The roads improved as he made his way south, but his rage seemed to churn and grow with each stride closer. He stopped at his townhouse before visiting his solicitors, for he needed a hot bath to wash away the layers of dust and mud caked on his clothes.
He needed a change of clothes as well, and Ian hoped that once he was properly groomed and dressed he’d feel nobler than he did right now. All he felt now was a mounting, unstoppable fury aimed at the people he laughingly referred to as his family. It was all he could do to contain the urge to load his pistols and hunt down the sorry lot of them. He knew that in his present state he was capable of taking cold, dead aim and shooting them.
His valet hurried toward him as he made for the stairs. The poor man’s eyes rounded as he gaped at Ian’s sorry state. “Your Grace! Has something dreadful happened?”
“Not yet, but it’s about to.”
Ian took the stairs two at a time. Ashcroft did his best to follow and was noticeably short of breath by the time he reached Ian’s bedchamber. “I’ll order a bath brought up for you,” Ashcroft said, inspecting him as he shrugged out of his jacket and began to remove his shirt. “And you appear to need refreshments. I’ll order those brought up as well.” Then he shook his head and sighed. “Your clothes, Your Grace. I had better burn them.”
“I do believe you’re right.” As his valet continued to fuss about him, Ian took a moment to glance around his immaculately maintained quarters. The big bed dominating his chamber caught his attention. Dillie would soon be sharing that bed, sharing his life, assuming he didn’t go off and do something immensely idiotic, such as get himself killed.
While his bath was wheeled in and servants began to carry in buckets of water to fill it, he strode to his desk, withdrew a sheaf of paper and quill pen from one of the drawers, and hastily penned a note to his solicitors, Dumbley and Sons. It was early afternoon. He had time to collect his thoughts before making decisions that would impact the rest of his life. “Have this note delivered to the senior Mr. Dumbley. I’ll stop by to see him within the hour.”
“Very good, Your Grace.” However, he hesitated a moment before turning away.
“Ashcroft, what’s troubling you?” His valet rarely appeared this perplexed.
“I don’t wish to presume,” he began, clasping his hands in front of him and staring at his toes. “But if this has something to do with the dowager duchess Celestia, then you ought to know... she has returned to London.”
Every aching bone in Ian’s body stiffened. “Returned?”
“Indeed, Your Grace. Only yesterday. Your cousins as well.”
“Damn it,” he said softly. He’d banished them to Bath earlier in the season, but here they were back again, no doubt confident their second plot would succeed. Too confident. He was about to disappoint them. “Where have they set up residence?”
“Same townhouse they’d let for the season. Or rather, that you’d let for them. I must say, we were all surprised, for they’d only recently left, and at the time of their departure you did not appear inclined to allow them back.”
“That’s putting it politely.” Ian didn’t know whether to roar with laughter at their presumption or pound his fists on his desk in anger and frustration. Either response would have frightened his valet. He kept his manner even and controlled, as he had for all of his life, no matter the insults, no matter the hurt and disappointment. “No, I was not inclined to let them back at all. Nor am I now. However, their presence in town will make my task all the easier. Thank you for letting me know, Ashcroft. You’ve just saved me a lot of time and trouble.”
He nodded. “I’m adept with weapons, Your Grace. Of course, you know that. Just thought I’d mention it again, for I take my responsibilities to you seriously.”
“Thank you, but laying out my clothes and making certain my cravat is properly tied before I step out onto the street is all I require of you just now.” He noticed the look of disappointment on his valet’s face and realized he’d just taken the wind out of the poor man’s sails. No doubt insulted his loyalty, too. “Keep your weapons at the ready. The day isn’t over yet, and who knows what might happen?” Ian was spoiling for a fight himself, and knew he’d have it before the sun set over the muddy Thames. “Your offer is much appreciated.”
Ashcroft puffed out his chest. “Thank you, Your Grace.”
Ian washed and dressed, then made his way to the Inns of Court where Dumbley and Sons maintained offices. He quickly finished his business with the senior Mr. Dumbley, arranged to meet him later at his mother’s townhouse, and then made his way to a less fashionable side of town to engage Homer Barrow, the Bow Street runner of excellent reputation he’d used on occasion before. He liked Homer. The man was sharp-witted and reliable.