The Wolf's Pursuit Read online

  He knocked again.

  Finally, after an eternity, the door opened just slightly. "Yes?"

  "Haverstone to see Lainhairt." This was always how it had been. Lucy's grandfather despised him and still blamed him for his favorite granddaughter's death. It did not help matters that both her parents had passed a short time after his and Lucy's marriage as well. Leaving Lucy and Eastbrook as the only two remaining relatives.

  And now, it was just Eastbrook.

  "Haverstone, you say?" the scratchy voice said from the other side of the door.

  "Live and in the flesh."

  A snort was heard from the other end. "The duke is ill and not receiving callers."

  "He will receive me." Hunter pushed the door open. "Now."

  He'd expected the usual butler. But the man looking at him was anything but the pristine butler who had worked for their family for years.

  "Who are you?"

  The man shrugged. Hair covered his entire face. His hair, the same color as Hunter's, hung down to his shoulders. A patch covered his eye, and he walked with a limp.

  "I'm speaking to you," Hunter said crisply.

  "I realize that," the man said. "But I imagine you like to hear yourself speak often. Therefore I will let you speak and give you the idea that I am listening, rather than counting down the minutes until you exit this house."

  "How dare you speak to me that way. Do you not know who I am?"

  "Oh." The man turned, this time glaring at Hunter. "I know exactly who you are, and it makes me sick. To think that poor Lucy's memory is tainted by…"

  Hunter lunged for the man. "Never speak of her!"

  The butler backed up and laughed. "Always the same. Fighting and reacting. The duke is upstairs in his usual room. And when you speak, do yourself a favor: think beforehand."

  The man hobbled off, leaving Hunter angrier than he'd been in months. How dare he speak to him in such a way! He knew nothing!

  Cursing, he stomped up the stairs and threw open the doors to his grandfather's rooms.

  The smell of medicine burned his nostrils. Shaking, he slowly walked to the bed where the Duke of Lainhart was lying.

  "C-came," the old duke blurted. His glassy eyes held unshed tears as he pointed his finger into the air.

  "Oh." A maid appeared at the old duke's side. "Pardon me, your grace. I did not hear anyone enter into the room. I'll just leave you alone now."

  She looked vaguely familiar. Then again, everything in this house seemed familiar to Hunter. He nodded in her direction as she exited, then called, "Wait, what is he saying?"

  Lainhart had one finger pointed in the air while his other hand hastily wrote across a piece of blackboard.

  The maid smiled warmly. "When he points one finger into the air, it either means yes or wait. When he turns his thumb down, it means no or that he disapproves."

  "Right."

  The maid disappeared and Hunter returned his attention to Lainhart. His finger was still thrust in the air while he concentrated on the board he was shakily writing across.

  Nothing better than being disapproved of in more than one language. Now he would have to suffer knowing that Lainhart disapproved of him in English, sign language, and of course, the written word.

  Lainhart grunted and looked up, his gray hair falling near his chin. The man had always been like a giant to Hunter. Where muscles protruded, a nightshirt pooled around the man's waist. His face was tired. Deep lines of exhaustion created a map of age across the man's face. His eyebrows drew in as he turned the blackboard toward Hunter and pointed.

  "Disappointed."

  "Me, too," Hunter agreed. "Though I imagine we are disappointed for two entirely different things. There is, er, something that needs your attention. As you know, I still work for the War Office. It seems that some of the codes you created are being broken and given to the French."

  Lainhart shook his head violently and pointed down.

  "Right. I do not have the capability to understand the codes and the three men who are suspected are ones who worked directly under you. Before you retired, was there any one of them you suspected?"

  Lainhart closed his eyes and pointed up then very slowly wrote on the chalkboard. "All."

  Hunter cursed. "All of them? You suspected all of them?"

  Lainhart nodded.

  "Why haven't you gone to anyone? Why haven't you said anything?"

  His grandfather drew a line through the word and wrote again. "Need more evidence."

  Hunter sighed. "I will find more evidence. You can count on that."

