A Duke in the Night(14)
Duncan eyed him circumspectly. “The earl is in reduced health, Your Grace. Has been since the death of his son at Waterloo.”
“I thought Eli Dawes was missing.”
“And presumed dead, given how much time has passed since Waterloo.” Duncan shrugged. “Regardless, the earl rarely attends any—”
“Never mind. I’ll go to his Lordship.” August was already striding toward the door.
“Now, Your Grace? At this hour?”
“Now,” August confirmed. He was of no mind to wait. “And while I am there, please see to the travel arrangements. I’ll be departing to Dover first thing on the morrow.”
Chapter 4
August had chosen to ride as opposed to taking a carriage.
Not that it got him to Dover much faster, but at the very least, it gave him the illusion of action and control. Riding his own horse had held much more appeal than sitting idle, trapped in a stuffy equipage for hours on end. Though now, as he neared the end of his journey, faint wisps of smoke rising on the horizon to mark the town of Dover, he wondered if perhaps he had been hasty in his decision. He was hungry and weary and dusty and very much looking forward to parting ways with his saddle.
August was quite sure his gelding felt the same.
He reined the animal off the main road, guiding the horse down a worn, rutted cart path that would skirt the town proper. He’d taken this route before, and while it was treacherous for carriage axles, the shortcut would save him almost a mile. He urged his gelding into a reluctant trot. Up ahead, a thick copse of trees rolled down from the crest of a ridge, the leaves fluttering in the early-evening breeze. Once he was on the other side of that ridge, the town would come into view, nestled in its cradle of hills and bordered by the sea. Beyond that, the hulking mass of Dover Castle would be visible on the high cliffs. And somewhere past that, Avondale.
Where August would deal with his wayward, conniving sister and her beautiful, devious headmistress. And then turn his attention to the very real opportunity that dangled, for the moment, just beyond his reach.
The journey here had given August time to think and develop a tentative plan. He had spent more than fifteen years accumulating his fortune through careful and diverse acquisitions. Most everything he bought had been the victim of ineptitude and mismanagement, and occasionally corruption, though Strathmore Shipping seemed more a casualty of bad luck. Change was coming, and those titled, pompous peers who believed themselves insulated from the world would one day find themselves on the wrong end of that change. The late Baron Strathmore seemed to have recognized that. He’d failed in the end, but that failure was not irreversible. Not in the hands of someone with the right experience. Like August.
What if he could make it possible for the current baron to concentrate solely on his medical practice? Even with August’s limited knowledge of the baron, he realized doctoring was something Strathmore was committed to and passionate about, given his battlefield experience and the fact that he still practiced. If August could purchase Strathmore Shipping for a fair price, relieving the baron of the grueling responsibility of resurrecting a company with limited means, Strathmore would be free to pursue his first love. And, of course, it would enable the baron to provide handsomely for his sisters at the same time.
It would make everybody happy.
The wide copse of trees and brush in front of August had become a portrait of gilded foliage as the sun began its descent, a low fence running just to the north creating shadows the color of dark amethyst across the tall grasses. The sky was now awash in brilliant, almost blinding color, dotted with crimson-and topaz-lined clouds. August reined his horse to a stop, for a moment simply overwhelmed by the sheer beauty of his surroundings and trying to remember the last time he had actually taken the time to notice a sunset.
He twisted in the saddle, letting his eyes roam over the ocean that he could see stretching out from the far cliffs behind him. So much space, he thought idly. Not at all like London, where roofs and buildings and clouds of coal smoke blocked the sky. Where the noises of the city never stopped, the constant clatter and din and—
His horse shied at the same time August registered the deafening report that shattered the silence. A flock of birds rose from the trees and wheeled away in fright. He managed to keep his seat as his gelding crow-hopped in panic, its ears pinned, its hindquarters bunched beneath him. Bloody hell. Someone was shooting, though August couldn’t tell where the shot had come from.
He wrenched the reins, managing to collect the horse, just as something exploded from the trees. No, he realized, not something. Someone. A boy. A mere child, one who couldn’t be more than seven or eight years old. Running directly toward him as if the hounds of hell were on his tail, clutching something in a small burlap sack as though his life depended on it.
For a horrible, gut-wrenching moment, August was transported back in time. He had been that boy, maybe a little older, but still running for his life, clutching what he had begged, borrowed, or stolen. Willing to risk everything so that he might keep his family alive for another day.
The gelding snorted. The boy’s head snapped up, and he almost stumbled, and August realized that in his flight, against the blinding sunset, the child probably hadn’t even seen him. From somewhere on the other side of the trees, a rumble was growing, like the distant sound of thunder. Or the pounding of many, many hooves, punctuated by more gunshots. Without thinking what he was doing, August reached down and grabbed a fistful of the child’s ragged coat, hauling him up into the saddle. The boy started to struggle.