Andrews Brothers 02 - The Rescue Page 9

  If you are able to come, I would love to have your support. I know you will understand my jumbled thoughts even when I don’t understand them myself.

  Your loving cousin, Farrah Burrows

  The abrupt ending left Brigitta feeling deeply unsatisfied. The idea her cousin was involved in a measure of duplicity brought deep concern and renewed memories. The way Farrah described her situation brought chills to Brigitta’s soul. Was it possible Chadwick had traveled to Rochdale and even now threatened the future of her cousin?

  Brigitta must be allowed to travel to Rochdale. She just needed to convince Luke.

  ****

  Winlock fought the physician. Garrett and Trace attempted to hold him still so the physician could examine him and were struck more than once. Farrah remained off to the side and folded her trembling hands before her.

  When her father calmed, the doctor dried his hands and approached Farrah. “My lady, you mustn’t worry.”

  “I’m not worried. My father is a crotchety old cuss. It will take more than Devlin Forster’s erroneous words to bring him down.” She hoped.

  The physician secured his coat. “I will return to check on him later this evening. Make sure he rests.”

  Farrah agreed, sure that her efforts would be futile. Overexerted from his fight, her father lay against the pile of pillows. Garrett and Trace left the room and Farrah settled in a chair.

  Her father’s color returned to normal and the rhythm of his breath normalized. Her back ached from the stiff chair. She stared out the parted draperies. Dollops of sunlight struck the pane. The bleak hill came into focus and she closed her eyes and sighed.

  The door opened and she stood. Garrett entered, cast a brief glance at his sleeping master, and drew her aside. “How was your visit to Ravenwood?”

  “It went well,” she answered, not looking him in the eye.

  “You seemed pleased before your father revealed himself.”

  “I am pleased, but I prefer not to share the details. The walls have ears.” Every manse in the area claimed their servants couldn’t keep a secret, but she believed it had more to do with the house’s secret listening holes than the staff.

  ****

  Devlin slammed the small door shut. If only he knew what Farrah planned! Rule number three in the swindler’s playbook: Having a leg up in any game assisted in the win.

  He climbed down from the chair and scooted it back in place. Conveniently Winlock had been stowed in the room next to his and he’d found the listening hole between the two suites.

  Maybe he should insist Gaston be placed nearby as well. Devlin could use the excuse that one never knew when they might need legal advice. He restrained his laughter. He constantly needed legal advice.

  If he could get them close then he could eavesdrop on all the major players. A thrill of excitement shifted through his tense body. It was the only excitement he was likely to get. His room was drab with that dreadful maroon designated to the Flannigan family. Then there was the issue of the droll company. He would have given anything to have drawn the Elis Wold scam. The daughter was an atrocious bear with facial features like a scaly toad, but at least the return was high and he would have been in London. He could have taken a stroll to a local gaming house and secured extra funds. Or visited with his employer, the thought of which sent his heart racing.

  He ran his hand through his hair. As it were he was stuck in the country. He spat on the floor. He despised the country.

  Devlin headed downstairs. Heated gazes lifted toward him and he shoved away his fear and concern. What did he care if the Flannigan staff didn’t like him? As soon as he became sole owner of the land he would fire the staff one by one.

  Inside the dining hall, Gaston leaned back in a chair. A grin covered his face and Devlin took a seat opposite him.

  “Why are you happy?”

  The solicitor bristled and made his body stiff, placing a fake scowl on his face.

  “That’s better,” said Devlin, pleased with his power.

  “Forgive my relaxed position, but I find lifting my legs increases my ability to think. A great physician—”

  “Name?” Devlin feigned interest. If the solicitor considered them friends he would more easily rule in Devlin’s favor.

  “Why he would be unknown to you Lord Greywold, but he was a visionary in my village.” Gaston paused, but Devlin didn’t comment and he continued. “The physician had the theory that blood flow increased brain activity. I added my own twist. If I subsequently elevate and drop my legs, then my blood will be jostled and rush to my brain more frequently, thus increasing my flow even more.”

