The Duke Redemption Read online

  Wick was looking at her, gauging her reaction. The furrow between his brows revealed that her opinion of his home mattered to him. She let her approval show in her admiring smile, and his handsome features relaxed. He took her hand, kissing the gloved knuckles briefly. His heat penetrated the soft kid, causing a pleasant swirl in her blood, a quiver of the well-used muscles between her thighs.

  Goodness, the man was potent. He’d brought her to climax twice in the carriage, yet a simple kiss on the hand brought her lust up to a simmer again. As if he gleaned the direction of her thoughts, his eyes got that languid, heavy-lidded look that made her want to have her way with him here and now, on the gleaming marble tiles.

  She summoned up a polite smile as Wick introduced the members of his household staff, who were lined up to greet them. A sudden stampede of footsteps overhead interrupted him. Shouts and whoops of joy erupted as three boys appeared at the top of the stairwell, racing down and shoving at each other in their eagerness to get to Wick first.

  “Uncle Wick, you’re back!”

  “Oof—get out of my way. I want to say hello to Uncle Wick.”

  “You get out of the way, numskull. I was here first!”

  Bea couldn’t tell who had said what for the dark-haired trio was as tangled as a tumbleweed, a collection of arms, jabbing elbows, and kicking feet. They were all jabbering at once, trying to outshout one another in an attempt to be heard.

  “Now, lads, mind your manners,” Wick began.

  His admonition only served to raise the volume as the boys tried to talk to him while simultaneously arguing with each other.

  “Enough, lads.”

  The boys quieted at the sound of the booming male voice that came from the top of the stairs. A brawny dark-haired man was descending, a slender brunette dressed in a buttercup yellow gown by his side. Bea knew that the man must be Wick’s brother, although there was little in the way of family resemblance. As Richard Murray approached, she saw that his features were more rugged than refined, his dark eyes rather somber. Unlike Wick, who exuded a natural charisma that drew people to him wherever he went, the older Murray had the look of a man who would be more comfortable sporting outdoors than doing the pretty in drawing rooms.

  Indeed, his lady bore more of a resemblance to Wick with her pretty caramel-colored eyes and vivacious features. She moved with a natural energy and grace that would serve her well on a ballroom floor. Her air of lively mischief made for an appealing contrast to her husband’s stoic gravity.

  Despite Wick’s reassurances, Bea knew she had to be prepared for any reaction to her scar. Her last foray into polite society had taught her just how much the ton judged by appearances. Her pulse beat a rapid tattoo as she realized that she ought to have freshened up before meeting his family. In addition to her damaged cheek, she’d engaged in vigorous lovemaking in the carriage; what if it showed?

  Stop panicking. It’s too late. Take a breath…

  She braced for the lady’s greeting.

  “You must be Lady Beatrice,” Wick’s sister-in-law exclaimed. “It’s jolly good to meet you! Wick never brings anyone around to meet us, and you’re every bit as dashing as he described in his letter. He also mentioned that you’re an ace shot; is that true? I’ve been taking archery lessons, and you’re welcome to practice with me, although fair warning…I’ve been accounted an excellent shot myself,” she ended with a raffish little grin.

  Bea blinked, not sure how to respond.

  “Before Lady Beatrice decides whether she’d like to participate in your games, lass, perhaps she’d like to know who ‘we’ are.”

  Although Wick’s brother’s tone was chiding, amusement warmed his earth-brown eyes as he regarded his lady. Turning to Bea, he inclined his head. In the unaffected elegance of that gesture, she began to see the similarity between the brothers.

  “Richard Murray, Viscount Carlisle, at your service,” he said. “This modest, demure lady is my wife Violet, and these are our boys: Ewan, Duncan, and Wickham.”

  At the mention of their names, the lads hastily bowed. Their gentlemanly manners bore the stamp of their father. Catching one of them—Duncan—surreptitiously stick his tongue out at his youngest brother, Bea felt her lips quiver; their mama obviously had an influence as well.

  Bea’s tension drained away. Curtsying, she said, “A pleasure to meet you all. And I should very much like to practice archery with you, Lady Carlisle.”