  Lainhart leaned forward and coughed. Hunter held him so he wouldn't fall from the bed, but the minute he touched him, Lainhart stopped coughing. His knobby hands pulled at Hunter's jacket, and then he turned his head slightly to the nightstand and gave a firm nod and released him.

  Hunter reached into the nightstand and pulled out a thick envelope. Evidence, it had to be. If anything, it would at least help Hunter find whom his own grandfather suspected the most.

  The old man shook his head and pointed his finger up into the air. Hunter waited patiently while Lainhart drew a line through the word and wrote again.

  This time it did not take long. He held up the board and pointed to the phrase, "Find killer."

  Hunter felt the blood drain from his face. "What killer? Of whom are you speaking?" Were they not just talking about codes a few minutes ago?

  "L-l-lucy," Lainhart ground out, his speech slurred. Sweat poured down his face as he shook his head back and forth. A tear escaped his eye. "F-f-f-inddd."

  So Lainhart had gone mad. "It was an accident. She was not murdered."

  Lainhart began yelling and thrashing his head back and forth. "N-n-no!"

  The door to the room burst open. The old butler hobbled in and began yelling. "Is your plan to kill him, then? His heart is too weak! Leave at once!"

  Hunter didn't need to be told twice. His heart twisted in his chest. How he wished that Lainhart was right, for if Lucy had been killed, that meant Hunter could do something about it now, which he couldn't.

  He nodded to the butler, and made his way down the hall and down the stairs. It wasn't until he'd almost reached the door that he remembered he'd left the large packet on Lainhart's bed. Quickly, he turned, and cursed. The butler stood just behind him.

  "His grace wanted you to have this. Please, do not return until you have good news."

  It was possible the whiskey was talking, but the butler's one eye seemed to penetrate through Hunter's soul. Strange, his eyes were familiar. Hunter leaned forward to examine the man's face further.

  "My interests lie with women, I assure you." The butler grunted and thumped Hunter on the back before leading him toward the door.

  "I wasn't, that is to say, I was just examining your face to see—" Hunter scratched his head. "What did you say your name was?"

  The butler gently pushed Hunter out onto the step. "I didn't. Now have a good day."

  Chapter Seventeen

  Wolf—

  Then allow me to make myself clear. If you were in my bedroom (and yes, I dare say bedroom again — careful not to drool) I would most likely mistake you for a hairy intruder and shoot you on the spot. Though have a care, I do not wish to see blood on my floor. Perhaps then I would just push you out the window and allow the ground to break your fall. Wolves always land on their feet. Or wait, am I getting you confused with a more intelligent species?

  —Red

  Gwen tried desperately to seem interested when Trehmont began discussing his desire to set himself apart as a gentleman of fashion.

  "For you see, French blood runs alive and true through these sturdy veins of mine. Class and fashion are in my blood, much like passion. Tell me, my dear, have you ever been with a Frenchman?" He waggled his eyebrows and laughed, though to be fair, his laugh was more of a gurgle. Apparently having a perpetual cold was another one of the things that luckily ran through his sturdy veins.

  Gwen folded
her hands tightly and tried desperately to keep herself from screaming at the infuriating man. She was here to do a job. If she must flirt in order to gain information, then at least she could know that after this horrid carriage ride, she would be able to plunge into a bath and wash the filth of this encounter away.

  "I do not believe that topic is appropriate for an afternoon ride, my lord." She patted his hand, careful not to jerk back when he grasped it between his clammy fingers.

  "Ah, but I forget, you are pure." The way he said pure made her very much doubt his intentions. Would she never be viewed as such?

  Trehmont pulled back on the reins and stopped the curricle. "Shall we walk for a spell?"

  Perhaps she could spook the horses in hopes that he would be more concerned for his curricle than her?

  He offered his hand. Why the devil wasn't he wearing gloves anyway? She could practically feel the sweat from his hand seep into her kid gloves. Disgusting.

  "Now, where were we?" Trehmont made a grand show of laughing, as if the topic of their previous conversation had been amusing or interesting. Unfortunately Hyde Park was anything but vacant. It seemed every fashionable soul was out and about, wanting to be seen.

  Just her luck, she was to be seen with the slimiest of them all.