  “Has your theory been proven correct?” Devlin cleared his throat. He would not allow himself the pleasure of laughing at the ignorant fool.

  Gaston shrugged. “I wouldn’t know. Every time I go to relax, I’m interrupted.”

  Devlin narrowed his eyes, before he could make further comment, Gaston stood and whirled around. Devlin internally groaned as Lord Mountjoy entered the room. How had he arisen so quickly? The man should have been down for days.

  Winlock grunted and settled in the chair at the head of the table. His daughter, the beautiful spirited Farrah, remained off to one side while Garrett resided on the other.

  “Lord Mountjoy, I pray you’re well,” said Gaston his lower lip quivering.

  The simpering fool! He was still afraid of the wrong person! Before the game was over Gaston would change his mind, Devlin would make sure of it.

  Lord Mountjoy fisted his hands on the table and glared at the solicitor, who ran his finger around his cravat and gulped. “Let’s get this over with. What do you want?”

  The solicitor blinked rapidly like he didn’t understand Winlock’s meaning but Devlin understood.

  “I don’t—”

  “Don’t act coy. I want to know what it will take to settle this matter.”

  “Why, an investigation will settle the matter.”

  “I mean without an investigation. Time is of the essence and I don’t wish to waste another moment.”

  “There is no other way.”

  Winlock released his grasp and leaned in his chair, his brow furrowed. “So you refuse to be reasonable.”

  Devlin tired of the exercise. “Are you worried, Lord Mountjoy? I thought you said I was a forger and had no claim to the land.”

  “I only wish to spare everyone’s time since we know who has the rightful claim.”

  “I have all the time in the world.” Devlin crossed his arms over his chest and allowed his grin to widen.

  Winlock narrowed his eyes until he resembled a hunting cat.

  “There are other ways to settle the matter,” said the solicitor.

  “Indeed, do tell.” Devlin enjoyed the game more and more.

  The solicitor explained, “If the young lady consents to marry Lord Greywold then no one needs contest. Both parties would acquire rights.”

  Devlin warmed to the idea. Marrying the young woman wouldn’t bother him in the least. Publicly Farrah was a charming woman with poise and grace, but privately she showed her spirit which he liked immensely. He’d attempted to woo her, of course, but she had ignored his advances. Perhaps a push from her father was in order.

  Farrah frowned and Winlock shouted, “I will not give my daughter to the likes of him!”

  Devlin couldn’t resist. “So you prefer your daughter marry a man thrice her age or perhaps you prefer one knocking on death’s door so you can swoop in and take his land when he falls into the grave.”

  Winlock dropped his jaw. Devlin feared another episode, but the man quickly recovered his stanch resolve.

  “Baiting me will do little good. I’ve been at this a lot longer than you.”

  I doubt it. Devlin struggled to keep his expression neutral.

  Winlock stood. “Come, Farrah.”

  The lady skittered behind her father and Devlin imagined her trailing along behind him, the feeling brought an excess of satisfactio
n.

  Chapter Eleven

  “I’m just saying maybe we should consider Devlin’s offer.”

  Farrah couldn’t believe it. Her father, stubborn as ten mules, was giving up.

  Garrett replied, “But my lord, Devlin is surely a swindler. Why would Clovis sign away—”

  “Because he was a gambler!” Her father’s voice rose until it felt as if the rafters shook.

  Farrah cringed and sank farther into the couch cushions.

  Her father’s tone lowered. He sat opposite her, and cradled her dainty hands in his massive ones. “Perhaps I’m a gambling fool as well. I knew the risks. I knew Clovis’ wives had died in childbirth, but I allowed my faith in Farrah to overrule my common sense.”

  She didn’t know whether to beam with pride or bristle with anger.

  “I can’t discount the possibility that Clovis risked his land in a game of Brag. And if he did the courts will decide who has a more legitimate claim, Clovis’ bride of a few moments or the document signed right before his death.”

