Where Passion Leads (Berkeley-Faulkner #1)(114)

Colin emerged from Watier’s in an hour, wearing a lazy smile. He sauntered slowly to the carriage and got in, crossing his legs at the ankle and inspecting the polish on his boots.

“I’d lay money on Mountford,” he said calmly. “He hasn’t been in for three days, and then suddenly he appeared last night with a huge wad of cash, playin’ like he was the regent himself. Someone told me that Mountford didn’t crack a smile but placed bet after bet until every farthing was gone. Peterson joked to him about it, said he figured Mountford was broke, and what do you think the reply was? ‘My comfort is waiting at home,’ Mountford said, and left as if he didn’t have a care in the world. Now, that sounds to me like he had a woman waiting for him, and I know for a fact that he isn’t married—”

“Then shut up and let’s go,” Rand suggested tersely. “Gad, you’re sounding as uppity as the earl used to.” “I’m beginning to understand him a great deal more than I ever thought possible,” Rand replied, and leaned out the window to confer with the drivers of the carriage.

Mountford did not live far from London, only a halfhour’s drive or so. Rand leaned his head back during the journey there, the silence broken only by the noise of the carriage, the horses’ hoofbeats, and the vaguely annoying, rasping sound of Colin buffing his nails. Rand breathed deeply of the air that blew through the open window, the heavy coolness of it filling his lungs. There was nothing like a misty English evening. The further they retreated from the city, the more delicate the atmosphere became, permeated with freshness and the unique scent of green hills and young heather. The very air of England helped to restore his hold on reality, to remind him who he was, and to impart a welcome feeling of familiarity. But at the same time it induced a faint sense of panic, for he felt so far away from Rosalie and the memories they had created in France that he began to wonder if they had been real at all. She had not been his in the scent of England or in the darkness of mist, she had been his among the scent of Gloire de Dijon roses, under the blue skies of Brittany, in the stillness of a hot summer’s day. He stared sightlessly at the window, remembering, savoring, needing.

Finally the carriage wheels made crackling sounds on the gravel drive up to the Mountford estate. As they stopped, Colin looked out of his side of the carriage and gave a low whistle.

“What the deuce . . . he’s worse off than I suspected,” he remarked.

Rand lifted a brow inquiringly and leapt out of the vehicle, his booted feet landing softly on the ground. The estate had indeed a dilapidated appearance, a worn, weary look that spoke of months of neglect. The Palladian front needed several repairs and a good washing. There was no sign of activity around the estate.

“I heard he had dismissed most of his servants,” Colin whispered, “except a valet and a cook.” Rand nodded, going up to the front door and using the knocker impatiently. His stomach was tight with apprehension. As there came no response, he tried the handle and found that the door opened easily.

“No one’s here,” Colin muttered. “Let’s come back tomorrow.”

“No. He’s number one on the list.” Rand walked inside and looked around curiously. There was a notable lack of ornaments and knick-knacks inside the building, a curious circumstance considering the age of the estate and the formerly conspicuous wealth of the Mountfords. The heirlooms and sundry possessions must have been sold off quietly to cover Lord Mountford’s gambling debts. “No wonder he was so popular at Watier’s,” Rand breathed cynically. “He didn’t need to bother gaming—Dieu, he should have just handed it out free.”

Colin threw him a dirty look, understanding exactly what Rand was implying.

“I don’t spend half the time at the club that he—” he began.

Suddenly Rand heard a faint noise from behind one of the closed doors nearby. Over the portal was etched a book, indicating that it was the library. Rand burst into the room, sending the door swinging crazily, and was confronted by the sight of Lord Mountford standing in front of a window with a revolver raised to his head. Tormented brown eyes met gold-green.

In that split second Mountford pulled the trigger. The explosion echoed in Rand’s mind with the sound of belt-strap thunder. He turned his head, a slight gasp escaping his lips as he saw what was splattered over the entire room. The most appalling aspect of Rand’s memory of Lord Mountford’s suicide was the emptiness inside himself. He was encased in ice, viewing the scene as dispassionately as if looking over an illustration in a book. Then he fled up the stairs, opening and slamming doors in search of any sign of Rosalie. In the last room Rand stood amid the threadbare furniture with his feet splayed apart, his hands by his sides as he bowed his head. It had been a false lead.

Mountford had never had Rosalie, he was just a poor wretch who had not been able to bear the wreck he had made of his life.

“Rose, where are you?” Rand whispered, despair settling on him like a black frost. He took a deep, heaving breath and then regained control of himself. Walking down the stairs slowly, he watched with a frozen face as Colin backed away from the library doorway.

“Oh God . . .” Colin said, wearing a revolted expression. “I’ve never seen anything so disgusting.” He pulled out a handkerchief and wiped a suddenly clammy brow, turning a pale shade of green. “Rand, I don’t want to pay calls with you anymore.”