The Warrior Page 27

  “We bring him in the back way,” Adalbert offered. “Just like always.”

  Einrich nodded and gave Mrs. Aggie a kindly smile. “No one see. Das verspreche ich.”

  “What did ye just call me?” Mrs. Aggie stomped closer to Einrich, her plump fists trembling as though readying for a fight.

  Einrich held up both hands and shook his head faster. “Nein. Nein.” He frowned down at the furious housekeeper for a moment, then brightened with a smile meant to charm. “I said I promise no one see him.”

  Time to take control before Einrich got hurt. Alasdair edged his way around Mrs. Aggie. “We’ll exit the gardens by the back gate, aye?”

  “I’ll be having a stern word with Master Ian. I promise ye that.” Mrs. Aggie clasped her hands in front of her thick middle. “Shame on him for risking such disrespect to his brother’s name.”

  Deciding it best not to comment, Alasdair gave the housekeeper a kindly nod, then herded the Friedrich brothers out the door ahead of him. Mrs. Aggie had no idea of Alasdair and Ian’s past, and the housekeeper’s ignorance was for the best. Life could be a cruel taskmaster and force a man to do many a regrettable thing.

  “What is so important, Einrich? Why did Master Ian send for me?” Alasdair took the lead as they wound their way through the private gardens at the rear of the manor. In all the months since Ian had discovered Château Delatate, this was the first time he himself had sent for Alasdair. Always before, he’d been too drunk.

  Einrich just shook his head and increased his massive stride.

  They rounded the final hedgerow and exited the gardens. A private close—a gated, cobblestoned alleyway—separated the exclusive gentleman’s club from Alasdair’s property. Little had Alasdair known when he’d purchased the land that it abutted the morally questionable establishment. It mattered not, though. It made fetching Ian easier.

  Château Delatate maintained a respectable façade, while catering to the baser needs of Edinburgh’s elite. According to Ian, the upper-class brothel also serviced several visitors from London’s royal court on a regular basis.

  Adalbert and Einrich ushered him toward the steps leading up to the first floor’s back entrance rather than the servant entrance at cellar level. Einrich held the door open and stepped back. “Master Ian waits in Madam Georgianna’s parlor.”

  So, Ian had fully endeared himself to the indomitable French businesswoman? Madam Georgianna’s most experienced harlot and longtime business partner, Fanny McGraw, had succumbed to Ian’s charms on his first visit to the establishment. It had taken Ian a little longer to soften Madam Georgianna’s heart. Alasdair snorted. Ian had always possessed the rare gift of making women yearn to take care of him.

  He paused in the hallway, waiting for Adalbert and Einrich to direct him. Heaven forbid a man open the wrong door in Château Delatate. Some things could not be unseen.

  “Here, Master Alasdair.” Adalbert opened the first door on the right and gave a polite nod.

  Alasdair strode into the room, old warrior instincts tensing him as the door clicked shut behind him.

  Ian turned from the window, allowing the sumptuous, floor-length cascade of burgundy velvet to fall back in place in front of the glass. “Took ye long enough.”

  “What have ye done, Ian? It must be dire since ye’re not drunk on yer arse and the Friedrich brothers demanded no coin for yer stay.”

  “I only arrived this morning, but as soon as I saw what I saw, I had to send for ye.” Ian hooked his thumbs into his belt. “I’ve not even seen Lettie yet. That’s how important the matter.”

  Alasdair studied his younger brother, searching for guile in the gray eyes that Mam had always sworn matched his own. None existed. Ian spoke the truth. His unkempt, curly mop of hair had partially escaped its ties and his kilt, waistcoat, and jacket appeared a bit dusty from his travels. Grime smudged his knuckles and smeared down one side of his leg. Madam Georgianna’s ladies always bathed with their clients before seeing to their other requests. Lettie had not yet bathed Ian.

  Uneasiness tingling across his nape, Alasdair braced himself. “Out with it, man. What did ye see?”

  Ian gave him a blood-chilling look, then moved to the gilded cabinet beside the fancy, tile-inlaid hearth. He uncorked a crystal decanter of golden liquid and filled two matching glasses with the whiskey. He proffered one and nodded for Alasdair to take a drink.

  The burning swallow of whiskey almost cut off his air as Ian uttered the only word powerful enough to bring him to his knees.

  “Isobel.”

