To Catch a Flame Read online

  The elderly solicitor had handled the Ravensmoor affairs since before Griffin was born. He had been friend, confidant, and family mainstay. Never had Griffin suspected that the kind old man would also be a harbinger of doom.

  Now in his study, Griff stared into Septimus Howell's myopic eyes in disbelief as his fingers ripped loose a neckcloth that suddenly seemed tight.

  "Why?" Griff asked, his hand crumpling the edge of the parchment upon which the older man had just scribbled. "Why would William take such ruinous sums of money from Ravensmoor estates? And then mark them with these infernal vague notations in the ledgers that are bloody worse than nothing? 'Miscellaneous.'" Griff jabbed a finger at William's notation. "What the blazes does that mean? It is insane. Blasted impossible."

  "I'm sorry to say that it is quite possible, your lordship. I know how difficult all this is for you." Howell shook his head, jowls wobbling with regret. "God knows I've prayed for your return often enough. I had hoped that you and your brother would make your peace. But now, coming home to this..." Howell raised his hands palms-up in a gesture of hopelessness. "I swear to you, Master Griffin, I tried to be the most responsible of solicitors—did all that I could to sway his grace from this path."

  "You should have chained him to his chair until he came to his damned senses! William slaved his whole life over these accounts. Suffered over them. I cannot believe that he would squander so much of his fortune. If you had only—"

  "Only tendered my resignation before I cast the Ravensmoor fortunes to the winds?" Howell stiffened his slumping shoulders. "Your grandmother, the dowager duchess, offered that same opinion after his grace died. And the young duke could not wait to be quit of me. I only awaited your arrival. Thought that you"—the gravelly voice cracked, "you might have need of me. I see that I was mistaken. If you'll excuse me, your lordship, I'll not encumber you with my presence any longer."

  There was an air of defeat in Howell's lined face. In an instant all anger and frustration drained from Griffin, leaving him heartily ashamed. "Howell, wait," he called softly. "Please. It's been the devil of a day, and I fear my temper is foul as it ever was."

  Seconds ticked by before the solicitor spoke in a gruff voice. "I suppose I should be grateful I am not saddled with a title, else I'd be compelled to challenge you to a duel for slighting my honor. And despite the muddle the world is in at present, I'm not yet ready to abandon it."

  His attempt at humor touched Griffin as nothing else could have. "Your integrity was never in question, Mr. Howell." Griffin spoke with a rare solemnity. "No one knows better than I how much the Stones owe you. It is just that this seems like such madness." Griff swept his hand over the accounts spread before him. "Prudent William mortgaging estates. Huge discrepancies in his record keeping. I don't understand."

  The solicitor's rheumy gaze brimmed with compassion. "It is difficult to make sense of it, I know," Howell said. "His grace—you remember how exacting he was, how precise. From the time he was a stripling everything regarding the dukedom was his highest priority. I never thought to see that change."

  "But it did?"

  "When one's son is taken up in a sponging house for gaming debts, a father as loving as William Stone is scarce likely to let the boy rot there—no matter how foolhardy the youth has been."

  "Gaming debts? William bled the estates dry over Charles's gaming debts? I doubt one boy could have caused so much damage."

  The solicitor's lips thinned. "I fear Master Charles has little understanding of the value of coin, your lordship. And the company he keeps has only made a difficult circumstance worse. The Marquess of Valmont—"

  Griffin’s lip curled in distaste. "I don't give a damn if the idiot has been trailing about upon Satan's own coattails! It is still no excuse for such idiocy. Valmont could hardly have been holding a pistol to Charles's head when the fool diced his inheritance away. And William—it was insanity for—"

  "For a father to be overindulgent with his only child?" Howell interrupted gently. "Especially when that father was laboring under considerable guilt?"

  "Guilt? By God's wounds, what did William have to feel guilty about? Perhaps he was a bit stern with the lad, allowed Grandmama more influence over Charles than I would have liked. But William adored the boy. He built his fortune for him."

