bed. The sheets smelled of her. Of soap and lavender water, and the sweet-scented pomade used to style her thick tresses for the ball.
It made for a restless sleep.
Rising some while later, he bathed and changed before making his way to Grosvenor Square, resolved to face the full force of his grandfather’s ire. Instead, he found an empty house.
“His lordship has gone out,” Jessup said.
“To where? His club?” St. Clare handed off his hat, coat and gloves to the butler.
“I couldn’t say, my lord. He left in something of a hurry.”
St. Clare scowled. He was in no mood for vagaries. His head was throbbing from too much brandy the night before, and the bullet wound in his arm ached liked the devil. “This isn’t the time to make a mystery of things, Jessup. If something’s happened to upset my grandfather, you may as well spit it out.”
Jessup gave a discreet cough. “If I was to hazard a guess, sir, I would say it had something to do with the copy of Bell’s Weekly Messenger he was reading at breakfast.”
St. Clare closed his eyes for a moment. Bell’s Weekly Messenger was a scandal sheet—one of the many his grandfather had fallen into the habit of reading since their arrival in London. It came every Sunday morning like clockwork and was presented to the earl along with his coffee.
“Fetch it for me,” St. Clare said as he strode into the library. “At once.”
Jessup brought it directly. It was folded over on a report about Lady Parkhurst’s ball.
St. Clare leaned back against the edge of his grandfather’s desk, the newspaper in his hand. He skimmed the small black print. It began with the usual drivel—who had attended and what they had been wearing. From there, it advanced to rumor and innuendo.
His fingers clenched on the paper as he read the offending passage.
Questions about Lord A—’s mysterious heir abound. While we have been reluctant to intimate anything nefarious, we can now confidently convey that the prevailing rumors place his origins not in Italy, but squarely in the West Country. Can that be the cause of his animus toward a certain Somerset squire? And, too, for the attention paid to a certain Somerset beauty?
St. Clare tossed the newspaper onto the desk with disgust. The report was no stab in the dark. It had to have been suggested by someone. Someone with firsthand knowledge of his dealings with Fred and Maggie.
Had it been Lionel? At the ball, he’d asked outright if Fred was an old enemy of St. Clare’s. Or had it been Fred himself? Had he at last managed to put two and two together?
St. Clare thought the latter unlikely.
Fred was—and always had been—thick as a fence post. A mindless bully, reacting more on instinct than sense. Never mind that on each occasion he’d crossed paths with St. Clare the visibility had been poor. It had either been dark or shadowed by smoke and flickering candlelight. Even on the morning of their duel conditions had been murky, a heavy fog billowing over the heath.
No. Fred hadn’t recognized him. Not yet. But a man like him could be easily led by the right person. Someone who was sly and calculating, who knew how to play on Fred’s vanity and insecurities.
Someone like Lionel Beresford.
Exiting the library, St. Clare promptly called for his curricle.
Driving was a bit difficult with a wounded arm. The stitches pulled whenever he tightened his hands on the reins. But it wasn’t too long of a journey to manage. Only a little over a mile.
Lionel and his mother had taken a modest house in Half Moon Street. It was a respectable address, if not an ostentatious one. As St. Clare arrived, he fully expected to see some sign of his grandfather. But the earl’s elegant black lacquered carriage was nowhere in sight.
“Walk the horses, Enzo,” St. Clare said as he jumped down from the leather-upholstered seat of his curricle.
The tiger trotted forward to take the reins.
St. Clare rapped on the front door. It was opened immediately by a young footman garbed in garish pink livery.
His Adam’s apple bobbed. “Yes, sir?”
“Lord St. Clare to see Mr. Beresford.” St. Clare didn’t wait for an invitation. He walked straight into the small hall, removing his driving gloves and slapping them impatiently against the palm of his hand. “At once, man.”
The footman scurried up the staircase to the second floor. Seconds later, Lionel appeared on the landing. He was wearing a tightly fitted coat with equally tight pantaloons.