  The comment left Farrah reeling. What was she going to do? Her family could lose its land.

  Her father’s hands fell away and she pushed off the sofa and approached the window. The sun dipped behind a hill and the land darkened. Moonlight glistened on the rock tombstones and highlighted the fresh mound of dirt marking her husband’s grave. No doubt he spun within the confines. It served him right for his cockiness. But whether he deserved his loss was irrelevant. The matter that concerned her most was her own family land.

  She could live without the Burrows fortune, but what of her father? He was an old man. He couldn’t be forced to live destitute and in a hovel for the rest of his days. She had to do something.

  The clock chimed and roused her. She’d failed to notice her father and Garrett’s departure. The fire in the room had died and she shivered.

  After Clovis’ unexpected demise, she had returned to her own suite. The lavender walls were supposed to offer comfort and serenity but instead she felt distraught and disgruntled. The situation appeared hopeless.

  She ran her fingers through her tangled hair. Perhaps her cousin would be of some assistance. Brigitta had recently married the Baron of Stockport. The details remained a bit of a mystery, but with her new found status Brigitta could be of some assistance.

  Then there was Andrew Ravenlowe. Farrah lifted her eyes heavenward. She knew his status was impossible, but what if he could help her. Did she really care how he’d gained the title off Rowena’s son?

  She flopped into a chair. Maybe she should cast all these thoughts aside and come up with a different plan. If she could just engage Devlin at his own game she might have a chance of coming out of this unscathed.

  Insistent banging rattled the door. Before she could reach it, it was thrust open. Garrett appeared, his body shaking with either rage or fear. “Forgive me, my lady, but your presence has been requested.”

  “By whom?” Farrah couldn’t imagine who could strike such fear into her father’s head footman.

  As he offered no further explanation, she was forced to follow him into the living area. She fanned wisps of smoke hovering in the air, and when it cleared she was surprised by several men. They stared at her like prized beef at auction. She expected drool to seep from the corner of their collective mouths.

  The men spoke all at once and Gaston stepped from the throng. “Gentlemen, please. Everyone will have a chance to speak.”

  “You bet we will.” There was a brief pause as one of the men eyed her from head to toe. “If that lass is coming with the land then I stake my claim now.”

  “Nay, ye don’t. That lass will belong to me!”

  From the haze six men with broad shoulders and thick furry brown hair emerged and accosted one another. Their similar height, build, and features, indicated they were related.

  Gaston attempted to silence the unruly herd but his efforts proved futile and he backed up beside her.

  “Who are these people?” Farrah asked.

  Gaston replied, “They claim they are Clovis’ children.”

  The room spun and she held a chair for support.

  ****

  Devlin rejoiced. Rule number four in the swindler’s manual: Introduce confusion.

  Finding the Hagan boys had been a stroke of genius. The Irish lads were rumored to be Clovis’ illegitimate children from his home village, and a rumor was all he needed to cast doubt.

  Farrah gripped a chair, and her face paled. Devlin stepped forward. Before he reached her side, he stopped. An unfamiliar figure emerged from the hallway. He gently stroked Farrah’s forearm. She rotated into his embrace, and her head fell against his chest. He led Farrah from the room, and Devlin hurried to follow, yet every step was thwarted by the Hagans. A full scale brawl between the uncouth youth occurred before him, backing him into a paneled corner.

  Gaston slid next to him. “I fear this room isn’t big enough for this many Irishmen.”

  “Perhaps they should be escorted outside or to the barn.”

  “They do behave like animals.”

  Gaston ducked as a vase slammed into the wall overhead. Shards of porcelain struck his hair and shoulders. Devlin jumped aside and knocked a wall scone. Hot wax dribbled and fell onto his new blue greatcoat.

  Fury welled in his breast and he bellowed, “Stop this nonsense!”

  The roughhousing men paused in mid-fight; a fist held aloft and headed toward a face, a foot dangling above a prone body, men grimaced as hair remained between tugs.

