Page 18 of Wicked Rivals
Hugo folded the letter and pocketed it. As soon as he was home he would burn it.
“A ghost is trying to haunt me. Reach out to our man inside Lennox’s estate. Have him send reports to our agent in Lonsdale’s employ. I want them to find a way to steal back a cipher device that may be in Lady Melbourne’s possession. It looks like this.” He raised his own for Sheffield to see before returning it to his pocket. “I want Lady Melbourne’s residence searched in case she left it behind. If it is not found, find a reason for Lady Melbourne to return to London. I will be able to handle her myself.”
“I’ll see to it.” Sheffield rose, and with a casual glance about the room, he set his empty brandy glass on the table and left Boodle’s card room.
Hugo felt the weight of Kincade’s letter in his waistcoat pocket. Rosalind possessed a weapon that could destroy him, and she was about to go straight toward one of his enemies with it. But on its own it was nothing more than a trinket. A curiosity. He would find a way to stop her from finding the letters before he did.
His nerves began to steady. Having a plan of action always calmed him. But as if to betray him and remind him of his concerns, his hands shook as he set down his glass.
Damn the League of Rogues, damn them all.
*****
Brock Kincade was slumped over his escritoire in his small study at Castle Kincade. The last candle he could afford to spare was burning down to the end of its wick, the wax pooling at the base of the candleholder. Outside, the wind whistled through the tapestries and cracks in the stone and glass, filling every room with an inescapable biting wind, even in the spring.
The papers in front of him blurred together as exhaustion plagued him. But he had to stay awake in case he was needed. It seemed that the weight of the world crushed down upon him. Upstairs his father was dying, and the thought of it was leaving Brock’s life in a state of upheaval.
The study door banged open and his younger brother Brodie stood there, chest heaving as though he’d run the entire way.
“You must come. It’s time.”
Brock licked his thumb and forefinger and snuffed out the candle. He rose from his chair and followed Brodie up the winding, narrow steps to the tower where their father’s chambers were.
They came to a halt outside the room, and Brock opened the door. Their younger brother, Aiden, sat at the foot of the bed, his face ashen.
Aiden stared at the old man lying in the bed. “He’s not going to last, Brock.”
Montgomery Kincade, once a tall, broad-chested and hard man, had become frail, small, shriveled. It was an odd thing to stare at the nightmarish beast of a man who’d hurt him so many times before and see him completely helpless.
Their father could not strike them now or shout at them now. He was too weak to do more than murmur. But Brock could see the glittering malice behind the old man’s eyes as he glared at him.
“Aiden, you don’t have to stay. You can say your goodbyes now and go,” Brock said softly.
Aiden continued to stare at the feeble old man. “No. I want to stay and…” He cleared his throat. “Make sure he’s dead.”
Brock shared a surprised glance with Brodie. Aiden was the sweetest of the three of them, assuming any could be called sweet. He’d also been the one to care most for their ailing father as his health declined in the last four months.
“Stay if you want.” Brock sighed and walked over to stand beside the bed. His father’s eyes drifted from Aiden to him, no less cold, no less cruel.
“You finally have to listen to us,” Brock said. “After years of suffering pain at your hands, you cannot move, cannot speak. ’Tis fitting.”
He then folded his arms over his chest. “Know this, Father. We love you as God expects, but we have never liked you. You drove Rosalind away by your cruelty, but now you’ll never hurt her again.” His tone was soft, like a blade wrapped in a tartan.
His father’s eyes glinted with a red hue, but when he opened his mouth, only a soft hiss escaped him. The stroke he’d suffered two days before had robbed him of his ability to move except for one hand, which he tried to raise.
“Letters.” The word escaped the old man’s lips. “Must give…to Rosalind.”
“Letters? What letters?” Brodie drifted a step closer to his father as though torn between curiosity and hesitancy.
“Under…me.” Montgomery’s gaze dropped down to his lower back. Brodie lifted up the feather mattress and dug around for a minute before his hand halted. Brock watched his younger brother pull out a stack of letters, yellowed with age and bound with twine. Brodie handed them to Brock and looked back to his father.
“Must save…for Rosalind. Give them to her by…your hand.”
Brock had held back his anger for so many years, and yet seeing his father broken, but still so full of malice, infuriated him.
“What are they?” he demanded.
Montgomery shook his head, the movement so faint that Brock almost missed it in the dim light.