  “Only if you call me Violet,” the lady said cheerfully. “I shan’t answer to anything else.”

  “Sometimes she doesn’t even answer to that,” her husband said.

  Violet wrinkled her nose at him; he chucked her under the chin in a gesture of casual affection.

  “Before you shove a bow and arrow at my guest, Vi,” Wick said, “it has been a long journey. I’m sure Beatrice would like to get settled in first.”

  “Of course. In fact, I’ll take her to her rooms. That way,”—Violet gave a Bea a conspiratorial wink—“we can gossip about you men.”

  Smiling, Bea followed the lady up the stairs.

  “I suppose this means we men must fend for ourselves.” Carlisle’s comment to Wick drifted up toward them. “Don’t know how we’ll manage without Violet telling us what’s what.”

  His lady paused on the landing, wearing a look of mischief as she turned around.

  “Boys?” she called.

  “Yes, Mama?” her sons chorused.

  “While you’re with Papa and Uncle Wick, might I remind you that there’s only one rule you must abide by?”

  “What is the rule, Mama?” Ewan, the eldest, asked gravely.

  “Don’t do anything that I wouldn’t do,” she said.

  The boys looked at each other…their eyes rounding with delight.

  The Murray brothers groaned.

  Bea found herself chuckling as the viscountess continued up the stairs.

  As Beatrice was fatigued from the journey, Wick instructed Cook to have a tray sent up to her while he dined with Richard, Violet, and their brood. While the children of the ton typically took supper in the nursery, Violet’s middle class background made her a more involved mama than most, and Wick could tell his brother thrived in the familial closeness fostered by his viscountess.

  God knew it was a far cry from their own upbringing.

  With the boys present, Wick couldn’t get into the details of Beatrice’s enemy and the purpose of their return to London, but he liked catching up and hearing news of Violet’s family, the Kents, with whom she was very close. Since her brother Harry was one of Wick’s business partners, they were all family, in a way. After supper, Violet rounded up the boys and left the brothers to enjoy their cigars and spirits.

  Wick led the way to his study. He’d spared no expense in having the masculine retreat done up to his exact preferences. Mahogany wood, rich tobacco leather, and burgundy rugs gave the room an inviting feel. As Richard settled into one of the deep tufted wing chairs by the fire, propping his booted feet on the footstool with a sigh of satisfaction, Wick felt a sense of pride that he could offer this hospitality to his brother.

  For years, he’d taken from Richard; it was nice to give back, even in this small way.

  Going to the spirits cabinet, he asked innocently, “Port or brandy?”

  Richard shot him a look. “Whisky. And it had better be the Tobermary.”

  It was, of course. Wick knew his brother’s lips would never touch anything but the best Scotch whisky. But just because he’d matured in some ways didn’t mean he couldn’t enjoy pulling Richard’s leg now and again. It was the right of the younger brother, after all.

  He poured the amber liquid into two cut-crystal glasses. He brought one to his brother, then took the adjacent wing chair. He enjoyed the companionable moment, listening to the crackle of the hearth and appreciating the smooth burn of the spirits.

  “I like your Lady Beatrice,” Richard said. “Violet does as well.”

  Social nicet
ies and chit chat had never been his brother’s forte. Richard took after their papa in that way: a stoic, serious man who never saw the point in taking any route but the most direct.

  “I’m glad she has your stamp of approval,” Wick said.

  Richard’s brow furrowed. “I didn’t mean to imply that she needed it, lad. You’re your own man and have been for some time.”

  “I’m in earnest,” Wick said hastily, realizing that Richard had misconstrued his comment for sarcasm. “It matters to me that you and Violet get along with her. It means a lot to Beatrice, too, because she hasn’t always had that welcome after her accident. That was partly why she left London five years ago.”

  “Bloody ton,” Richard said with disgust. “Well, I hope you’ve convinced her not to pay any mind to that pettiness. Your lass is fair and kind, capable to boot. I should like to learn more about her land management techniques since I’m thinking about expanding my own holdings.”