  The delicate glass shattered in his hand. Resurfacing memories, painful memories, hammered through him. A vicious roaring across his senses drowned out all else.

  “Isobel,” he choked out in a whisper. Her name caught in his throat, cleaving his heart in two.

  “Take care, man!” Ian hurried forward, pried open Alasdair’s fist, and plucked the shards of glass out of his palm. He tossed them into a gilded porcelain bowl perched on a small pedestal table nearby. “Ye get blood on Madam Georgianna’s fine new rug, and she’ll have yer arse.” He yanked free his neckcloth and wound the linen around Alasdair’s bleeding hand.

  Alasdair yanked his hand free of his brother’s grasp. “Explain. Now.” He couldn’t form complete sentences through the storm of emotions ripping through him.

  “Isobel is here.” Ian took a step back and gave an apologetic shrug. “Working.”

  “My Isobel?” Alasdair clenched his teeth until his jaws cracked. “Ye’re saying my Isobel has become one of Madam Georgianna’s whores?” He surged forward and grabbed hold of Ian by the throat of his shirt. Rage out-roared reason, possessing him like a thunderous, unrelenting demon. He gave Ian a hard shake. “Ye lie.”

  Ian shook his head as he worked Alasdair’s fingers open and freed himself. “I swear it. Isobel is here. She greeted me in the entry hall. Soon as she saw it was me, she turned tail and ran upstairs quick as a minute.”

  The regret and sympathy flashing in his brother’s eyes burned like salt in a fresh wound. Alasdair strode to the door and yanked it open. He’d find her. By all that was holy, this time, he wouldn’t fail. He’d find her and explain. He’d not miss this second chance.

  Madam Georgianna, older but still a flaxen-haired beauty that looked more queen than harlot, appeared in the doorway. “One does not ascend the stairs without the escort of a lady, Monsieur Alasdair.” Her sharp, blue-eyed gaze slid past Alasdair and settled on Ian. “You promised no incidents, Monsieur Ian.”

  “Take me to her. Now.” Alasdair had no time for niceties or brothel rules. He’d borne this pain and guilt for ten years. Ten painful years. Now was the time to confess his soul to the only woman possessing the power and the right to forgive him.

  Madam Georgianna gave him a chiding look and blew out a heavy sigh. “It is my understanding that Isobel has fallen ill and finds herself unable to fulfill her duties. She retired upstairs for a brief rest before leaving for the day.”

  “Leaving for the day?” Madam Georgianna’s words made no sense. All the whores of Château Delatate resided on site. Alasdair pushed past Madam Georgianna and stepped out into the hall.

  Madam Georgianna snatched hold of his arm and held fast. The woman was stouter than she looked. “Non, Monsieur Alasdair.”

  Alasdair yanked his arm free. He’d not treat Madam Georgianna ill, but he’d not tolerate any ruses either. Not this time. Too much was at stake. “I will see her. Now.”

  “Do not make the mistake of thinking Einrich and Adalbert will not restrain you if I so order it, monsieur.” Madam Georgianna shifted to stand in front of him, blocking his way to the set of stairs down the hall. “Their employment always takes priority over any possible friendships.” The faintest smile curled her heavily painted red lips. “Even though Monsieur Ian and you are two of our favorite people, the brothers will still do as I instruct them.”

  He didn’t give a whit if Madam Georgianna called the entirety of His Majesty’s
regiment. He’d easily best them all. But what she’d said about Isobel leaving for the day nettled him still. She hadn’t given him a proper answer. “What did ye mean when ye said Isobel would leave for the day?”

  A woman with plentiful, bouncing curves descended the stairs and ambled toward them. Flaming red hair piled high in loose ringlets and a silk dressing gown flapping in her wake like a pair of wings, Fanny McGraw shook a bejeweled finger in Alasdair’s direction. “She’s locked the door. Said she canna bear to see our Master Ian here. Reminds her too much of yerself. Said she’d be going home soon but was sure to return tomorrow.” Huffing to a stop, she shoved both hands up under her abundant bosoms and adjusted their bulging situation above the neckline of her straining corset. Her crookedly penciled brows drew together as she scowled at Alasdair. “She talked like she thought ye dead. Why is that?”

  With a growling roar, he punched the wall, then shot back around and faced Madam Georgianna. “Answer me, damn ye! Since when do ye allow yer whores to live elsewhere?”