  Septimus started to speak, then hesitated. After a moment he shrugged, surrendering the words with a visible reluctance. "It was never enough for Master Charles," Howell said. "Never enough wealth, never enough prestige, never enough freedom. I fear that the boy went through a period most youths do—one in which they turn their noses up at their fathers, feeling as if their sire must be the sternest, stodgiest, most unyielding man ever to bedevil a son."

  "Of all the addle-pated things I've ever heard! William was the most noble, honorable—"

  "I fear that nobility and honor of the duke's sort does not set young hearts pounding. His grace did not cut a dashing figure and he was not the type of man a young boy could brag about. There were no tales of adventure or battles or love affairs involving the duke to impress Charles's set."

  "Then he should have told the lot of them to go to the devil. And William should have had the sense to ignore the ungrateful brat."

  Septimus ran his ink-splotched fingers over a broken quill. "You know, your lordship, I spent years in this room with your brother. He would come here before dawn most days and not leave until night was half spent. We managed disaster after disaster, struggling to make them right. And always succeeding." A wisp of pride threaded through Howell's sorrow.

  "I know that you did. The two of you should be raised to sainthood, you worked so many miracles."

  "But it didn't matter," Howell said. "Not to the one person his grace loved above all others."

  "Charles? William should have dragged the boy into this study and buried him neck-deep in the workings of the estates. Maybe that would have kept the young fool out of trouble."

  "His grace tried. But Charles did not have his father's gift for such pursuits. The young master could do nothing to his grace's satisfaction. And though William tried to be patient, I know his constant reprimands hurt the boy. In the end, both gave up trying. His grace buried himself still deeper in his work, while Charles drowned himself in an orgy of drink and gaming and lights o' love. It broke his grace's heart, I think. For two years I watched him fade. Knew he was weary of grinding away all the time. Knew he was lonely. God knows he could have used a sweet, gentle soul of a wife like my Susannah. And as Master Charles's escapades grew more frequent, more serious, the duke was at his wit's end."

  "And William had already had a belly full of escapades with what I put him through." Griff winced inwardly at the memory of his own countless scrapes. "It is a pity he had to endure more of the same."

  "Even at your most incorrigible, Master Griffin, you never scorned your brother. He always knew how much you loved him, respected him. I am certain that in time Charles would have come to appreciate the man his father was. But I regret to say that Master Charles's scorn seeped into the very marrow of his grace's bones. It was painful for both of them, I know." Howell locked his hands behind his back, pacing across the carpets. "At any rate, in the months before his grace's death I felt that things were reaching the shattering point. Whatever bad blood lay between the two of them was surging near the surface. Charles was so edgy I could barely stand to be in a room with him. And the duke's eyes were dark with trouble. Time and time again I heard servants whisper about their battles. And that last night, the last time I saw his grace alive..."

  Septimus turned to face Griffin, his face clouded with anguish and confusion. "We were tending to the estate's accounts as usual, your lordship, when I noticed that his grace had mortgaged one of the lesser estates, and drained what little was left of the Stone assets."

  "But why, Howell? Why?" Griffin slammed the flat of his hand against the desk, confusion and frustration warring inside him.

  "I know precious little
for certain," Howell said. "Master William was a private man. It was not fitting for a duke to lean upon any man, even me."

  "You loved him like a father." Griffin sought to offer comfort despite the cold dread in the pit of his stomach. "If anyone held a clue to William's secret pain, Mr. Howell, it would be you."

  The eyes that could be so canny misted.

  "Someone needed to love the brace of you after your own father went to his rest." Septimus walked toward an oval gilt frame on the dark-paneled wall where the merry countenance of Griffin's sire peered jovially out upon the ruin of the estates.

  "I'll never forget the night before your father's fatal duel. Took me aside, he did, with a grin upon his face. He told me 'I full intend to stride from the field, Septimus, but if fortune dices against me, you'll tend to my boys.'"

