The Wolfe's Return

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  The Wolfe’s Return

  by

  Avril Borthiry

  But since all is well, keep it so, wake not a sleeping wolf.

  William Shakespeare.

  (King Henry IV, act II)

  Chapter One

  Hannah stirred in her bed, pulled from sleep by the clatter and rumble of conveyances outside her window. Shortly thereafter, hushed whispers could be heard in the hallway, followed by the soft opening and closing of bedroom doors. The family had returned, which meant the celebrations marking Lord Peverell’s marriage to Caroline St. Clair must have ended.

  As had Hannah’s desire to sleep.

  She turned onto her back and wondered at the hour. The surrounding darkness felt as resinous as pitch, an impression that hinted at the depths of night. As if in response to her pondering, the longcase clock in the downstairs hallway chimed three times.

  The depths of night, indeed. A black fodder that fed anxiety and loneliness.

  Refusing to capitulate to such beasts, Hannah rose and lit a fresh beeswax candle, placing it atop the small writing desk in the corner of her room. Then she pulled her leather-bound copy of Northhanger Abbey from the inner pocket of her travelling case, wrapped her favorite soft shawl about her shoulders, and sat down to immerse herself in Catherine Morland’s world.

  And there she stayed till the heavenly song of a blackbird drifted into her room. She glanced at the window, seeing no hint of dawn through the gaps in the curtains, and again wondered at the time. Given the bird’s announcement, daybreak appeared to be imminent.

  They were due to leave London that afternoon, thank goodness, and head back to the northern hills that had become Hannah’s home. Her hiding place.

  She hadn’t wanted to travel to London, and said so.

  “Besides, it will not bode well for you, my lady, if people realize who I am,” she said, pressing her argument.

  Lady Beatrice had blown out a breath and waved a gnarled, bejeweled hand. “I could not possibly tolerate such a long journey with only my maid for company,” she’d said. “You will not be socializing. I simply need someone to converse with and to read to me en route. If anyone should ask, your name is Hannah Sedgewick, you are the granddaughter of an old friend, and you are serving purely as a travelling companion. An honest enough response. I very much doubt anyone will question your identity beyond that. It’s been four years, my dear. People will have forgotten.”

  By people, Lady Beatrice meant the ton, and Hannah doubted very much they’d forgotten at all. Scandals didn’t need a miracle to be resurrected from the dead. All they needed was a reminder. Or, in Hannah’s case, someone to recognize her. The past week had, consequently, been worrisome. More so because they had moved around, staying with several of Lady Beatrice’s friends. So far, though, other than a few curious glances in her direction, none of their privileged hosts had paid her much mind. Hannah, who had purposely adopted a plain, unadorned style, had stayed in the background and been largely ignored.

  This, the Duke of Gifford’s townhouse, was their last stop. Had circumstances been different, Hannah would have looked forward to this particular visit. She longed to chat with the Duke, to ask him questions about his famous ancestors. But, as things were, she maintained her usual quietude, although she’d enjoyed watching the antics of the Duke’s two young sons the previous evening.

  And with that thought came another.

  On her way up to her room the previous night, she’d cast a casual sideways glance through an open door at the foot of the main staircase. The room beyond lay in shadow, but she’d caught a glimpse of an array of bookshelves along the far wall. A library. Perhaps she might find some answers to her questions without speaking to the Duke.

  Hannah held her breath as she pondered. Did she dare? The hour was yet early, the house and surrounding streets still silent. Being Sunday, the family would likely be attending church in a few hours. But that still gave her plenty of time.

  What harm could it do?

  Decided, Hannah dressed by candlelight, the small flame working its way through the final inch of beeswax. She left her hair as it was – loosely braided. Then, as the first hint of dawn trickled through a gap in the curtains, Hannah lit a fresh candle, and crept from her room.

  Darkness still reigned in the hallway. The carpet softened her footfalls, although she winced each time a board creaked. At the top of the stairs, she paused in her halo of candlelight and gazed down into darkness. From somewhere in the depths of the house came the faint sounds of conversation. Servants, no doubt. Up and ready to begin their day.