  Fanny gasped, and Madam Georgianna’s eyes flared wide. Jaw set and color riding even brighter on her rouged cheeks, Madam Georgianna returned her hand to Alasdair’s arm and attempted to steer him back inside her private sitting room. “If you would be so kind as to lower yer voice and have a seat, Fanny and I will be more than happy to explain Isobel’s situation here at Château Delatate. Since you have helped us on more than one occasion with legal issues, I shall afford you that courtesy. But I do insist you calm down, or we will tell you nothing and will do our best to conceal the girl from you. The choice is yours, Monsieur Alasdair.”

  “Give over, Alasdair. Ye know they can hide the girl where ye’d never find her again.” Ian took hold of his other arm and pulled. “Calm down, man, and have a drink. She’s locked herself upstairs and is not going anywhere.”

  Alasdair yanked free and stomped into the sitting room, fighting to regain a bit of composure. Damn them all. They couldn’t possibly understand. He sucked in a deep breath and groaned it out. He’d always prided himself on remaining calm. Clear-headed and logical. It was how he’d earned his nickname the Judge. Only Isobel had the power to render him so crazed. Over the last ten years, he’d gained control over the past, over the memories, and how they twisted him inside. Within a heartbeat of hearing her name, he’d lost the ability to rise above the pain and function with any civility.

  Ian held out a generous glass of whiskey. “Sit and drink, man. This isna like ye.”

  Alasdair emptied the glass in a single, fiery gulp and held it out for another. He lowered himself into the only chair in the room looking sturdy enough to support him. The salon was filled with gilt-trimmed, curved, upholstered furniture better suited to the female form. Damned French and their gaudy designs. He shifted on the golden velvet seat of the chair, fully expecting it to collapse at any moment.

  Ian handed him another drink and took a seat on the matching couch in front of the ornate hearth. Fanny and Madam Georgianna seated themselves across from Alasdair. Both of them folded their hands in their laps, sitting stiff and straight as though in a church pew.

  “Well?” Alasdair tossed back the second glass of whiskey and held out his glass for more.

  “Perhaps, it would assist yer composure to learn that Isobel is not a lady of Château Delatate.” Madam Georgianna cast a glance over at Ian. “Do be a gentleman and pour Fanny and myself a glass of port. Oui?”

  Ian hurried to do her bidding.

  “Then in what capacity is she in yer employ?” Alasdair tensed to the edge of his seat, hands fisted atop his knees. Madam Georgianna had no reason to lie, but he had a hard time believing her. Isobel had been a rare beauty ten years ago and more than likely had only improved with age. He fisted his hands so tight his knuckles popped. A fetching whore, especially in a brothel with such elite clientele, would bring in a great deal of coin. Her indulgence of Ian aside, Madam Georgianna was a businesswoman first.

  “She cleans up a bit here on the first floor and also is our hostess,” Fanny said as she accepted her glass of port from Ian. “Greets our customers in the hall. Seats them in the smoking room and finds out which lady they’re here to see. Keeps’m happy while they wait.”

  “Keeps them happy how?” He downed his refill and held it out to Ian. The neckcloth wound around his hand reminded him to watch his grip and not allow his temper to shatter a second glass. “Another.”

  “Pleasant conversation. Drinks. Tobacco. A bit of food.” Madam Georgianna gave him a perturbed look, then shifted a sideways glance in Fanny’s direction. “She does nothing more, Master Alasdair. As per the agreement Fanny made with Isobel due to her unfortunate circumstances.”

  “Poor thing,” Fanny said before he could respond. “Penniless. Wandering the streets with a bairn at her knee and her aged auntie at her side.” Fanny leaned forward and shook her head. “Her auntie looks older than Moses himself.”

  “Bairn?” The word made Alasdair’s blood run cold. He swallowed hard and stared down at the floor. Fool. She’s been married ten years. Of course, she has a child by now. Probably, more than one.

  “Aye,” Fanny answered, then beamed with fondness. “Young Connor. Five summer’s old, he is, and full of piss and vinegar.”

  A son. Isobel had a son. A duke’s son. Alasdair lifted his head and locked eyes with Fanny. “How the hell did the Duchess of Temsworth end up in Edinburgh penniless and looking for a means to support her son?”

  Lord Archibald Cuthbarten, Duke of Temsworth, was known as one of the more affluent of the peerage, well-landed, and unfortunately, still very much alive—at least the last time Alasdair had heard.