  Wick’s lips quirked. “I’m certain Beatrice would be happy to discuss crop rotation with you.”

  “It’s good to see you settling down and with a sensible female. Have you asked her to marry you yet?”

  That was Richard: straight to the point.

  “I have, but we’re waiting before we make our engagement public.”

  “Why wait?”

  “If I had my way, I’d have the bans read tomorrow. But Beatrice…she’s not yet ready.”

  Richard frowned. “Why not?”

  Wick gave an account of the dangers Bea faced and their purpose in London.

  “So you intend to track down the owner of the pocket watch and delve into the past of this Randall Perkins character. And perhaps locate this Reverend Wright as well.” Richard took a meditative sip of whisky. “You’ll need help, and I’d be glad to lend a hand. I’ll also try to keep a rein on Violet, but you know how she is.”

  As Wick had been friends with Violet even before she met Richard, he was well aware that his sister-in-law would not countenance being left out of an adventure. Richard indulged his viscountess quite shamelessly, although Wick knew he would draw the line at her putting herself at risk. Nor would Wick be willing to endanger the lady he loved like a sister.

  “Since you and Violet solved the mystery of Monique’s murder all those years ago,” he said, “I would welcome your assistance.”

  At the mention of his dead mistress, his brother’s brows lifted. Wick knew why. He rarely mentioned Monique or that shameful time in his life. Yet his talks with Beatrice had quieted the rattling of skeletons so that they now felt to be what they were: memories that would always be with him but no longer felt like a cross to bear.

  “Have you told your lass about what happened?” Richard asked quietly.

  “Yes. And she thinks that I’m honorable, even with the mistakes that I’ve made.”

  “A sensible woman, as I said.” His brother gave an approving nod. “Your problem never was a lack of honor, Wickham, but an excess of it.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  Richard set down his glass, leaning his forearms on his thighs. “Since you were a wee boy, you’ve cared about doing the right thing, but when you failed to meet your own high standards or made a mistake, you were always hard on yourself. Excessively so. To the point where no one could tell you anything without you lashing out in anger. But the true anger, lad, was at yourself, no? You’ve been this way your entire life.”

  Stunned, Wick stared at his brother. “When did you become this insightful?”

  “Since I got myself a wife who informs me my problem isn’t a lack of emotion but an excess of it.” Richard rubbed the back of his neck, his expression rueful. “According to Violet, the quieter I get, the more ‘feelings’ I’m having. That’s when she pesters me until I talk to her.”

  “I wonder how our tendencies came about,” Wick said, bemused.

  “Need you ask? Papa and Mama each had a favorite, and you knew when you weren’t it.” Richard’s tone was wry. “In Mama’s eyes, I’m the dull, staid son who lacks your charm, good looks, and ease with people. Which is fine by me, since Violet values my other qualities.” His chest puffed out a little, his expression that of a man who’s found exactly what he needed in his marriage. “As for Papa, he was stricter and harsher with you, expressing his disappointment at the slightest thing.”

  “He compared me to you, the dutiful heir, and I always came up short.”

  “We’re different, Wick. Like apples and oranges, neither is better or worse.” Richard paused. “I’m learning this with my own lads: Ewan has the brains, Duncan is the mischief-maker, and Wickham…well, he takes after his namesake. The lad’s got all the servants wrapped around his finger, and even his grandmama can’t resist his smile. As different as the boys are, however, I love them equally.”

  “Something our parents never managed to do.” Wick paused. “By the by, how is Mama?”

  “Spitting mad that you didn’t manage your usual visit in the spring. She blames me and Violet for keeping her from you, although we’ve told her more than once that she’s welcome to leave the dowager house and join you in London.” Richard’s expression was sardonic. “I’m sorry to say she hasn’t taken us up on that offer.”

  “I’m not sorry,” Wick said with feeling.

  His brother’s look turned sympathetic. “You should know she’s been making noises about visiting her ‘handsome lad,’ and clearly she didn’t mean me.”

  Wick grimaced. The last thing he needed right now was for his mama to show up.

