Dark Angel (Gentlemen of the Order 4)

“Indeed. A man must embrace his unhappiness, deal with problems with an air of detachment. But how does one do that when one has suffered a great injustice? How does one find peace when one continues to breathe life into their insufferable tale?”

The nightmares, the constant memories, the hatred for the world, all fed the belly of the beast—the story of the past.

“Peace comes when you realise you have power over your thoughts,” Beatrice replied. “That your thoughts control your destiny.”

A ghost of a smile touched Coulter’s lips. “I listened to the inner voices urging me to run and hide. But I should like to be free of this burden, and so I will tell you anything you wish to know.”

For a moment they sat there, not saying a word.

One question burned in Dante’s mind. “You had a brooch belonging to my mother, a cheroot case of my father’s. How did you come by items stolen moments before they met their demise?”

Coulter relaxed back in the chair, water filling his hazel eyes. “Because it was my carriage that arrived at the scene, D’Angelo. I saw both blackguards flee, saw the bodies sprawled on the roadside, saw the boy clinging to his mother, trying to shake her awake.”

A boulder-sized lump formed in Dante’s throat. He tried to recall his rescuer’s face but could remember nothing other than how it felt to have his heart ripped from his chest, have his world come crashing to the ground.

“When I gave chase, the murdering devil dropped his loot.”

“Why did you not hand it to the local magistrate?” Beatrice asked.

“The magistrate would have assumed it was highway robbery, not a murder orchestrated to keep a secret.”

Dante considered the man who bore no resemblance to his mother. “You visited my mother at Farthingdale.” It was obvious now.

Coulter nodded. “You must understand, my whole life has been a lie. I was a young man, full of hope, and with a burning passion to uncover the truth.”

“You have reason to believe the countess is your mother, sir?”

“I am the illegitimate son of Lord Summers and the Countess of Deighton. I was raised in Lancashire by a distant cousin of the countess, told of my real lineage moments before my adopted mother took her last breath.”

While Dante had no reason to dispute the claim—many aristocrats sired children with their lovers—it was hardly a motive to commit murder.

“My mother visited the countess on the day she died. I presume she went to discuss the fact, offer proof you were her half-brother.”

Coulter frowned and shook his head. “Not half-brother. The earl has never sired a child with any of his mistresses, though I have it on good authority he tried. The countess wished to marry Lord Summers, but her parents insisted she marry the earl. Her affair with Lord Summers began before her marriage and continued until he died ten years ago.”

Dante took a moment to absorb the information. “You think my mother was Lord Summers’ child?”

“Yes, and so is the current Earl of Deighton. They were both fortunate enough to be born with their mother’s dark hair.” Coulter brushed a swathe of burnished copper hair from his brow. “The countess was visiting Lancashire when she gave birth to me. Had I been born with ebony locks, she might have taken me home. But I have Lord Summers’ colouring, and so she invented a story of a stillbirth and paid her cousin to care for me.”

They spent a few moments lost in thought. Strange how one twist of fate could wreak untold havoc on the lives of so many.

Dante studied the libertine who might be his uncle. “So, explain how you’re alive and my parents are dead. If I understand you correctly, you’re insinuating the countess hired someone to murder her daughter, possibly to ensure her eldest son inherited the earldom.”

“It has to be the reason they all perished.” Coulter pursed his lips and frowned. “But if you know what Babington stole from me, then you know I’m alive merely because I blackmailed the countess.”

Beatrice looked confused. “Mr Babington stole Daphne’s brooch and Alessandro’s cheroot case. I don’t see how either of those things would give you any hold over Lady Deighton.”

Coulter sat forward. “I speak of the letters.”

“Letters?” Beatrice and Dante said in unison.

“The letter sent to my adopted mother. The one signed by the countess, detailing the financial provision made for me.” Coulter waved his hand impatiently. “Another, thanking her for taking care of the burden. The letters Babington stole from my desk.”

“Mr Babington made no mention of any letters,” Beatrice said.

Now Dante knew why someone had ransacked Babington’s home. Realising the letters were more valuable than a brooch, had Babington tried to extort money from the dowager? Had she hired someone to do away with Babington and retrieve the evidence of her infidelity?

One might consider the current earl a suspect. No man wanted to lose an earldom, be named a baseborn son. But Dante’s uncle rarely ventured to town, preferred a quiet, peaceful life in Hertfordshire with his wife and growing brood. Dante would only visit the Earl of Deighton when all other lines of enquiry failed.