“Order!” One of the judges banged the gavel. “The bench acknowledges the Marquess of Sutherhorne. Even though you meant it as a jest, we will take the coin tendered.” The judge ordered the bailiff to gather up the offering. “Baron Durning, are you able to pay the outstanding amount?”
“No…my lord,” he muttered, looking down at his shoes.
“It is the judgment of this court that you be taken to Queen’s Prison in Southwark immediately, and remain there until such time you can meet your debt in full. Next case.”
“Debtor’s prison, as we surmised. Well, some justice at any rate. We should take our leave,” Garrett suggested.
They headed for the exit, but were blocked by the marquess placing his silver cane across the doorjamb. “Satisfied by the verdict?” he sniffed. “Had to see for yourself the man’s downfall?”
God, this man made Garrett’s blood boil. “As did you. And no, we are not satisfied. You are still free from the guilty verdict you so richly deserve,” he growled. “Remove your cane or I will…”
“What? Assault me once again? Here, in a room full of witnesses, including judges? Knowing of your animal urges it would not take much to provoke you to a response. Your temperamental Scottish blood will lead to your ruin.” Sutherhorne gave him a slimy smile of contempt.
Garrett’s fury bubbled to the surface, but he fought showing it outright. Be damned if he would allow this sorry excuse of a peer to goad him. “Remove the cane, or I will snap it in two, and do the same to you, as I promised. Remember?” Garrett’s voice was low, the tone deadly.
“Ah, a decided threat. Did you hear him, Delaney?” he said to his brute. Delaney, an indifferent expression on his face, replied with a brisk nod. They were attracting attention. Sutherhorne, at last, moved his cane. “We will meet again, and then we will see who snaps whom in two. Good day, gentlemen.”
Garrett pushed his way through the door, and Riordan followed until they stood outside on the cobbles. Hell, Sutherhorne could rile him. The family had made a true enemy of the marquess.
“You’re correct, Garrett. He’s a soulless cretin. I detected the hate in his eyes—and the desire for revenge.” Riordan blew out a cleansing breath. “Shall we head for Wollstonecraft Hall?”
“I have further business. Since you have to take up your schoolmaster position once again in Carrbury, head home to Sabrina. Tell Da I’ll return by the end of the week.”
“Very well.” His nephew hesitated, then met his gaze. “Thank you for all that you’ve done, not only in assisting me these past several months, but our entire lives. You are the rugged stone on which our family’s foundation is built. The mortar that holds us together. We all feel this way. I wish more than anything for you to find love and happiness as I have. If anyone deserves it, it is you.”
After the men went their separate ways, Garrett relaxed in the inn’s common room, sipping a tumbler of scotch. Riordan’s generous and heartfelt words still reverberated in his mind. It humbled him to know that his family thought well of him.
Strange lot, the Wollstonecraft men. Once touched by tragedy, they did not give their hearts easily. Happiness? Love? Garrett decided early on to lock his heart and toss the key. It had only been engaged once. So long ago it was if it had happened in a dream. Her name formed on his lips, begging to be spoken aloud, but it remained a quiet whisper. Abbie.
Never again. Frowning briefly, he pushed the memories away, as he often did.
He was better off alone.
Chapter 1
Two days later
Whitechapel, London
A curse could be a damnable weight to carry, but Garrett reasoned he had shoulders broad enough to handle the burden. How does a curse come about? Did a medieval witch cast it on the ancient Wollstonecrafts for an imagined slight, or was the sixteenth century Earl of Carnstone born under a black moon, passing the curse down through the generations?
Every man born through this particular bloodline of Wollstonecrafts suffered incredible tragedies. Women in the family, either born or wedded into it, did not live long. Didn’t matter how many times the man remarried.
Why such darkness hung over his family remained a complete conundrum. After all, they had dedicated their lives to progressive causes and the plight of the poor, especially his father and brother in parliament. It should count for something. Yet sitting here in Edwin Seward’s office in Whitechapel, Garrett wondered if the curse moved beyond romantic attachments to include other aspects of the Wollstonecraft men’s lives. There was no better example than his brother Julian’s oldest, Aidan.
His nephew had been missing for close to four months, as if he’d fallen off the edge of the earth. Since he was only six years older than his paternal twin nephews, Aidan and Riordan, they all were more like brothers. They shared a close bond, as did all the men in the family, but none like the one he shared with the twins.
Riordan was happily settled, and though Garrett had tried to make him see sense regarding the curse, he would have none of it. He was deeply in love. No talk of an ancient curse had deterred him from Sabrina. Well, it was his decision. Garrett could only wish them the best.
He turned his attention back to Aidan, the main reason he’d remained in London. The reason he hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep in weeks. For more than a year, Aidan had been wallowing in the seamy underbellies of London and Bath by sinking into even darker, more debauched depths. Despite his vices, he’d kept in touch. Returned home every month without fail. Well, until last September, that was. Shortly thereafter, the contact ended.
Garrett had hired an ex-Bow Street Runner, Edwin Seward, and finally the investigation bore fruit. Garrett decided to keep the information to himself until he had a chance to probe into the particulars.
At that moment, Edwin strode into the room, a thick folder clutched in his beefy hand. The man was nearly as tall as Garrett’s own imposing six-foot-five frame. An aura of danger followed Seward, and the jagged scar running down the left side of his face added to the implied menace.
“Edwin.”
“Garrett.” He sat with a huff, slamming the folder in front of him. “Where would you like me to start?”
“Where is Aidan?”
Edwin opened the folder. “As of last night, he is living in a rookery in St. Giles, a doss-house on Petticoat Lane.”
“Jesus.” St. Giles was one of the worst slums in London. Even the coppers loathed to enter it because of its maze of hovels and alleyways. Overcrowding, squalor, and the resultant stench, along with a generous helping of disease, completed the bleak picture.
“We’re friends, correct?” Edwin asked.
They’d known each other for years, originally met in Scotland one summer. Both were half Scottish and visiting relatives, so they gravitated toward each other and kept up a correspondence through the years. When Garrett ventured to London, they would meet and share a pint. “Absolutely.”
“Why are you taking this burden on yourself? Why haven’t you told your brother, Julian? Your father, the earl? Or Aidan’s brother, Riordan? Wasn’t he here in London with you? If I’ve overstepped the bounds, tell me.”
A fair question. “No, not overstepping. Guilt perhaps? Aidan’s decline was slow, over a period of years, and instead of reaching out and trying to discover why he behaved in such a manner, I became disgusted and ignored him. We all did. I turned away when he needed me most, and because of it, didn’t hear his cry for help under all the arrogance.”