  “Then I’d better solve the mystery behind the attacks and wed Beatrice before that happens,” he muttered. “If she meets Mama before she has my ring on her finger, she might change her mind about taking me on.”

  “How do you plan to proceed with your inquiries?”

  “First thing tomorrow, I’m hiring guards for Beatrice.” His tenure in the underworld had made him some useful connections in that regard. “I know a fellow named Wilcox who specializes in that line of work. Then I’ll be meeting with Garrity and Kent to apprise them of the situation. And, hopefully, to gain their assistance in stopping Beatrice’s enemy.”

  Richard grunted. Being the protective older brother, he’d never liked Adam Garrity, the former moneylender who’d once held Wick’s vowels. Wick could never persuade his brother that while Garrity was undoubtedly ruthless, a true product of the London underclass, he was also a fair man, one who was true to his word. Not only had he allowed Wick to work off the debt, he’d recognized and encouraged Wick’s potential.

  For years, Wick had been Garrity’s right-hand man in the moneylending business, his specialty being loans to the ton. When Garrity had gained controlling interest in a failing railway company a few years ago, he’d invited Wick to become a partner. Between the two of them and Harry Kent, they’d turned GLNR into the success it was today.

  In short, Wick owed a lot to Garrity. He considered the older man a mentor and a friend.

  Insofar as Adam Garrity had friends.

  “And you’re certain that Garrity will be keen on helping the woman who’s standing in the way of his railway?” Richard asked, brows raised.

  “It’s my railway as well. And Garrity isn’t as bad as you think. He has his good points.”

  “You mean his wife,” his brother muttered. “That woman is a saint.”

  If Garrity had any soft spot, it was for his wife Gabriella. Gabriella Garrity, in turn, had a soft spot for everyone. She was great friends with Violet and the rest of the Kent family, who’d befriended her during her wallflower days. Years ago, she’d also been the one who’d pleaded on Wick’s behalf, convincing Garrity to give him a chance to work off his debt. If Mrs. Garrity took a liking to Beatrice—and she would, since she liked everyone—she could undoubtedly persuade her husband to offer his assistance.

  Wick didn’t think it would come to that. He knew his partner: as hard a man as Garrity was, he, too, had a code of honor. He wanted the land, bu
t he wouldn’t stand for a woman to be terrorized because of it.

  “At least you can count on Harry,” Richard said. “He’s an obliging chap. And you’d get Tessa’s assistance as well, which could come in handy.”

  Harry’s wife, Tessa, came from one of the ruling families of the London underclass. Her grandfather, Bartholomew Black, was known as the King of the Underworld because of his power and ability to mete justice in places beyond the reach of Peelers and magistrates. In recent years, Tessa had taken over some of his duties, and she had connections in the darkest parts of London.

  “Let us reconvene after I speak to Garrity and Kent tomorrow,” Wick said decisively.

  “Whatever you need, let me know.” Richard rose, rolling his shoulders. “I’d better head up. Violet will be chomping at the bit to know what we just discussed.”

  “Are you going to tell her?”

  “Aye, lad.” The wolfish gleam in Richard’s eyes suggested that perhaps he wasn’t the proper, staid brother in all ways. “But I might make her work for it.”

  25

  “You’re the one who insisted on coming,” Wick muttered as the carriage rolled to a stop. “Stop fidgeting, things will be fine.”

  “I’m not fidgeting,” Beatrice informed him. “I’m merely gathering my things.”

  All right, she had been fidgeting with her gloves and reticule, but Wick didn’t have to know that. Earlier, they’d had a disagreement at the breakfast table when he’d told her that he would be asking his partners to assist in finding her foe. She’d told him that she would accompany him since she didn’t want anyone speaking on her behalf. He’d countered that he also had other business to discuss with his colleagues, which was best done in privacy. She’d asked him if he had secrets he was hiding from her…

  And on it had went. Until Carlisle had put down his fork with a sigh.

  “You two are squabbling worse than the boys. For God’s sake, Wickham, you’re a negotiator, aren’t you?” The viscount had sounded exasperated. “Find a compromise with the lady before you give us all indigestion.”