While the Duke Was Sleeping (The Rogue Files #1)(24)

“He will wake.”

He stared at her for a long moment. “I don’t know why, but I believe you. Despite what the physician says. Foolish, perhaps, but I do.”

“You have to believe it.” Somehow, in her mind, his recovery was linked to this—to the fact that none of them gave up on him.

“Now.” He clapped his hands lightly and rubbed them briskly. “We’re in accord. No disappointing the dowager or the others with unwanted confessions?”

It was perplexing to think that the truth could cause more harm than good. “Very well,” she agreed. “When His Grace awakes we shall confess everything.”

He beamed. “Very good, Miss Fairchurch. You’ll see. This will be for the best.”

“What of the duke’s brother?” The man was never far from her thoughts. “He doesn’t believe me. He practically said as much to my face.”

“Mackenzie?” He chuckled lightly. “No, he wouldn’t. He’s one surly scoundrel.”

“He doesn’t like me.”

Lord Strickland chuckled even harder at that. “Don’t take it to heart. I’m not sure the man likes anyone. He doesn’t seek the good in people. It’s not in his temperament to do so, and I suppose with his upbringing, or lack thereof, it should not be expected of him.”

As intrigued as she was at the reference to Struan Mackenzie’s upbringing, she resisted inquiring more about him. She shouldn’t want to know more about him. Her only thought should be for the duke.

“He’s a wretch.” If her words sounded sulky, she hoped Lord Strickland would not notice. She crossed her arms over her chest in a huff. “Did you know Mr. Mackenzie was fighting with His Grace before the accident? They were brawling in the streets like a pair of ruffians.” She deliberately failed to mention that Autenberry had thrown the first punch.

Lord Strickland shook his head. “Well, to be fair, Marcus has been obstinate when it comes to his half brother. He hasn’t exactly thrown open his arms in brotherly love and acceptance.”

She sniffed, not to be dissuaded in her dislike of the man. She would not feel sorry for the wretch. “Have you met Struan Mackenzie? I’m certain he deserves some of Marcus’s aversion. I’ve not met a more unpleasant individual in all my days—”

“Fret not, Miss Fairchurch. I’ll handle him.”

She chafed her hands up and down her arms, feeling unaccountably cold and not the least reassured. She somehow doubted the agreeable Lord Strickland would be able to discourage the offensive lout from sneering at her and proclaiming her a liar. She’d rather stick pins in her eyes than endure another confrontation with him.

If she was to maintain this farce, another encounter with Struan Mackenzie seemed probable.

But endure it she would.





Chapter 9




He couldn’t sleep.

Struan told himself it was not because he was worried about a brother who didn’t want him, a brother who would just as soon plant his fist in his face than greet him on the streets of London. He told himself it was not because of the words some prickly shopgirl had flung at him, blaming him for Autenberry lying unconscious on his bed.

It was neither of those reasons. Neither one should matter to him. Neither reason should prompt him to rise and dress. They shouldn’t guide him from his bedchamber in the middle of the night and out of the comfort of his house and across town to Mayfair.

He’d avoided paying a call throughout the day, but somehow with the fall of night, without the business of day to blind and distract him, he couldn’t stay away.

Standing in front of Autenberry’s town house, he paused, burrowing his hands into his pockets. It was cold but he was accustomed to that. He’d spent many a winter night sleeping in a Glasgow alleyway after his mother died. He knew cold. And pain. And suffering.

Why are you even here? Don’t you have anything better to do than go to places where you are not wanted?

The answer smacked him solidly in the face as a sleepy-eyed groom granted him admittance and led him upstairs—the dowager’s warm reception of him earlier guaranteed his ready admission into the house. His father had never claimed him. Nor had his brother. And yet the Dowager Duchess of Autenberry treated him like the prodigal son returned.

The groom left him and he stood just inside the opulent bedchamber, gazing across the stretch of space to the still and silent figure in the bed. Apparently no. He did not have anything better to do. That was the only explanation he could give himself as he stood inside his half brother’s bedchamber.

Miss Fairchild’s accusing eyes flashed in his mind. Damn her. Was she correct? Could he have said or done something differently? Something that wouldn’t have prompted his brother into attacking him on the streets and ultimately ending up in the path of that coach?

He moved closer, stopping at the foot of the colossal bed. His brother was only a year older, but staring down at his pale and relaxed features, he looked far younger.

Marcus had everything Struan never had. A roof over his head—roofs. All the food he wanted. Servants. More clothes than he could ever possibly wear. And their father. More precisely, the love of their father.

He glanced around the elegant chamber before his gaze returned to the sleeping duke. He had the life he’d desperately craved as a boy.