  "Trehmont, do tell me, has this war been difficult for you? All things considering?"

  Trehmont gritted his teeth and looked away from her. "I am not sure I gain your meaning, my lady?"

  "You're half French," she stated rather boldly.

  He stopped in his tracks and after several seconds of staring at the grass looked up to meet her gaze. "My lady, the only French traits I possess are those of style and passion, I assure you."

  Which truly wasn't all that assuring, considering his present style. A blue waistcoat with yellow buttons was offset with a wildly tied orange cravat.

  And if his clothing wasn't hint enough, when he said passion and smiled, she noticed a piece of cabbage stuck in his teeth.

  Right. If he was innocent, Hunter was a virgin.

  "Now, where were we?" Trehmont tucked her arm under his and patted it, as if she were a child he had just put in her place.

  "We were discussing your French blood. I am so relieved, my lord, that you are not the type to align yourself with the French while living in the country fighting for your freedom." If he was guilty, he would at least flinch beneath her statement.

  "But of course," Trehmont said smoothly. "I do owe England everything. Besides, my mother was English."

  "Interesting. I—"

  "Lady Gwendolyn, fancy seeing you here." Hunter strolled up to them with a grim expression on his face. His eyes flickered to Trehmont's hand on Gwen's. If possible, his expression darkened even more.

  "Is it, though?" Gwen said through clenched teeth.

  "Is what?" Hunter's eyes were still trained on Trehmont's hand.

  "Fancy?"

  "Whose fancy?" Hunter's head snapped up.

  Gwen made it a point to glare at him. Perhaps he could read her body language and know he was not welcome.

  "Might I join you two for a walk?"

  Or not.

  "Of course," Trehmont answered as he pulled Gwen closer to his side.

  Hunter, clearly not getting the hint, fell into step beside them. "By the by, Trehmont, you will never guess what I heard on my way over here."

  "Hmm." Trehmont nodded to a passing couple. "And what is that?"

  "You own a small estate outside of Bath, do you not?"

  Trehmont scowled. "Not that it is any business of yours, but I own several properties, as I said the day before." This he directed at Gwen. "Rumors of my ruin are grossly exaggerated. I do quite well."

  "Oh, dear." Hunter stopped walking. "Then perhaps you should sit for a spell."

  "Sit?" Trehmont looked at Hunter as if he were going mad. "Why the devil would I sit?"

  "Your property. It seems there has been a fire, and well…" Hunter pulled out a handkerchief and wiped beneath his eyes. "Everything is lost."

  Trehmont paled. "Everything, you say?"

  Hunter nodded. "Everything. But never fear! For you said so yourself. You have plenty of property! Come into money, have you?"

  Trehmont cursed a blue streak, threw his beaver hat to the ground, and began stomping wildly around it.

  Gwen leaned in toward Hunter. "Does he believe his hat is on fire, as well?"

  Trehmont yelled again and stomped, cursing as he did so.

  "Perhaps he's finally gone mad," Hunter observed quietly.

  "All of my…" Trehmont paused.

  "Possessions?" Hunter offered. "You mean possessions, do you not? But why, if you have so much property, would you choose to store all your valuables at such a location?"

  Trehmont's face turned red. "I do not answer to you! Good day!"

  "They will kill him in prison." Hunter sighed and looked at the poor beaver hat. "Silly, but I feel sorrier for the hat."

  "Prison?" Gwen nearly shouted.

  "Hats are too beautiful not to have feelings, don't you agree, Red? I'd expect you to slap me if I ever treated my things in such a fashion."

  "Prison?" Gwen said again, this time nearer to Hunter's ear. Clearly he was having trouble hearing.

  "Hats are quite expensive. Did you know that just last week, when I was on my way to Hoby's to buy some new boots, I—"

  "Hunter!" Gwen grabbed his arm and pinched. "What the devil is wrong with you? Stop spouting nonsense about hats. Why is Trehmont going to prison?"