  Grief touched the man's face. "I wanted to do more for the pair of you once your grandmother came," he went on, "but her grace would not have it. A common lot the like of myself soiling those of her noble blood. I watched William. Watched both of you. But I failed to carry out your father's wishes. Failed you. And now failed your brother."

  "You never failed in being our friend." Griffin skirted the desk, his hand curving about the older man's shoulder, giving it a bracing squeeze. "If not for your labors this tangle with finances would be a much deeper muddle. And because of your interference we will be able to make it come right in the end."

  "Do you think so? I mean, aye. Of course." A small smile lightened Septimus's face, and Griff could feel the man's gratitude. "You were always a most stubborn boy, hurling yourself into anything that you turned your hand to. The dukedom would not dare crumble if it is your will that it remain."

  "It is." Griffin steeled himself, glad Howell had taken comfort, yet knowing that he had no choice except to probe deeper into the elderly man's painful remembrances. "But if we are to raise the Stone holding's from the ashes, I need to know everything—everything—you can tell me about how it was brought low."

  "The Stone family was brought low by generations of wastrels and profligates," a feminine voice said acidly. "And with you as its trustee, we will be crawling in the gutters again before a fortnight is out."

  Both men wheeled toward the door, the solicitor's face pale, Griffin's a stony mask.

  Even the relentless march of time and the searing of grief had not bowed the haughty carriage of the dowager duchess of Ravensmoor. She stood in the doorway like an aging goddess, cold, distant, and splendid. Her astonishingly supple skin was stretched taut over her fine-boned face, and a wealth of ice-white hair was piled atop that regal head like a crown. At seventy-five her only concession to age was a gold-handled walking stick. She used it not to ease her gait, but rather to wave in the faces of terrified housemaids and to clap about the shins of footmen who were not spry enough to suit her.

  Griffin was stunned to discover that she still made him feel the yawning chasm of emptiness he remembered from his childhood.

  "Grandmama." He spoke the name mockingly as he swept her a scornful bow. "I am overwhelmed by the warmth of your welcome."

  "Come now, your grace," Howell said. "It has been ten years since we've had the boy home. He's grown into a man—a fine one, whose ventures in business are thriving. He's a man to be proud of."

  "Proud, Mr. Howell?" Judith Stone's nostrils flared as though scenting something particularly malodorous. "Pray, what have I to be proud of? The fact that he was forced to flee England because of a duel over some harlot? Or should I be proud of the fact that he managed to scrape together some sort of consequence in a swamp somewhere, with money my William drained away from the Ravensmoor estates?"

  Septimus bristled. "Master Griffin never accepted any stipend from his grace. He financed Marrislea with his own coin."

  The dowager duchess closed upon the older man's words like a shark upon a blood scent, and she turned upon Griffin.

  "With your own coin you bought this tobacco farm Howell makes so much of? Is that what you would have people believe? You had no money of your own—no legacy. All you possessed was William's charity."

  "And my skill at the gaming tables," Griffin countered with feigned amusement. "Pray, don't forget, Grandmama, I was as notorious for my abilities at dicing as I was for my skill with the ladies. I accrued an accounting in both areas that was almost as substantial as my father’s."

  "Your father—"

  "Didn't give a tinker's damn what you thought of him, and neither do I," Griff observed blandly. "But William"—Griffin paced to where a crystal decanter caught the rays of the sun and poured himself a glassful of amber liquid—"William's good faith in me is another matter entirely. He obviously felt that I had some merit, despite my flaws, for in the end he entrusted me with his beloved estates, Grandmama. Entrusted me with his son."

  The duchess's face mottled with fury and grief, but Griff didn't regret his words.

  "William was distraught. Not himself." Judith Stone faltered. "Else he would never have cast Charles into the hands of a worthless blackguard when I stood willing, ready to—"

  "To what? Curse Charles to a life of misery as you did William?"

  The duchess's eyes snapped up to Griffin's, and they were filled with loathing. "It was you who made William's life misery. I loved him! Helped him!"

  Griff laughed bitterly. "God preserve me from your love!"