  A single chime from the clock made her jump. Hannah took a slow breath and descended the stairs, noting the hour when candlelight allowed.

  Half-past-four. Even earlier than she’d thought.

  The library door was still slightly ajar. As if complaining at Hannah’s intrusion, it parted with a soft creak when she pushed it open. She stepped inside, wrinkling her nose at the odour of stale tobacco and musty books, sweetened with a hint of furniture wax. Holding the candle aloft, she turned a half-circle, eyes widening as she absorbed what she could see of her surroundings.

  Topped by Grecian-style crown moulding, a bank of cream-colored bookshelves filled the upper two thirds of the back wall. Supporting them, a row of cupboards, similarly adorned in Grecian style, their closed doors arousing Hannah’s natural curiosity.

  But no, she would not pry behind closed cupboard doors. She was there simply to look at the books on display. Should a title snare her attention, she might borrow the volume from the shelf and examine it further, before returning it to its rightful place.

  On the opposite wall, a marble fireplace stood between two similarly constructed bookshelves, which filled the walls on either side. Adjacent to the hearth, a pair of matching, burgundy damask sofas faced each other. The one with its back to Hannah played host to an inlaid sofa table, topped with in impressive bronze sculpture of a wolf.

  Other smaller, but equally fine pieces of furniture, scattered here and there, added a refined sense of style to the room. At the far end, in front of a heavily draped window, the vague outline of a massive desk loomed out of the shadows, with a throne-like chair behind it. This was a man’s domain, Hannah thought. A sacred, inner sanctum where she, a mere woman, had dared to trespass. She smiled at her flighty thoughts.

  Where to start? She wandered over to the back wall and began to examine the book spines, twisting her head this way and that to read the titles. Many were of a religious nature, with a number of volumes in French and Latin as well as English.

  She raised the candle aloft, straining her neck to examine the books on the higher shelves. At the sight of a beautifully bound set of Encyclopædia Britannica above her, she let out a soft gasp. Her father had owned such a set, but she had never been allowed to touch it. Holding her breath, she rose up on her toes, trying to reach the book. But she could barely touch the shelf with her fingertips, never mind one of the hefty volumes.

  “Bloody hell,” she said, startling herself with the loudness of her voice. She giggled as a wicked little thrill ran up her spine. A week of restraint and fear of recognition had taken its toll. The curse, spoken aloud, gave her a sense of rebellious release. Besides, she t
hought, there was no one around to hear it.

  Then someone hiccupped in her ear. “May I be of assistance, my lady?”

  Hannah’s hand flew to her mouth, stifling a scream. She spun round and gasped at the sight of a pair of bloodshot eyes, peering at her. A moment later, the smell of stale alcohol and tobacco wafted across her face. Judging by that, and the man’s unshaven, disheveled appearance, she deduced him to be not quite sober.

  Who was he? A member of the family? Or a friend? Did it matter? She had to get out of there. Pronto.

  “Oh, my goodness. Please forgive… I…I mean, I didn’t know anyone was here. I wasn’t… oh, rats!” Panicked, Hannah blew out the candle and ran, blindly, for the door, praying she would find it without crashing into something. She stumbled into the hallway and then flew up the stairs as if the Devil himself was chasing her. Breathless, Hannah slipped back into her room, closed the door, and leaned against it, hand pressed to her chest. Had he followed her? Heart rattling, she listened, waiting to hear a footfall, but to her utter relief, the hallway remained silent.

  Where had he come from? He was obviously soused. Must have already been in the room, asleep on one of the sofas.

  Hannah closed her eyes and prayed he would have forgotten about her by morning.

  Chapter Two

  Twelve months later.

  “ Noon has been and gone an hour since, my lord.” The bedroom curtains parted ways with a theatrical flourish, and Nathaniel flinched as daylight penetrated his eyelids. “I also feel compelled to mention that one can taste the air in this room. Definite flavors of stale brandy, cigar smoke, and a certain floral bouquet that one might associate with a trollop.”