  "Oh. That." Hunter smiled and jerked his arm away, careful to smooth down the nonexistent wrinkles on his perfect jacket. "Seems the man has been smuggling for the past few years. But what I find interesting is that the War Office has known all along. They've used his smuggling business as a front to transfer messages back and forth during the war. Seems the money wasn't enough for Trehmont, and he started his own side business. I do wonder what the War Office will think of that."

  "Smuggling?"

  "Yes. And gaining quite a profit."

  "How did you know?"

  "I read minds," Hunter stated dryly.

  "Can you read mine now?" Gwen purposefully thought of pushing Hunter into the river.

  "Death." He choked and then laughed. "See, I told you I could read minds."

  "Aghh!" Gwen stomped her foot and lunged for him.

  He pulled her into a tight embrace and whispered in her ear, "Have a care, my dear, we are in public and we cannot look too familiar."

  "Then release me."

  Hunter sighed but did not relinquish his grip. "If I release you now, it will look like a lover's quarrel."

  "What differences does now or five minutes make?"

  Hunter whispered into her ear, his breath tickling the delicate flesh around her neck. "A lover's embrace, my dear. It must look like we are engaging in something forbidden."

  "I am ruined already. The only men who are interested are ones who smuggle and apparently keep food saved in their teeth."

  "Not all of them, Gwen." Hunter's voice was gruff as he released her and set her to rights. "Not all of them."

  He offered his arm. She took it, nearly forgetting that her maid had been following them the entire time. She motioned for her to continue behind them and allowed Hunter to lead her away from Trehmont's discarded hat.

  "How did you find out about the smuggling?"

  "I read."

  "Good for you." She scowled.

  He chuckled. "My grandfather has been collecting evidence against our three suspects for quite some time. I was reading through his notes this afternoon and came upon the smuggling bit, wanted to have a bit of fun with Trehmont and see how he reacted."

  Gwen stopped and laughed. "The grandfather who hates you?"

  Hunter growled. "Yes. From hence forward, let us refer to him as the one who hates me. Makes one feel so valued."

  "Sorry." Gwen nodded to another passing couple. "What else did the evidence say?"
r />   "Apparently, Lainhart has been doing some research of his own. He's been having Wilkins, Trehmont, Redding, and Hollins followed for the past ten years."

  "But why? And why has it been recorded? And why Wilkins?"

  "That, my dear, I believe I can answer. Lainhart invented many of the codes used for the ciphers."

  "So?"

  Hunter looked down at the ground, his shoulders slumped. "So, my dear, the only men in the world who know how to decipher the codes — the only men privy to that information — are the ones we are investigating. Surely Wilkins told you this?"

  "Th-the mole." Gwen paced in front of him. "The mole is one of the three and has been leaking top secret information to the French? Locations of units, battle plans… Am I right?"

  "Whoever said sheep weren't intelligent?"

  "Funny, I thought I was a nut."

  "Oh, silly me. I had forgotten already." Hunter winked. "And yes, you are correct in your assumptions. It is imperative that we discover who is selling this information."

  Gwen chewed her lip and nodded. It truly was up to her to discover which of the men were deciphering the codes for the French. The only way to figure it out was to either break into their homes or follow them. There was of course seduction. Many a man would tell secrets for sex, wouldn't they? But was she truly willing to give that part of herself for the greater good?

  Her thoughts troubled her as Hunter led her to his ducal carriage.

  "Tonight, we shall discuss matters in earnest, where we will not be watched. I will, of course, make my return debut at the masquerade, sweep you off your feet, and take you into a darkened corner as is my custom. And you will, of course, sigh longingly into my chest, and people will assume I am trying to seduce you. It will be the perfect ploy so we may talk." He chuckled as if what he was saying wasn't ridiculous and as if the entire world wasn't crashing down around them. Why did everything have to be laced with sarcasm? Could he never be real? And if he lacked the ability to truly be himself, how could she ever trust him?

  The carriage stopped in front of her house.

  "Mary, you may go inside and see to having a pot of tea ready for when I return. It seems his grace and I have a few things to discuss." She waited for her maid to exit the carriage and turned her full attention to Hunter. "So that is all?" Gwen said. "You refuse to explain to me what will happen to Trehmont? Why you finally decided to visit your grandfather after all these years?"