Darling Beast (Maiden Lane #7)(35)
Author: Elizabeth Hoyt

“I don’t think so,” Trevillion said reluctantly. “His creditors didn’t recoup their money on his death, nor was it widely known that he owed them.” He shrugged. “Murdering Smithers along with two other gentlemen would’ve been a poor business decision, and these villains are, if nothing else, quite sharp men of business.”

A muscle in Kilbourne’s jaw flexed and he glanced away—for the first time not at Miss Goodfellow. “Then… you have nothing.”

“Not quite, my lord,” Trevillion replied softly.

Kilbourne merely stared at him stonily, as if he’d let hope seize his emotions too many times in the past to permit it free rein again.

Trevillion met his gaze and said bluntly, “Your uncle is in debt, my lord, to your grandfather, the earl’s, estate—and has been for at least a decade. If you inherit the title, I suspect he would find himself in a very awkward position, for he doesn’t have the monies to repay the estate. Had you died that night, he would’ve inherited the title—and the money that goes with it upon your grandfather’s death. He would never have to repay the debt and wouldn’t fear the courts or debtor’s prison.”

Kilbourne’s expression didn’t even flicker—proving that he was as intelligent as Trevillion had suspected. “But I… didn’t die. Instead… apparently I… was drugged.”

“Think,” Kilbourne murmured low, for if what he suspected was true, they had a powerful man as an enemy. “Had you been murdered then, had not a common thief or some such been apprehended, your uncle, as the next heir to the earldom, would’ve been the natural suspect. But if you were drugged and your friends killed instead, you are made the murderer, and must perforce be brought to justice—and the hangman. A scandal, surely, but in no way your uncle’s fault—and with the same result as if he’d murdered you himself: your death. It was,” he added thoughtfully, “a rather elegant scheme, you must admit, my lord.”

“You’ll… forgive me if… I don’t,” Kilbourne replied drily. “I would’ve… been dead these four years… had not my distant… cousin, the Earl of… Brightmore not been so horrified… at the thought of a relation… of his being tried for… murder that he bundled… me away in Bedlam instead.” He paused, swallowing, after such a long speech. “Scant… comfort though… that was at the time. I think… I might’ve preferred… the noose.”

Trevillion reflected sardonically that he must be grateful, then, to Brightmore, for he’d saved Trevillion from indirectly sending an innocent man to his death.

“Why…” Kilbourne started, and then had to cough and clear his throat. “If your… theory is true, why… wouldn’t my… uncle have had me killed in Bedlam?”

“Perhaps he thought you would die there, my lord.” Trevillion shrugged. “Many do.”

Kilbourne nodded, contemplating that for a moment, or perhaps letting his throat rest. He said abruptly, “My grandfather… is dying… or so my sister informs me.”

“Then your uncle will want you dead as well,” Trevillion replied. “He made some very unwise investments in the last year and his debt has doubled just in the last five months.”

Kilbourne stared at him, frowning.

“His need has become acute, I think.” Trevillion met his gaze and once again noticed the scratches on the other man’s cheek. “Where did you get those scratches, my lord? You’re looking much the worse for wear since I saw you last.”

“Yesterday…” Kilbourne coughed, raising a hand to finger the scratches. “I nearly died… from a falling tree… that was to… be planted. There… was a new… gardener… he is… missing today.”

Trevillion pivoted to face the other man fully, leaning on his stick urgently. “You’ve been discovered, my lord. If I could follow your sister, so, too, could your uncle’s men.”

Kilbourne shook his head violently, coughing. “Accident,” he gasped.

“You don’t think that yourself or you wouldn’t have told me,” Trevillion said impatiently.

At the same time a voice called, “Hullo! Hullo! I say, can anyone tell me where Mr. Smith is?”

They both pivoted to see a red-haired young man, not more than five and twenty, blinking in the sunlight far too close to the ladies, and already being assaulted by the little dog.

“Damnation,” Trevillion muttered. It seemed their tête-à-tête was over. “Listen to me, my lord. You must leave the garden. Find some other place of hiding until we can devise a plan to find evidence against your uncle.”

Kilbourne was still shaking his head, though more slowly now, his eyes fixed toward the theater. “Can’t.”

Trevillion followed the direction of his gaze—naturally to where Miss Goodfellow was rising to meet the newcomer. “Can’t—or won’t?”

Kilbourne never took his eyes from her, but his face hardened with determination. “Doesn’t matter.”

Chapter Nine

The next morning Ariadne journeyed to the golden castle. There the king sat on a jewel-encrusted throne with, beside him, his mad queen, spinning red wool with a wooden distaff and spindle. The youth chosen with Ariadne made a low bow to the king and then turned aside. But Ariadne, remembering her mother’s warning, curtsied to the king and then the queen and inquired politely of her if there was aught she might bring her son. Without a word the queen handed her spindle to the girl…

—From The Minotaur

Lily met Caliban’s gaze across the clearing and felt heat climb her cheeks. His eyes were hot and intent.

He looked at her as if with a single kiss he’d already claimed her.

She glanced away, inhaling. It had only been one kiss and they hadn’t had a chance to speak properly since. Last night there’d been Maude, sharp and sarcastic and disapproving, and this morning Indio had been excited and scampering about. And that had been before Lady Phoebe and Captain Trevillion showed up.

“Who is it?” that lady asked, facing in the direction of the young man advancing toward them. Daffodil had finished welcoming him and was now dashing off to her master. Indio had previously wandered away from their tea party and was playing by the corner of the theater in what looked suspiciously like a mud puddle.