Page 6 of When the Rogue Returns
He scowled.
“Mr. Manton will see you now.”
Victor turned to find Dominick Manton’s butler, Mr. Skrimshaw, standing there in a bright salmon waistcoat, blue Cossacks, and a coat so over-braided and frogged in gold that he looked like a soldier from some war of fashion. “I’m not here to see Dom,” Victorpointed out.
“‘Come, gentlemen, we sit too long on trifles.’” With that curt and curious statement, Skrimshaw headed for the stairs, clearly expecting Victor to follow.
Only then did Victor remember that Skrimshaw not only acted in the theater sometimes but had a penchant for quoting lines from plays. He wished the irritating fellow had a penchant for speaking and dressing plainly, instead. The man’s coat was an assault on the eyes. Though perhaps it was a costume. One never knew with Skrimshaw.
When the butler ushered him into Dom’s study, Victor relaxed to find both Dom and Tristan waiting for him. Whenever he saw the two half brothers together, he was struck by the family resemblance. Both men had ink-black hair, though Tristan’s was longish and wildly curly, while Dom’s was cropped shorter than was fashionable. Tristan’s eyes were blue and Dom’s green, but they were of the same shape and size. And both men had the sort of lean attractiveness that made women blush and stammer whenever either entered a room.
That was where the resemblance ended, however, for Tristan liked a good joke, a fine glass of brandy, and as many pretty females as he could tumble without compromising his work as an investigator.
Dom liked work and naught else. The man meant to make Manton’s Investigations a force to be reckoned with. Apparently jokes, brandy, and pretty females were unacceptable distractions.
So it was no surprise when Tristan was the one who came forward to clap a hand on Victor’s shoulder. “How are you, old chap? It’s been a few weeks, hasn’t it?”
“A few.” Victor shot a glance at Dom, who remained seated. The man’s expression gave nothing away.
He wished Dom weren’t here, too. That might make this very awkward.
“Sit, sit,” Tristan said as he leaned against the desk with arms crossed. “Tell us why you’ve come.”
With a sigh, Victor settled into a chair. In for a penny, in for a pound. “It’s simple, really. I was hoping you might take me on as an investigator.” When both men looked surprised, he went on hastily, “You won’t have to pay me, just cover my expenses. Max gives me an ample allowance. But I need something to do.”
He’d spent enough time playing the role expected of him as Max’s long-lost cousin. He had to get back into the world of investigations. To start looking for his betraying wife again.
Tristan exchanged a glance with his older brother. “Tired of the ducal life already, are you?”
“Let’s just say that nobody warned me what it would entail. I’ve done naught but attend dinners and parties and balls where I’m bombarded with questions about my life abroad, none of which I can answer without bringing down scandal on the house of Lyons.” Victor shifted in the small chair. “And when people aren’t interrogating me, they’re talking about fashion or who placed the latest wager in White’s betting book. Or, worst of all, about whether waltzes really are morally reprehensible.”
“What, you don’t have an opinion about the moral implications of the waltz?” Tristan quipped. “I’m stunned.”
“I don’t like dancing,” Victor grumbled. Especially since he didn’t know how. Though one of these days he probably should learn.
“I loathe dancing myself,” Dom put in, “but it’s the primary way to meet ladies in good society.”
“Victor doesn’t need to meet ladies,” Tristan said dryly. “They throw themselves at him. Always did. And he always ignored them. Of course, now that he’s the duke’s first cousin once removed, he’s eminently more eligible.”
Except for the fact that he was already married—though no one knew that. No one couldeverknow that.
He tensed as an image of Isa leapt into his mind, young and sweet and adoring. But it had all been an act. She’d been setting him up for betrayal from the beginning, her and her scurrilous family.
After all these years, he could still hear his inquisitors in the Amsterdam gaol.She used you, you besotted arse! Yet you protect her.
He had... at first. He’d remained silent throughout his ordeal, thinking that she couldn’t have been part of it. It had taken him years to admit to himself that she must have been.
So now he searched for her wherever and whenever he could. He’d suspended the search when he’d come to London, in hopes that finding his English family might enable him to forget her and make a new life for himself.
Except that he couldn’t. The injustice of what she’d done ate at him. He had to find her. Heneededto find her. He told himself it was because he didn’t want his past with her coming up to harm his cousin unexpectedly, but deep down he knew that was a lie. Finding her was the only way to get some peace. Because she still, after all these years, plagued his dreams.
He gritted his teeth. It was all the fault of the damned duke and his new duchess, with their billing and cooing. Max and Lisette were so deeply in love that doves probably roosted in the canopy over their bed. Victor was truly happy for his cousin, but sometimes envy choked him.
Envy? Ridiculous. The only thing he envied was that their life was settled and his wasn’t. If he didn’t find Isa, he’d be tied to her until he died. He should probably divorce her—the Dutch laws were more lax than the English ones—but he refused to set her free when he was still enslaved to her memory. Besides, he wanted to retain the power of a husband over his recalcitrant wife for when he found her. He wanted to be the one to bring her to justice.
The snide voices of the past intruded on his memories:Tell the truth—it was your wife who made the imitations, who stole the real diamonds.
His inquisitors had probably been right, damn them. And he would make her pay for it, by God, if it took him a lifetime to do so.
