The Rakehell of Roth (Everleigh Sisters #2) - Amalie Howard Page 0,57
be trusted. His mother was right—he could not let his guard down—and he foolishly had with Isobel.
Thinking back to what Westmore had revealed about his mother and her indiscretion, Winter frowned. The only way the duchess would have had any reason to be unfaithful would have been because of the duke…because she’d been driven to it. Maybe Prue hadn’t seen what she thought she’d seen. Maybe she’d made a mistake. Either way, it didn’t change what he had to do now.
Confront Kendrick.
It was disgustingly early, but he did not care. Winter scrubbed a rough hand through his hair for what seemed like the hundredth time and yanked on the cravat that was slowly but surely strangling him. Dismounting his horse in the mews behind Vance House, he threw the reins to the waiting groom. Randolph, or Randy, as Iz had cheekily called him.
His eyes scanned the mews for the young, scarred stable boy. Oddly, he’d taken a liking to the impertinent lad. The boy spoke his mind, and it was obvious that Randolph had his hands full with him. He’d caught the older groom scowling in their direction more than once.
The boy was a lowly groom, but he strutted around like an upper servant, and he had no qualms about talking to a lord of Winter’s stature or reputation. He made a mental note to ask Beswick about him—the boy had mentioned being in the duchess’s employ before becoming Hellion’s caretaker. Winter wondered how bad the boy’s facial scarring was. If it was anything like the Duke of Beswick’s, he could understand the need for the covering. But he was of the distinct impression that the boy had bigger secrets.
“Where’s Iz?” he asked Randolph.
“Iz, my lord?” The man’s throat bobbed, brown eyes popping comically.
“The boy, the young pup who takes care of Hellion.”
The groom’s mouth fell open, his eyes shifting to the house in a panic. “Um…er…I…”
Winter frowned. “It’s a simple question.”
“Running an errand, my lord,” Randolph burst out, his weathered skin the color of a pomegranate. “For special feed for her ladyship’s horse.”
“Very well. Why didn’t you just say so?”
“Apologies, my lord,” Randolph stammered with a bow. “Shall I give her a message?”
Her? Winter quirked a brow. Perhaps it was a mistaken slip of the tongue. The man seemed rather nervous. “No.”
Without wasting further time, Winter strode from the courtyard toward the house. He took the steps two at a time, not bothering to announce himself. It was becoming too much of a frequent thing, these troublesome visits to his father’s residence. First for Isobel, then for Oliver, and now for the duke. A handful of times in the last two weeks alone. It had to stop.
“Is the duke awake?” he practically growled at Simmons, his father’s butler.
“Yes, he’s in the breakfast room, my lord,” the man replied, his sphinx-like face giving away nothing, unlike Winter’s own butler. Ludlow could do with a lesson on minding his own business. The meddlesome servant had made no secret of the fact that he thought his master was lacking in his duty by ignoring his wife. But Winter had meant what he’d said to Isobel—he had no intention of changing his life.
Settling down.
Starting a family.
Becoming a duke.
His resentment bubbled over as he stalked through the pristine foyer toward the breakfast room. He wondered if Oliver was here and almost hoped that he was so he could crunch his fist into the worm’s face. Winter did not wait for Simmons to announce him before crashing open the door, his eyes finding the duke sitting at the table near the window, perusing neatly ironed newssheets.
“Lord Roth, Your Grace,” Simmons said, his voice holding a hint of reproach.
The duke looked up. “Ah, my prodigal heir,” he said, folding the papers. “Thank you, Simmons, that will be all.” Dismissing the two footmen in the room, Kendrick rose and walked to the mantel, where he poured two glasses of whiskey before glancing at Winter. “Drink?”
“It’s a little early in the day to imbibe, don’t you think?” Winter drawled, tugging off his gloves.
“Says who? The ducal police?”
That dry humor did not sound like his father at all. Winter stalled, a knot forming in his throat. When was the last time they had spoken? It had to have been years, and only by distant correspondence or via Oliver. And Winter knew he could only trust his brother as far as he could throw him.
He watched the duke lift the tumbler to his lips. “Why are you here in London?”