“Yes, left town, so Father said. I assumed he went to Matlock.”
“Did your father mention that he had men searching for him?”
“Yes, now that I think of it. He was beginning to wonder if there was something to all this nonsense, and wanted to learn more for himself. They found him in London?”
Darcy extended the note, his face white. “Not before Vasconcelos did. It would seem, Richard, that you are no longer the second son.”
“What?” Richard snatched the note and read. When he had finished, he dropped into the seat beside Darcy, his eyes shocked and staring. “Reginald has been strangled in his sleep!”
Matlock House, London
“Darcy,myboy,youare a sight.” The Earl of Matlock, his face aged ten years since Darcy had last seen him, clapped a limp hand on Darcy’s shoulder. “At least you are come back to us, if not….” He broke off with a weary sigh and shook his head.
“Sir,” Darcy answered, “may I express my deepest condolences.”
The earl seemed still too dazed to comprehend, and he waved lethargically. “Never mind that now, Darcy. Too many things to condole over. Richard,” Matlock placed a hand in his younger son’s, and then his haggard features crumbled. His great shoulders shook, his head bowed with shame and grief. Richard put an arm around the aging earl and led him to the privacy of his study. Darcy followed and closed the door as Richard eased his grieving father into his leather chair.
“Father, how is Mother?” Richard asked in a trembling voice.
“I have not yet told her. I wished you to be here my boy—and you, Darcy. It will help soften the blow. She was so… so proud of him! Such a strapping lad. Handsome, clever, just what he ought to have been. Too late, I suspected!”
Darcy narrowed his eyes in interest. “You did suspect him?”
“Not until the rumours began that you lived,” the earl confessed. “He was my son! How should I have thought him capable of such a monstrous thing? He knew all the old family secrets, of course, because I thought as my heir he ought to be the guardian of such information. I pray to heaven that he suffered at least some moments of doubt in his conscience. That my own son could conceive of this!”
“Father, you are not to blame for Reginald’s greed.” Richard shot Darcy an imploring glance, urging him to concur.
“Indeed, sir,” Darcy added stiffly, “none could find you at fault, save that it was, in fact, kept a secret from so many. The dated, signed proof to counter all claims against our family was in our possession, had we but the cause to search for it.”
The earl was numbly shaking his head, combing trembling fingers through his hair and scarcely attending Darcy. “I thought it a fine notion to match him to Georgiana after Priscilla died. I never thought him to be playing me for the patriarchal old fool I am. He knew his wife was dying for nearly a year, and he knew precisely how I would act. To think he would try to have you killed just to lay hands on Georgiana and all your fortune! I should have seen… should have done something. Darcy, my boy, forgive an ignorant old man!”
“Here, Father, let us not dwell on that just now. What is to be done? Where was he found?”
“He had rented some flat over on R— Street—I presume to keep his identity quiet when he was meeting with others. When they found him….” The earl drew a rasping breath and rubbed his eyes. “The place looked to have been robbed. A witness placed two men there early last night, speaking a foreign tongue and carrying away a crate of papers. And Reginald… Reginald was….”
“You needn’t say more, Father. I know. I also have a clear idea of who must have done this.”
“So do I. I have already had the man dragged from his ship, for he was waiting for someone before sailing, and his own spies gave him up.”
Darcy and Richard exchanged eager glances. “Manuel Vasconcelos?” Darcy asked.
“That was the knave. We have enough proof already. He will hang for murder, but I would consult with you both on the matter. Darcy, can you provide further evidence against the man?”
“Naturally, sir,” Darcy answered. “First, may I ask if this miniature of myself might have been taken from your gallery?”
The earl took the small portrait and studied it. “The countess dismissed a maid over the disappearance of this miniature. Where did you find it?”
“I believe it was in my cousin’s possession. I am sorry, Uncle.”
The earl closed his eyes. “Richard, my boy, do something. Permit me not to linger in sorrow, for I cannot bear it. Let us do something. Spare me this agony! An old man should not bury his son.”
Richard Fitzwilliam, the Viscount Matlock, drew an arm about the weakened earl. “Yes, Father.”
Chapter sixty-nine
Darcy House, London
Itwaslatethatday before Darcy returned home. His uncle and aunt’s grief, the beginnings of the investigation into a viscount’s death, and the attempt to conclude his own six-month-long ordeal had already cost more hours than he had thought he could have remained on his feet. At long last, his body demanded something of a reprieve, and he had left Richard—equally exhausted, and now buried by even more duties than himself—and asked his driver to take him home. Strange, how quickly the confines of the carriage had become again familiar rather than stifling.