  “That’s better. Now release one another. Trace and Lucretia will assist you in finding a room. Once settled you will change for dinner and bring yourself to the dining hall like respectable gentlemen.”

  One poked another in the ribs and they all laughed. “Respectable? Did you hear that Cormac, he wants us respectable.”

  “I didn’t bring my Sunday clothes. What am I supposed to wear?”

  “Guess you’ll have to borrow.”

  “He ain’t borrowing from me. I dun brought the one outfit. He can go wash his duds in the pig trough.”

  “Then he might as well wear what he’s got ’cause that won’t make one bit of difference.”

  Devlin palmed his face and groaned. A volley of words flew back and forth across the room. A professional listener couldn’t keep up with who spoke or what was said. How had their mother kept them straight?

  Gaston rose from his squatted position. His jaw dropped, apparently sharing in Devlin’s shock. They needed to quit the room and let the rowdy Irishmen fight it out amongst themselves.

  Guiding the solicitor, they exited the sweltering room. Devlin used a handkerchief to wipe sweat from his brow.

  His mentor would be disturbed by the order of events. Unfortunately the old lord was harder to coax than Devlin had planned on, and it had taken time to get Clovis to the gaming table, which had required him to introduce more elements into his plan than he’d intended and now forced him to contend with Farrah’s claim and the Hagans. Why would the lass not just agree to marry him? Maybe he should suggest sharing Clovis’ possessions and nothing more. Perhaps he should investigate and see if he could find another reason the Burrows lord clung to Farrah’s property claim. They had to know Farrah’s chances were slim. Her marriage to Clovis had lasted less than an hour’s time.

  He dabbed the cloth to his forehead. The rambling from the other room continued. The wall shook behind him. No doubt one of the behemoths had struck it whether by accident or through wrestling.

  He tapped his finger to his chin. His mentor had told him when one’s claim was investigated always make sure to add confusion. The more people brought in who have a legitimate right, the better. Eventually those people would give up and the swindler would be the only one standing for two reasons. One, the solicitor would tire of investigating, and the swindler would already be his friend. And two, because the other people with claims would not be able to leave their homes for as long as the one enactin
g the swindle.

  Devlin returned the cloth to his trouser pocket. The racket from the other room had settled and the six brothers sauntered into the hallway. Lucretia and Trace led them away. Devlin waited until the area cleared. He should find Farrah. He had questions that needed answering and she was the only one who could help him.

  ****

  Andrew had drawn Farrah from the room and escorted her to the dining hall. The room was empty and he summoned a maid to fetch a drink. Farrah sipped at the glass of sherry. Andrew eyed her curiously until her color returned.

  “Thank you,” she said in a whispered tone.

  She cradled the glass and he eyed her long slender fingers as they drummed the side. She chewed her lip and drew her brows together as if in fierce concentration. The desire to wipe away her concerns assailed him. He’d come as they had planned. Today he would express his interest in Farrah and fight Lord Greywold in a manner Devlin would expect, but walking into the throng of people and the ensuing chaos in the library had thrown him for a loop and he wasn’t sure what route to take.

  He knelt before her, removed the glass from her hands, and engulfed them with his own. The smooth feel of her skin set his pulse racing. His throat felt dry in light of her handsomeness and he moved his gaze above her shoulder and away from her angelic visage.

  She whispered, her eyes darting erratically. “Be careful what you say. I’m convinced our conversation is not our own.”

  He nodded. “I came as we agreed, but when I arrived the madness from the library was deafening. I had to check on you.”

  Her face flushed, and she placed a stray hair behind her ear. The action set his heart afire.

  “I’m well, but I fear your offered assistance is definitely in order.”

  He bowed his head. “I live to serve.”

  She gasped, and allowed her jaw to hang loose. He patted her clasped hands. “Perhaps we should take a stroll outdoors.”

  Before he could back away, she stood, fell forward, and knocked him from his haunches onto his backside. The force sent him sprawling across a plush rug with Farrah atop him. Her reddish hair cascaded around them. A smile teased her lips.