The aftermath of the horrors Cole had witnessed. Had battled against. And somehow survived.
Then they’d heard that more than a few important prisoners had been marched east toward Constantinople, and it had still taken several months for Ravencroft to find him. Their relationship had been forged anew when he’d dragged a beaten and emaciated Duke of Trenwyth back home.
The American journalist wrote an exposé on it, and the English press and the people began to call for answers. Oscar Wilde, Charles Darwin, Victor Hugo, they used their influence to force an investigation, for Britain, or rather, the whole of Europe to take action.
Ravencroft and Trenwyth had joined the ranks, hoping that Britain would do more than sanction the Ottomans for their villainy. As time passed, it seemed, their cause was lost in the cogs of capitalist bureaucracy.
Regardless, they’d forged a deeper acquaintance during that tumultuous time. But it wasn’t until the day they both watched the man they’d once called brother kicking at the end of a rope that their bond had been solidified. Cole confided in the Scottish laird like no other. Though Ravencroft resided mostly in his Highland castle with his two children and relatively new bride, he’d still been instrumental in Cole’s tireless search for Ginny.
“Are you in London for the duration?” he queried flippantly, hoping to change the course of his dark thoughts.
“Aye, my daughter Rhianna is presented to the queen and having her season. My life is naught but bloody ball gowns, ceremonies, waltzes, tedium, and yer terrible English food. I’ve considered impaling a few of my daughter’s favorite young lads on my dirk, just to enliven the evenings if nothing else.”
“Sounds bloody awful.”
“’Tis.” Ravencroft scratched at his ebony hair, which he kept past shoulder length. Cole surmised that it was to hide the few locks of silver that shone at the temples. “I’ll be a pauper and a murderer before the season is out, mark ye me.”
They both knew this to be a lie. At least the part about becoming a pauper. Ravencroft was responsible for more deaths than almost anyone in the history of the empire, surely, but he owned some of the best land in all the Highlands. His estates and distillery were more than profitable, they were enviable.
“Havena even had a proper honeymoon,” the burly Scot groused.
“A pity,” Cole replied, distracted for a moment as Lady Anstruther lifted her long hair and coiled it into some sort of knot on top of her head, stabbing it through with an extra paintbrush. Lord, had her neck always been that elegant? “It’s not as though you need to get an heir on her or anything,” he muttered, shifting a little to relieve an uncomfortable tightness in his trousers.
“If ye’d met my wife, ye’d understand my need to drag her away from all distraction and keep her naked for days in some warm, exotic place. But I canna do that until my stubborn daughter has bewitched and broken every limp-wristed, useless aristocrat in this godforsaken city.”
“Another ball tonight, I take it?” Cole smirked, grateful he’d escaped the peculiar responsibilities of fatherhood.
“Actually, she’s chaperoned tonight by my late wife’s mother, her grandmother.” The marquess didn’t exactly sound relieved, more resigned. “Lady Ravencroft has enticed me to attend a benefit this evening. A new charity project she’s rather passionate about.”
“By enticed, you mean coerced.”
Ravencroft made a noncommittal sound. “I doona mind so much, it’s a good cause and I hear the food will be grand. So, there’s that.”
Grunting in response, Cole glared down at Lady Anstruther, reminded of another reason to dislike her. “Let’s hope your wife has the sense to keep the charity down in the slums where it belongs.”
“I doona grasp yer meaning.” Ravencroft’s voice slowed and lowered, as though he wondered whether or not to be offended on his lady-wife’s behalf.
“Don’t get your kilt in a bunch, I mean nothing against your beloved marchioness.” Cole gestured once again out the window where the candid countess was pressing a damp cloth to cool her neck and shoulders, dipping it below her bodice. Beads of moisture glittered on her skin, as though someone had sprinkled her with stardust. Cole suddenly forgot what he’d been about to say as he traced their eventual paths over the expanse of her chest and into her décolletage.
Abruptly seized with a great thirst, he reached for his own snifter of Scotch and tossed it back in one great, scorching gulp.
“Then to whom were ye referring?” Ravencroft pressed.
“That woman,” he spat. “If you’d believe, she has opened her mansion here in Belgravia to a handful of harlots, unfortunates, and unwed mothers.”
“The conniving bitch!” Ravencroft gasped, his mocking sarcasm as thick as his burly chest.
Cole sent him a droll look. “She’s trying to convert one of London’s finest and most magnificent homes into a haven for pickpockets and dock whores. Everyone in the borough is in a foaming frenzy over it. They barely tolerate that actress Millie LeCour living on the other side of her because they’re terrified of her husband, who I understand is another connection of your curious new associate of Blackheart fame.”
“Christ, Yer high-and-mighty Grace, were ye always such a snob?” The laird nudged him with his elbow.
“Probably.”
“Perhaps ye should check next door amongst the so-called handful of harlots for yer long-lost Ginny.”