The Wolf's Pursuit (London Fairy Tales #3)(38)

But that was how the old Duke of Lainhart wanted it. Grumpy old man. Hunter paced in front of the gate for ten minutes before pulling out his flask and taking a sip of brandy.

He never drank in the mornings.

Since when had he resorted to drinking when he was to face the old man? He needed to face him sooner or later, especially considering Wilkins had just that morning sent him a note stating it was imperative he ask Lainhart about the three gentlemen they were investigating, considering at one point they had all worked for him.

If Lainhart still possessed all his sensibilities and was not half the man he used to be, he would be the best the War Office had as far as codes were concerned. It seemed that all the French did was try to break the codes of the English in hopes to discover where troops were stationed or how many English were truly hurt in the war. With the war looming like a dark cloud over all of England, it was a sure tragedy that one of their own was not only breaking the codes but gaining a profit from treason. Hunter sighed heavily and pulled out his pocket watch.It was still early. But then again, he was never late. He had dallied for as long as he could.

He walked slowly up the stairs and grasped the cold knocker between his fingers. Suddenly he was transported back to when he had first come to call.

"Hunter!" Lucy ran out of the house and into his arms. Much to the dismay of her parents and their stern butler. She always made a spectacle of herself.

"My love." Hunter grinned and set her on her feet. "I have come to call, as you demanded at last night's ball."

"Rogue." She swatted him. "I did not demand. I merely asked if you would be happening by during the visiting hours."

"That you did." He grinned and kissed her hand. So began their quick courtship.

He shivered beneath the wet air and waited for the butler to answer.

Nothing.

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.