  Nathaniel prised his desiccated tongue from the roof of his mouth and squinted toward the speaker through a bleary eye. Framed by the sunlit window, the angular silhouette of Boscombe, his valet, refused to come into focus.

  “Good day to you too, Bossy,” Nathaniel mumbled as he opened his other eye. “I’ll have you know the trollop claimed to be of royal descent.”

  Boscombe made an odd, nasal sound. “Then I can but commend your unquestionably good taste, my lord.” He opened the door to Nathaniel’s dressing room. “His Grace is awaiting your pleasure in the library. Shall I help you dress?”

  “No, thank you, I’ll manage.” Nathaniel eased up onto an elbow. “I assume you let Ghost out?”

  “Several times, my lord.” Boscombe’s voice receded as he entered the ante-chamber. “He is waiting for you at the bottom of the stairs.”

  “Right.” Nathaniel collapsed back onto the mattress and frowned up at the blue velvet canopy, wondering at his brother’s summons. He searched his memory. Had he overstepped his bounds the previous night? Nothing too scurrilous came to mind. A little drinking and gambling. The company of a willing woman. And, as such establishments went, Stella Harcourt’s was one of the more reputable, and discreet.

  Nathaniel’s frown deepened as he tried to remember his eager bedmate’s name. Mary? No. Martha. She had red hair. A natural redhead, too, judging by her––

  “I’ve changed the towels and set your clothes out for you, my lord,” Boscombe said, leaving the dressing room door ajar. “There’s warm water in the washstand. I’ll tell His Grace you’ll be down shortly.”

  Something other than practiced proficiency edged the man’s tone. Nathaniel sat up, raked his fingers over his scalp, and regarded the elderly servant who had all but raised him. “Do you know what this is about, Bossy?”

  “No, my lord, I do not.” Boscombe strode over to fuss with the curtains again, tugging them into neat folds. Then he exited the room without another word, and closed the door behind him.

  Nathaniel uttered a mild curse, threw back the bedclothes, and slid from the bed.

  * * *

  A half-hour later, and feeling almost human, Nathaniel descended the stairs and bid good morning to the one friend who, he knew, would never judge him.

  At ten months of age, Ghost already stood close to three feet high at the shoulder. The wolfhound whined his delight and danced on his great paws as his tail fanned the air.

  “Am I in trouble, old man?” Nathaniel said, glancing at the library door as he scratched the dog behind the ears. “Let’s find out, eh?”

  Of all the rooms at the family’s Mayfair residence, the library had always been Nathaniel’s favorite. Unlike the rest of the house, it had not fallen prey to the whims and fancies of fashion, but had remained true to its provenance. The bookshelves, complete with their splendid collection of volumes, covered nearly two full walls, and were original to the house. So, too, was the marble fireplace, its smooth, white flesh exquisitely veined in dove gray. Even the great mahogany desk, with its tooled leather surface, gave the impression of being part of the house rather than part of the furniture.

  With Ghost panting at his heels, Nathaniel entered and filled his lungs with the familiar atmosphere of wax polish, cigar smoke, and musty books. In the hearth, a spirited coal fire fought off the chill of the late-spring afternoon. It was, he thought, an entirely masculine domain. A domain currently presided over by his brother, Basil William Alexander de Wolfe, known to his peers as the fifth Duke of Gifford, who sat, head bent over some papers, at the aforesaid mahogany desk.

  Eight years sat between them, a gap broad enough to hamper the forging of a solid fraternal bond. Still, Nathaniel genuinely admired his older sibling. The Duke could be as stuffy as a maiden aunt, but he was, at heart, a compassionate and honorable man. Nathaniel doubted the admiration for his brother was mutually reciprocated to quite the same degree. Especially of late.

