pass down to his younger brother. Martin Ratcliff?
Richard froze on the name, realization sinking in like a rock thrown into a deep pool. Martin Ratcliff, Baron De Montrey. Was that not the name Richard had overheard the duchess’s discussing with her sister that day in the parlor? Richard had been so eager to get away from his eavesdropping position outside the door, and mortified by the realization that Lady Vistmont’s husband was abusing her, that he had fled at the first opportunity provided.
His mind reeled backward in time, grappling for confirmation that De Montrey was indeed the name of the man set on courting Lady Sinclair, his new daughter-in-law. How could he have not put two and two together if it were? Surely he was mistaken. But if he was not…
Could Martin Ratcliff, Baron De Montrey, have been the one behind the attempts on Edward’s life, harboring disdain over Edward’s advancement from what his family thought was their rightful claim? If so, he would surely be angry now that Edward had stolen his intended.
Richard folded the missive as he moved purposefully toward the door, one goal in mind. He must warn Edward! He was just placing his hat on when a quick moving footman burst through the front doors.
Ocman reached out and caught the man by the jacket collar, halting his speedy advancement before he could plow over the master of the house. “Have a care, man,” the ever-vigilant butler warned.
The young footman started to fidget about. “I…I…I’m sorry, my lord, but there is a fire at the dock.” His voice shook, whether from his sprint to the house or his collision with the family’s sizeable African butler, Richard couldn’t be sure. “They say to come get you, for it be makin’ its way to the Lady Mystic.”
Richard’s blood turned to ice. That cargo was loaded down with nearly twelve thousand pounds of goods. The ship was worth twice that.
Richard moved quickly to a sideboard table and penned a quick note of warning to Edward, then thrust it into the nervous footman’s hands. “You and Ocman take this to Crestmont. Make sure it is delivered directly to my son.”
Richard turned to Ocman. “I will be there as soon as I have dealt with the fire. Go now, and…” He paused, seeing the look of intense concentration in the larger man’s dark eyes. “Stay close to him and his new wife.”
The longtime employee and friend looked him in the eyes. “You know I will, Sir.”
With that he was out the door already blending with the night, a frazzled footman fast on his heels.
Morgan felt Edward stiffen beside her at the exact same moment she did. An ominous black cloud was on the prowl, its thick fingers of suffocating smoke twisting through the sky. Upward, towards the heavens it advanced, a demon hell-bent on war.
Something was dreadfully wrong. Morgan had seen that type of smoke before and knew the fire that caused it was much too large to be a controlled blaze. This was not some farmer burning off summer crops. Edward seemed to realize the same thing. He gently, but insistently, moved her over in the seat.
Craning his head out the window he shouted for the driver to speed up. With a jolt, the rig began racing down the lane. Panic churned in her stomach but she had little time to entertain it. The violent lurch of the carriage sent her reeling backward and scrambling to regain her balance, lest she be tossed on the floor.
Once securely pressed into the back of the seat she tried to get a better look, but Edward’s large torso was filling the window. She inched herself across the carriage and peered out the opposite window. Nothing! That side of the horizon was clear. It had to be the estate!
Morgan reached for Edward’s arm braced against the door of the carriage. His tendons felt like solid rods ready to snap off under the skin. She withdrew her hand apprehensively, afraid of putting any added pressure on him.
The carriage careened to a stop but the realization had already began seeping in through the cracks around the windows. Fire.
Edward threw open the door and bounded out, just as Perry dashed by the window to her left. The door slammed shut.
Frantic shouts, muffled by the velvet-covered walls of the rig, erupted from somewhere beyond Morgan’s metal encasement. The stark difference between her interior environment and what was occurring outside gave the distinct impression of being trapped in a tomb.
She could not sit idly by and do nothing. That was not in her nature. She shoved open the carriage door and leapt out.
Edward quickly met up with who he assumed to be his estates butler. “My lord!”
The man, dripping wet and covered in soot, rushed to reach him and execute an impressive bow. He pulled himself up tall, affecting the best dignified look anyone could possibly muster under the circumstances, coated from head to toe in ashes and dirt. “We have put everything to order.”
“To order!” Edward barked. “I am missing half a house!”
Boswell came puttering up at that exact moment, assessed the other man as if he were a spot of hardened food left on a plate after it had been scrubbed, and scoffed, “And who might this be?”
“I am Truman,” the younger man addressed Edward solely. “Crestmont’s butler,” he added for Boswell’s benefit. “Someone has been sabotaging the staff’s hard work the past week in our preparations for your arrival. But we managed to get it under con…”
Edward knew the second his new butler’s eyes beheld Morgan, for an unmistakable male appreciation reflected in them. “I, er, that is to say, we—”
“Get on with it, man!” Edward interrupted with a snap of his fingers. “Have you the blaze contained?”
“Entirely unprofessional,” Boswell huffed.
The man quickly regained his focus. “My apologies, my lord. Yes, we have isolated the remaining fire and will have it extinguished in no time.”
Edward waved off any further idle chit-chat. “What happened here?”
“A letter with threats of the fire came last night, and after a week of destruction, half the staff packed up and left. The rest of us thought we had secured the perimeter well enough to keep out any would-be culprits, but someone managed to get into the house. They lit the fire in the main study. We were able to get it under control and block it from continuing on to the rest of the manor. It is contained, but—”
Edward didn’t wait for the rest. He had already begun taking off his jacket as he ran toward the house. His new butler rushed to keep up. Edward pushed up his sleeves and began issuing commands as he grabbed the first pail of water.
“We need more water!” he yelled. “You three!” He pointed to the fastest-looking footmen. “Get to the river and start bringing up more buckets!”
His new footman, the love-struck Perry, was already making himself useful, draping wet blankets across the remaining wood paneling that separated the study from the rest of the house. The fire had burned the room nearly clear off from the rest of the house, but Truman’s assessment of the situation was off. The lethal flames were still threatening to lick their way into the remaining hallway.
Edward grabbed a shovel and started heaving dirt onto the red embers. Out of the corner of his eye he spied a puff of white dash by. He turned his head in time to see his new wife rip the lace sleeves from her wedding dress and grab a bucket of water.
At that very moment, a hot ember chose to leap up into his eye. He cursed and wiped the vicious, stinging ash away. Edward blinked and tried to focus, his anger swelling to a new level.
“Morgan!” he yelled, but she did not hear him. Or rather, she chose not to hear him.
“My lord, do you wish the lady to be putting out the fire?” his newest butler asked, hesitantly.
Edward groaned. “Of course not.” He moved to retrieve her.