  A sharp breath hissed between the duchess's teeth, and her bony hand clenched the handle of her cane. For an instant Griff thought she would strike him with it. "My love? You've never had it! Never will! William was worth ten of you."

  "Do you think I don't know that?" Griffin turned away from her and drained the glass of claret in one gulp. "But William is dead. We shall all have to limp along as best we can without him."

  Griff slammed the crystal goblet onto the edge of William's desk then started to sweep past her and stride toward the opened door, but Septimus Howell's gnarled hand flashed out, catching at his sleeve.

  "Wait... Master Griffin..."

  Griff stopped, turning to look into the loyal man's face.

  "It is all right, Mr. Howell." Griff sought to soothe him. "I just need a breath of air. I fear I've not yet developed William's stamina for entombing oneself indoors for days on end. I think I will take a ride through the estates. Clear my head until it is time for dinner."

  Griffin cast a glance toward the dowager duchess's gun-barrel-straight spine. "Come now, Grandmama, surely that prospect should cheer you. Think of the possibilities. My horse might shy and fling me into a wall. A coach might run over me. Brigands might set upon me." The slightest of grins quirked at this private joke. "You may even be fortunate enough to have me break my neck," Griffin observed with a sudden strange amusement. "Then everything would be under your control again. Ravensmoor. Charles. Aye, even my ward."

  "Your ward?" The duchess's thin brows arched.

  "Mistress Isabeau DeBurgh," Griff said with a devil's grin. "I regret to say she has been suffering from a malaise for the past two days, but tonight will mark her full recovery."

  Griffin felt a niggling guilt that he hadn't even glanced in upon the patient. But his nerves, already frayed by William's ledgers, had not been up to doing battle with a disgruntled highwayman.

  He resolved to make it up to her as best he could.

  "I will be presenting Mistress DeBurgh to you at dinner this evening," he said breezily. "And, should I perish in the interim, she will be my vengeance upon you from the grave. Even roasting in Hades I could take joy in watching the pair of you rend each other limb from limb."

  "I'll not be saddled with any common—"

  "Mistress DeBurgh is far from common, Grandmama. That much I assure you. And she loathes me as much as you do. Think how entertaining it will be for the pair of you to plot my demise."

  Chapter 8

  A hundred candles lit the vast dining hall, and each tiny tongue of flame seemed to bore into Griffin's skull like a gnome king's trident. If he had
found some peace during his hard ride across the parklands, any serenity had vanished the moment he had crossed Darkling Moor's threshold once more.

  He peered down the length of the mahogany table with its scores of vacant carved chairs. The dowager duchess sat at the head, ensconced in regal splendor. Swathed in deep black mourning clothes, with her face set in harsh lines, she looked ready to burst with indignation and outrage.

  Her grace had been annoyed when Charles had informed her he was traveling to London for a few days; Griffin had been none too amused himself, since he suspected the boy was avoiding their confrontation over finances.

  But the duchess's mood had become black as the gates of hell when her precisely ordered schedule was disrupted even further.

  Isabeau was late.

  Griffin's own temper was held only slightly in check. Beau should have been in the dining room nearly half an hour ago, he thought, and she bloody well knew it. He had warned her to be prompt or prepare to face his considerable wrath.

  Yet in spite of the inexorable march of time marked by Griff’s golden pocket watch, no fiery-tempered young woman appeared. Nor was there any sign of the quavering maid he had sent to fetch her.

  He almost ground his teeth in aggravation, but he refused to give his grandmother the satisfaction of knowing he was annoyed. But despite his outward composure, his anger grew.

  Restive footmen lined the frescoed wall like an impatient army awaiting its general's command. A dozen elegant dishes emitted heavenly scents from beneath their silver covers. Griffin knew that soon they'd lose what little heat remained within them.

  The delicate concoctions that the dowager duchess's French cook, Alphonse, had slaved over were deteriorating with each second that ticked by, the sauces thickening into lumpy masses, the butter melting, the once yeasty, warm bread hardening into cold slabs.