Page 69 of The Wayward Duke
The son.
Theodore Warrington.
The aristocrats targeted had all been involved in the Wyndham investigation – all part of the same group as Caroline’s father. This was personal, not profit. A vendetta decades in the making, with Warrington hunting down the men he held responsible for his family’s destruction, leaving the Wyndham heir penniless.
Julian wrenched his thoughts back to the present. “Thank you for your help, Mr Van Derlyn,” he said, folding the paper and tucking it inside his coat. “I apologise for disrupting your morning, but as you can understand, time is of the essence.”
The proprietor tugged at his cravat. “Of course, Your Grace.” He hesitated before adding, “Do pass along my regards to the duchess for a swift recovery.”
With a final brusque nod, Julian turned on his heel and left the shop, Wentworth falling into step beside him. The humid air closed over them as they emerged onto bustling Albemarle Street.
“The name is familiar from old case files before my time at the Home Office,” Wentworth said. “Wyndham went into exile with his son well over twenty years ago.”
“It explains why Kellerman emerged in society a year ago with genteel manners that belied his upbringing,” Julian murmured. “I imagine he’s been plotting for years.”
“I’ll go into the old records, find out who gave up their silence on Wyndham.”
Despite Wentworth’s assurances, frustration nagged Julian. Every minute wasted was another in which Kellerman might use to disappear into some fetid bolt-hole and plot fresh attacks.
No. Julian refused to squander another moment.
Instinct shrieked at him to tear apart London stone by stone. But the logical part of his mind understood he would make little progress without proper intelligence. He lacked Wentworth’s shadowy networks of informers and spies.
“Keep me informed of any developments,” Julian said as they halted at the street corner where their paths diverged. “I want to be included when your men locate him.”
Wentworth gave a grim nod. “You know I will. I owe the duchess a personal debt.”
With a final terse nod, Julian left Wentworth and took his carriage home. Soon, Stafford House rose before him, all pale stone and imposing columns. He took the marble steps swiftly, boots rapping out a crisp staccato.
He opened the bedroom door only to find it empty, the rumpled bedsheets glaring back at him. Stifling a spark of panic, he moved to the adjoining room, her art studio. Relief coursed through him at the sight of Caroline seated at her easel, lost in concentration as her charcoal danced over the page. Late afternoon sun bathed the room in warm golden light, catching on the pearl combs pinning back her unbound hair. She looked fragile sitting there.
“Any developments?” She spoke without turning, still wholly absorbed in her sketch.
“You’re meant to be resting,” he growled, torn between sweeping her up bodily to deposit her back in bed or kneeling at her feet to worship her.
“And you’re supposed to be telling me what you learned.” She didn’t even turn, the minx. Just kept dashing charcoal over paper. “Honestly, drawing in an armchair hardly qualifies as a strain.”
“Need I remind you that you took a bullet less than a fortnight ago? Most people lack the fortitude to brave a gunshot wound with such nonchalance.”
No, she was entirely singular. And the most troublesome creature he’d ever had the misfortune to love with his entire damn heart.
“Need I remind you that we have an assassin to catch?” She gave him a pointed look. “So, if you’ve finished clucking over my health, tell me what you discovered.”
Julian moved to stand beside her, resting a hand on her shoulder. Such delicate bones beneath his palm. Deceptive, like the steel in her spine.
“Your father was part of a group called the Scarlet League – along with the Earl of Wyndham.”
She paused her sketching. “I recall now. Wyndham gave intelligence to the Russians during the Crimean War. The earl was stripped of title and fortune and exiled in disgrace. Forced to drag his small son into impoverished obscurity.”
She took a bracing breath before continuing. “Some believed my father was part of the plot, though nothing could be proven. We left for the country to escape the scrutiny. Our limited means could not withstand the relentless gossip.”
“Wentworth will quietly investigate which aristocrats informed on Wyndham and see how many targets there are. His son, Theodore Warrington, was my age when they were exiled. Kellerman must be his alias.”
Caroline’s chin lifted, eyes flashing. “But who took the earl’s son under their wing when he returned to London to orchestrate his vengeance? Someone must have aided him, may even stand to profit from his swindles. I wonder…” She trailed off, clearly following the thread of an idea. “The landlord for Mr Kellerman’s offices must have a record of any business partners. We’ll question him.”
Julian froze. “We?” he repeated.
“Of course, we. I’m injured, not useless.”
