A Wicked Wager (Avenging Lords 2)

“But I was told Ambrose died from a head injury, conducive to either having fallen or being hit over the head with a heavy object.” A cudgel was a footpad’s weapon of choice.

An image of the scene flashed into Devlin’s mind. He had spent many sleepless nights abroad punishing himself for not being there for his brother. He had imagined pools of blood. Vacant eyes staring at the heavens. A body, blue with the chill of death.

A gentle hand on his back drew Devlin to the present, and he turned to find Juliet at his side. The compassion in her eyes touched him deeply, gave him the strength to probe the baron further.

Devlin swallowed to clear the lump in his throat. “And so you want the letters your daughter wrote because they incriminate you in my brother’s murder?”

The baron would have no option but to flee the country if evidence of the duel came to light. If the authorities caught him before he left London, the lord might well hang. And the discovery would lend credence should anyone suspect that it was Ambrose who chose not to marry.

The look of resignation in Bromfield’s eyes told Devlin he was correct in his assumption. “The injuries suggest you did not shoot my brother. Did you lose your temper and hit him with your pistol? Did you bribe his second to keep silent?”

“Ambrose Drake was dead when we arrived. The stubborn fool refused to name a second. Had he taken a man with him no doubt he might have fought off the footpads who attacked him for his purse.”

All the air in the room seemed to dissipate. He could almost feel Ambrose’s presence fading as his life ebbed away. “And your second can verify this?” Devlin would have been his brother’s second had he been at home.

“Mr Middle, my man of business, acted on my behalf,” the baron informed.

Of course he did.

Juliet slipped her small hand into Devlin’s and squeezed. “But I don’t understand,” she said. “A witness came forward to say he had seen Ambrose meeting a male lover on the common.”

The baron grumbled under his breath. “A witness I paid in an attempt to save Hannah’s reputation.”

“God damn!” Devlin cried. “You’ve led us on a merry dance this last week. You’re a conniving, devious bastard who will happily ruin another man’s reputation to save your own.”

Devlin thought back to the threats made by Biggs. How easy would it be to loosen a wheel, to saw through the axel on Bromfield’s travelling chariot? How easy would it be to snap the baron’s neck and blame it on his horse?

“You should leave this house and take Hannah with you.” Juliet’s calm voice broke through the chaos wreaking havoc with Devlin’s mind. “Leave now, before my husband takes vengeance for the cruel way you treated his brother.”

Devlin couldn’t breathe.

He couldn’t blink.

He could barely see a foot in front of him.

“Get out!” Juliet cried when the baron failed to respond. “And never darken our door again.”

The baron rose slowly from the chair and skirted around the desk as if being careful not to disturb a deadly predator. When he reached the door, he turned back. “If you find Hannah’s letters, I hope you will see fit to return them.”

Good God. Were there no limits to man’s effrontery?

“Get out,” Devlin repeated, his tone as cold and bitter as a Siberian wind.

Still fraught with an oppressive tension, the room felt stifling. An intense relief should have settled in Devlin’s bones. Now he knew what had happened to Ambrose. The consensus had always leaned to the notion that he’d been attacked by footpads. Had a vicious assault taken place? Had Ambrose fallen and hit his head? Devlin would never know. But something about the baron’s story rang true.

Juliet’s dainty hand came up to cup his face. “I’m so sorry, Devlin. My father is a cruel man. I only wish I could do something to make things right again.”

He took her hand and pressed a kiss to her palm. “Ambrose’s fate was written long before we met. There is nothing anyone can do to change that.”

“No,” she said in a soft whisper. Water welled in her eyes. “I hate to see you in pain. All I want for us is peace, but …” Her words faded yet he got the distinct impression there was so much more she wanted to say.

“What is it, Juliet? Tell me. Do not keep me in the dark.” He would rather hear the truth than feigned words of comfort or lies.

A frustrated sigh breezed from her lips. “While I believe the baron’s story about the duel, about Ambrose’s fate, and the reason for telling their spiteful tales, something bothers me.”

Devlin took a moment to examine his own feelings. His stomach churned. The hairs on his nape prickled with apprehension. Every instinct told him their battle was far from over.

“Do your concerns have anything to do with what we learnt from Mr Biggs?”