  Fanny leaned forward and made to speak again, but Madam Georgianna held up a hand and stayed her. “It is our understanding that Isobel wished to separate her son from the duke for her own safety as well as the well-being of her child.” The madam’s regal composure shifted to a repulsed look as though she’d been offended by a stench. “We have no doubt she speaks the truth. The Duke of Temsworth is no longer on the exclusive clientele list of Château Delatate after his behavior here last summer.”

  “Sick, cruel bastard, that one is,” Fanny said as though she couldn’t bare remaining silent any longer. She shook her head. “Poor Daisy. Lass has never been the same since that man did what he did to her.”

  “Why the hell did she not come to me?” Alasdair turned and asked Ian. “Why?”

  “I told ye, she talked like she thought ye dead,” Fanny interrupted. She pointed at Ian. “Told me she grew up with that one there and had loved his brother, meaning yerself, of course, loved ye more than anything. When I asked her what happened, she said fate took ye away. She didna know ye still lived and breathed.”

  “The only fate that took me away was her avaricious father selling her to that damned duke.” Alasdair stared down at the floor, wringing his hands. “I meant to stop the wedding. Steal her away.” He turned to Ian, his own anguish reflected in his brother’s gaze. “Then the morbid sore throat swept through our clan and took down the lot of us.”

  “Alasdair and I were among the few who survived, but ye dinna recover from such an ailment with haste.” Ian rose, went to Alasdair’s side, and rested a hand on his shoulder. “Took us months to get back on our feet and pull together the few of us who lived.” He shook his head. “There were nay enough left to even see to the burying of all the dead. We had to beg help from clans farther afield that had nay been stricken with the disease.”

  “And after that, it was too late. She was married.” Alasdair rose, crossed the room, and refilled his glass. He moved to the window and swept aside the heavy curtains. He stared out the pane, but all he saw was the memory of what he’d seen the day he’d gone to London to fetch Isobel back. The aching hole where his heart had once been burned all the fiercer. “I meant to steal her back from him. Get the marriage annulled. I went to his estate in London and I waited.”

  “And?” Fanny prompted, scooting to
the edge of her seat.

  “And I saw her smiling up into that bastard’s eyes as the two of them strolled arm in arm through their gardens, laughing together at the secrets only lovers share.” Alasdair let the curtain fall back in place and returned to his seat. “So, I left her there to enjoy the life I could never hope to give her. A life of ease. Of riches. Of status.” He shook his head, the knots of his pain tightening. “But I always wished her to know that I had kept my word. I had come for her. Just like I said I would.” He looked at the two women staring back at him. “I still love Isobel. Love her as strong as ever.” The barest glimmer of hope flickered deep within him. Isobel had left the duke. Willingly. Was fate offering him a small crumb of recompense? “Fetch her. I beg ye. Fetch her down and let me speak with her.”

  Fanny and Madam Georgianna’s gazes met as though reading each other’s thoughts. Madam Georgianna finally nodded, and Fanny rose and hurried out the door. Turning back to Alasdair, the madam fixed him with a concerned look that struck him as almost tender. “You understand, she may refuse to see you?”

  “She has to see me. I have to make her understand what happened all those years ago.” Alasdair took a step closer to the door, itching to chase after Fanny but knowing that would be rash. He had to wait. Be patient. He couldn’t fail again. Not when he’d been given this second chance. “I can help her now that she’s in need. I can take care of her—and her child.”

  “And if she does not wish for your care?” Madam Georgianna stood and positioned herself between Alasdair and the door as though sensing his urge to follow Fanny. “The Isobel here at Château Delatate is not the same woman you knew ten years ago. This one has endured much, monsieur. She trusts no one and is as protective of her son as a wild animal protecting its young.”

  “That sounds verra much like the Isobel I have always loved.”

  Fanny appeared back at the door of the sitting room. The downcast look on her overly powdered and rouged face telling all. She gave a sad shake of her head. “I am sorry, Master Alasdair. She willna see yerself nor Master Ian.” Fanny threw both hands in the air. “I thought she’d at least see Master Ian once she knew ye to be alive. Everybody loves Master Ian.” She clasped her hands tight. “But she said no. Said ye abandoned her to Satan himself, and she’ll never forgive ye.” Fanny cocked a brow at Madam Georgianna. “And she said all this through a locked door. I doubt she’ll be coming out anytime soon. She knows well enough her aunt will take good care of the lad and keep him hidden.”