  “Your Grace,” Nathaniel said, his attention subsequently drawn to the delicious aroma of coffee. He veered off his original course and headed for the small sideboard, where a silver coffeepot sat atop its salver. His hand shook as he poured some of the steaming elixir into an available cup. Nothing to do with fear. Nathaniel feared naught but lengthy spells of sobriety, since they forced him to face reality. No. The tremble of his hand was due entirely to a body recovering from yet another raucous night. It was perhaps safer, he decided, eyeing his sister-in-law’s delicate china, not to use a saucer.

  Behind him, his brother muttered friendly greetings to Ghost. “This animal doesn’t belong in a city, Nathaniel,” he said. “He needs a place to run.”

  Nathaniel chose not to share an opinion, although he didn’t disagree with his brother’s sentiment. Instead, he cleared his throat and turned, the movement causing a wave of dizziness. Damnation. “You wished to see me, brother mine?”

  Basil released an audible sigh and gestured to an opposite chair. “Sit,” he said. Ghost snorted and sat down beside the desk.

  Still dizzy, Nathaniel didn’t move. “Are you talking to me or the dog?”

  Another sigh followed, this one accompanied by a frown. “At least your dog pays attention. Sit down, Nathaniel.”

  Nathaniel resisted an urge to offer a retort. Instead, brow raised and cup in hand, he managed to slide obediently, and without mishap, into his seat. “You’re not about to give me one of your lectures, are you, brother?” he asked, and blew on the steaming cupful. “Spare me, please. Your good name is safe. I am nothing if not discreet in my dealings beyond these walls.”

  Despite all efforts to control it, Nathaniel’s hand trembled as he raised the cup to his lips.

  “Jesus Christ.” Basil sat back, his expression taut. “Look at you. Barely able to hold a damn cup.”

  “A temporary affliction, Your Grace.” Nathaniel winced as the bitter liquid hit his tongue. Why did coffee always smell better than it tasted? “And I feel compelled to point out that it’s Sunday,” he added, his tone dripping with false disapproval. “Not the best day for blasphemy.”

  His brother made a sound similar to the one Boscombe had made earlier, and raked a dark, reproving gaze over Nathaniel’s seated form. “I’m surprised you’re even aware of what day it is. It has to stop.”

  Nath
aniel arched a brow. “Your blaspheming?”

  His brother’s mouth thinned. “Your depraved lifestyle,” he replied, after a pause. “It has to stop, Nathaniel.”

  Nathaniel felt a distinct twinge of unease. The quiet composure in his brother’s voice was somehow more ominous than an unbridled bellow.

  “Depraved is a little strong, don’t you think?” he replied, attempting reason. “I’ve yet to be found soused and bloodied in a gutter. I never cheat at the tables, and the women I frequent are all unattached and quite willing. I’m not harming anyone.”

  “You’re harming yourself.”

  Nathaniel shrugged. “My choice.”

  “It’s been over a year since Marielle––”

  “The Devil you say.” Nathaniel gave a humorless smile. “Is this why I’ve been summoned? To listen to one of your bloody tallyho sermons? You’re wasting your time.”

  Basil bristled, visibly. “Time-wasting is your forte, Nathaniel, not mine, and it’s gone on long enough. You force me to remind you whose roof you sleep under and whose blunt you are using – and losing – to entertain yourself. I might turn a blind eye to the less commendable choices you make, but that does not mean I condone them. Lydia is not without her concerns, either, especially when it comes to the example you are setting for our sons.”

  A wave of heat crept up Nathaniel’s neck. “Edward and William adore me,” he said, a defensive edge to his voice. “And I them. I would never do anything to harm them.”

  His brother’s steely expression softened a little. “Not intentionally, no, of course you wouldn’t, but do not underestimate the boys’ ability to perceive things. They watch you precisely because they love you so much. They see how you live, and they ask questions about your lifestyle to which I can offer no agreeable answers. You’re gone most evenings. You sleep late and miss meals. You are not exactly a stellar example of propriety, or a worthy example of a Godfather in Edward’s case. As I said earlier, it has to stop. As for Marielle, consider yourself fortunate her philandering occurred before the marriage. Would have been worse if you’d been leg-shackled to the silly woman.”