After Peter’s death, the home secretary had sent men from London to try to find his murderer, but they had drawn a blank. Lord Sidmouth was certain that the case was connected to the illegal trade in whisky distilling with which the Highlands were rife. It was his contention that Peter had inadvertently stumbled over the notorious Kilmory smuggling gang and had been killed to ensure his silence. Lucas had no reason to doubt the home secretary’s assessment and he had a burning desire to avenge himself on the gang of thugs who had taken Peter’s life.
“I know it’s a long shot,” he said, “but maybe I can discover something that those fools from London could not. If the whisky smugglers were responsible for Peter’s death, then I have a better chance of learning of it than Sidmouth’s men had, and to do that I cannot approach Kilmory openly.” He fixed his gaze on the fire. It burned low in the grate, filling the room with heat and light. Yet Lucas felt cold inside. He could not remember the last time he had felt warm, could not remember if he had ever felt warm, not inside, where it mattered.
He was the illegitimate son of a Scottish laird and a Russian princess, the product of a night of youthful passion when his father had been traveling through Russia. His birth had scandalized Russian society and disgraced his mother. She had made an unhappy dynastic marriage five years later to a man who had been prepared to overlook her sullied reputation because he was dazzled by her dowry.
Lucas had gone with his mother when she had married, but he had been a changeling, unwelcome in his stepfather’s house, keenly aware of the difference between him and other children. His grandfather had asked Czarina Catherine to legitimize him, but that had made matters worse rather than better. His cousins and his stepfather still called him a bastard; his mother still had such grief and shame in her eyes when she looked at him. Peter had been the only one unaware of the dark shadow cast by Lucas’s existence. He was little more than a baby, open, trusting and loving.
His little brother, his life snuffed out by a stranger in a strange land. The coldness swept through him again and with it an ice-cold determination to discover the truth.
“Peter deserves justice,” he repeated. “I can’t just let it go, Jack. He was the only family I had left.”
“No, he was not,” Jack corrected. “Stop feeling sorry for yourself. What about your aunt?”
Lucas smiled reluctantly. “All right, I’ll give you that.” His father’s sister was a force of nature. She had come into his life when he was living rough on the streets of Edinburgh. Even though he had told her to leave him alone, she had refused to abandon him. He had been a sullen, ungrateful youth, eaten up with bitterness of his father’s family, but she had driven a coach and horses through his resentment. She had forced him to pull himself up out of the gutter and he loved her fiercely for it. She was the only woman he did love, the only one he could imagine loving.
There was silence in the room. “You never speak of your father,” Jack said after a moment.
Lucas shrugged. There was discomfort in it. He could feel the tension knotting his shoulders again. “There’s nothing to say about him.”
“He left you his estate at the Black Strath,” Jack said. “That must count for something.”
To Lucas, it counted for absolutely nothing. He could feel the anger and hatred stir within him. These days he seemed to be angry all the time: angry that Peter had died, angry that no one had been brought to justice for it, angry that no one really cared. Jack was right; he knew that Lord Sidmouth was using him. Sidmouth wanted to bring an end to the whisky-smuggling gangs who ran rings around his excise officers. He wanted the members identified and jailed. Peter’s death was a convenient means by which to engage Lucas’s help. But that did not matter if they both got what they wanted.
“I’ve always wondered why your mother waited so long to tell you about your inheritance,” Jack said. “Your father died when you were only a baby.”
“I think she was afraid,” Lucas said slowly. He could still remember the clutch of his mother’s fingers, clammy and cold, and see the desperation in her eyes.
Don’t blame your father, his mother had said. He was a good man. I loved him.
But Lucas had blamed Niall Sutherland. He had never forgiven his father for abandoning his mother, for his cowardice and weakness. Their romance had been secret, her pregnancy only discovered months after Sutherland had left. Although Princess Irina had written to tell him, he had never returned to Russia. Lucas felt nothing but contempt for him for condemning Irina to the shame and stigma of bearing an illegitimate child, and Lucas to the endless taunts and mockery that went with bastardy. If he had anything to be grateful to his father for, it was that his example had taught Lucas to be the opposite of him: hard, ruthless and strong.
Jack was watching him. Lucas took a mouthful of brandy. It tasted bitter and he put the glass down abruptly.
“She was unhappy,” he said. “I think she was afraid I would leave her and go to Scotland to claim my inheritance. Even as a child I was headstrong.” He smiled ruefully. “She was wrong, of course. I would never have left her.”
“But you went when she died,” Jack said.
“There was nothing to keep me in Russia then.” Lucas crossed to the fireplace, tossing a couple of logs onto the glowing embers. There was a hiss and a flare of flame. “My stepfather had me horsewhipped from the house on the day she died.” He kept his voice level, even though in his memory he could still feel the bite of the whip through the thin material of his shirt, hear the sound as it ripped, feel the sting across his back. His chest felt tight as he remembered the black panic as the thongs snaked about his neck, choking him. He had fled to Scotland only to find that the trustees of his father’s estate were unimpressed by a fifteen-year-old boy who had no means of proving his claim.
He shook his head sharply to dispel the memories of the past. His aunt had ensured that he received his estate, but he was no laird; he had rented out the Black Strath ever since he had come into his inheritance. His interest was in business, not the land.
“Peter hero-worshipped you,” Jack said. “Evidently his father was unable to poison his mind against you.”
Lucas smiled reluctantly. “Peter had a loving spirit,” he said. “He was like our mother.”
Jack nodded. “I understand.” He corrected himself. “That is, I understand that you feel the need to bring his murderer to justice.” He let out his breath on a long sigh. “You will make a spectacularly poor footman, by the way.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Lucas said. “I can work hard.”
“You can’t take orders,” Jack said, draining his glass. “You are accustomed to giving them.”
“You don’t think that I fit the advertisement?” Lucas sat, and tapped the newspaper that was folded on the table in front of them. He read aloud, “‘Footman required at Kilmory Castle. Must be diligent, reliable, well trained and deferential.’”
“You are an impressive fail on almost all counts,” Jack said.
Lucas laughed. “I won’t get you to write my references, then.” He picked up one of the playing cards, toying with it, turning it idly between his fingers.
“Tell me more about the household,” he said. “So that I am prepared.”
“I’ve never been to Kilmory,” Jack said, “but I understand it to be a fourteenth-century castle that has no proper plumbing or heating, so it is probably as uncomfortable as hell. The duke prefers it, though.” He shrugged. “He always gets his own way.”
“Do any of the family live with the duke at Kilmory?” Lucas asked. He knew that some of the MacMorlan clan had been there when Peter had died. Sidmouth had told him.
“There’s a houseful at the moment,” Jack said. He ticked them off on his fingers.