Where Passion Leads (Berkeley-Faulkner #1)(112)

“Lord Berkeley? Come in. . . . Is something amiss?”

“Brummell’s daughter has been kidnapped,” Rand said bluntly, striding into the room. “Because of his loose tongue. And after I find out what I need to know from him, I’m going to make certain that he never speaks again.” From any other man in any other type of condition, Selegue might have considered the words to be an exaggeration of intention. However, Randall Berkeley looked completely serious, a fact which caused Brummell’s valet no small amount of alarm.

“He did not mean to let the secret out,” Selegue said, his voice trembling. “Having some small knowledge of Brummell, sir, you can understand what it was like for him, of all men, to discover that he had sired a daughter. A daughter who looks so much like the only woman he ever loved that he—”

“Love,” Rand repeated, making the word sound like a profanity. “Comparing his kind of love with the real emotion is like measuring a glass of water against the sea. Small. Diluted. Useless. I do not hold his abandonment of the woman he loved against him, for that has little to do with me. But exchanging his daughter’s safety for the sake of a few manly boasts—that I do hold against him, for his carelessness has served to take away from me the one thing that I value. Where is he?”

“He is indisposed, sir. He is lying in the next room, exhausted and near delirious.”

Rand laughed dryly. It was not a cheerful sound. “A sudden illness?” he inquired. “Begun about five minutes ago, perhaps?”

“Sir, please . . . he is genuinely ill. Take a closer look at our surroundings. We have had to rely on the kindness of benevolent foreigners in order to secure the basic necessities. We have not enough coal for fire, not enough food to eat, much less the articles needed to preserve human dignity, such as soap and fresh linen.”

Selegue paused before adding softly, “And it all started after he let out the secret about Rosalie Bel-leau.” From the way Selegue spoke, Rand knew that the valet was aware that it had all been his doing.

“I warned him,” Rand replied, shrugging indifferently.

“He is shrunken away to a shadow of what he was!” Selegue cried.

“Then let us hope his pride and foolish vanity have shrunk as well.”

The valet was stricken by Rand’s cool words. “I had figured you for a better man than this,” he finally managed to say. “Have you no pity or kindness? No compassion?”

“Pity, kindness, and compassion,” Rand replied slowly, “are the nobler elements of man’s nature, serving to balance the other half—spite, cruelty, callousness. It is unfortunate”—he suddenly smiled tigerishy—”that my better half has been stolen away from me, for now I find there is nothing to check the baser part of my nature.”

“What do you want?” Selegue whispered, bowing his head and clasping his trembling fingers. The sight should have moved Rand, but it did not. Something had gone dead inside him, and it would not be reawakened until he had Rosalie back.

“I want two lists,” he said grimly. “One of every man and woman he may have told about Rosalie Belleau since I was last here. Second, an accounting of every creditor Brummell has in London, whether he owes someone a small fortune or a box of snuff.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And I want the lists tomorrow morning at seven o’clock, because I’m leaving for England. You’d better wake him up now and put your heads together. I don’t care if that’s his deathbed—I’ll follow him to hell and drag him back if I have to.”

“Yes, sir.”

Rand turned and left without a good-bye, his mouth tightly set.

Colin Berkeley idly turned the pages of an accounting book, marking off his debts with a goose-quill pen. He sat in the library, having avoided his grandfather’s empty chair in lieu of a less comfortable but far more preferable one. He did not envy the duties that lay in store for his brother, Rand, for although the money and the power were attractive, the accompanying responsibilities were not. Colin sighed, closing the book gently. A profitable night of gaming had reversed his run of bad fortune, enabling him to settle all outstanding debts, but he found none of the satisfaction that he had anticipated from the prospect of beginning his established cycle anew. He was tired of landing himself into debt and hauling himself out repeatedly. For the first time he seriously contemplated the alternatives. Wasn’t there some other way for him to live? Was there any streak of respectability in him that would allow him to lead a less reprehensible life?

“A streak of respectability,” he murmured, running a hand through his blond hair distractedly, a gesture quite unusual for the appearance-eonscious Colin. “From which side of the family would it have come, I wonder.” His emerald-green eyes were weary, his face etched with grief. He had not expected the earl’s death to take such a toll on him. One corner of his mouth curled upward as he thought of his grandfather, the old sinner . . . just an older, peppery version of Colin and Rand, with a bit more common sense.

“Colin,” a husky voice came from the doorway, and he jumped slightly.

“What? Oh, God, Rand it’s you . . . you’re back! Damn my eyes, I don’t mind sayin’ I’m glad you’re back, but don’t sneak up on someone that way . . . thought it was my conscience speakin’. ”