TWO
Edinburgh, April 1817
“I DON’T KNOW why I am helping you,” Jack Rutherford said.
Lucas Black laughed. “Because my club serves the best brandy in Edinburgh?” He topped up his friend’s glass.
“It does,” Jack allowed. “But that isn’t the reason.”
“Because you owe me money?”
The cards lay abandoned on the cherrywood table between them. This was one of the club’s private rooms and empty but for the two of them. Beyond the door lay the gambling hell’s main salon, packed tonight with a clientele representing the richest men in Edinburgh society. Lucas cared nothing for a man’s antecedents, but he did care that his guests could pay their debts. He was in a position to be selective. An invitation to The Chequers was one of the most sought-after privileges in Scottish society.
Jack took out his pocketbook. “Twenty-five guineas, wasn’t it?” he said.
Lucas waved the debt away. “I’d rather have your help.”
His friend was frowning, watching the brandy swirl in his glass. He did not reply.
“A conflict of loyalties?” Lucas asked. He and Jack were business partners; they had helped each other out of more difficult situations than Lucas could remember. Which made it interesting that this time Jack was refusing to commit himself.
“Hardly that.” Jack glanced up. “I have little time for my father-in-law,” he said. “He tried to push both my wife and my sister-in-law into the sort of marriages that could have damaged them irreparably. People think him charmingly eccentric, but that is too kind a judgment.” He shifted in his chair. “No, it’s the element of deception that concerns me. I thought you were the sort of man who would walk in and state his terms rather than masquerading as a servant to spy on people.”
“I am the sort of man who prefers a direct approach,” Lucas agreed, adding drily, “but can you imagine what would happen if I walked into Kilmory Castle and said that I suspected someone there of killing my brother and I had come to find the culprit and bring him to justice? They would throw me out—or have me clapped in bedlam.”
He stopped. His dry tone had masked all kinds of emotions, but Jack had not been fooled. Lucas saw the sympathy in his eyes.
“I’m sorry about Peter,” Jack said, a depth of sincerity in his voice that Lucas could not doubt. “I understand that you want to know what happened—”
Lucas cut him off with a sharp gesture. “I want justice,” he said through his teeth. “It was no accident.”
He could see that Jack was struggling for a response.
Don’t, Lucas thought viciously. Don’t say that you understand how I feel. Don’t tell me that Peter’s death was investigated, that if others could not find a culprit, neither will I.
Rage and frustration welled up within him and he clenched his fists. He had met his half brother only once as an adult after years of estrangement. They had laid a foundation that they had both hoped would develop into a strong bond. And then Peter had died, robbing them of that chance and that future. He had been nineteen years old, no more than a boy.
When his half brother had first written to say that he was coming to Scotland and wanted to meet, Lucas had ignored the letter. He had had no contact with his family since his mother’s death and had wanted none. His childhood memories of life in Russia were not happy ones.
You’re a bastard and your mother is a whore, the other children had whispered to him, the ugliness of the words so incongruous amidst the opulent beauty of his stepfather’s palace.
Bastard, bastard...
The taunt echoed in his head and he pushed it away, shutting it out, closing down the emotion, the response, as he had done since the time the words first had a meaning for him. His parentage did not matter. In fact, he was grateful for those taunts because in the end they had given him the incentive he needed to prove himself. He had worked tirelessly to build a business empire that would give him wealth and influence to outstrip anything his family possessed. His hatred of his relatives had inspired him.
Then Peter had come and all that had changed. He could still see his half brother standing on the doorstep of his house in Charlotte Square, a tall, lanky youth who had not yet fully grown into his own skin but whose bearing showed the man he would one day become. Peter was hunched against the wind that whistled down from where Edinburgh Castle stood stark against a cold blue autumn sky.
“Dear God, but this country is cold!” His brother had walked straight in without invitation. He had spoken in Russian, and had embraced Lucas, who had stood there in astonished silence. Very few things had the power to surprise him; Peter had achieved that within five seconds.
“I wrote!”
