"You are saying this is a fault of hers?"
The younger man barked a rough laugh. "MacGregor, if you're only now coming to this conclusion, I have no sympathy for you."
Marcus smiled faintly. "The woman can be a pain in the arse. She is mine, nonetheless."
"These enemies," Steven prodded.
"Aye. They kidnapped Elise once, tried a second time."
Steven regarded him for a long moment, then shook his head and took another bite of stew.
Marcus liked the lad. "The board meeting," he said. "The vote is to be held at Ardsley's home tonight?"
"No, tomorrow. But the board members are to meet at Price's home tonight. I wager Price is going to let them see Elise in her sick bed then, when he presents the paper tomorrow—a paper signed by my sister—it will be a fait accompli."
"What time this evening?"
"Eight o'clock."
Marcus glanced at the clock hanging on the wall behind the bar. Four fifty-five. "We have three hours."
Steven raised a brow. "If we show up and claim the impostor…"
"Aye," Marcus said. "If he wants my wife's fifty-one percent of Landen Shipping, he will have no choice but to return Elise to me."
"We should have stormed the damned hospital," Steven muttered darkly.
Marcus tensed, remembering all too well the strength of will it had taken to keep from hiring fifty men and raiding Danvers. Strength of will. Nay. Justin had been the voice of reason. They weren't in Scotland, Justin had reminded him. Here, Marcus was naught but a British subject on foreign soil. He had always thought of himself as a man of logic and not given to rash action. But, until now, he hadn't realized how much he relied upon his position as the Marquess of Ashlund—even more—the son of the Duke of Ashlund.
Ah, Ryan, my ancestor, how far our paths have diverged.
For the first time in his life, Marcus understood the true nature of Ryan MacGregor. All these years, Marcus thought he understood him—thought it was Ryan who demanded recompense for the wrongs done to the MacGregors over the centuries. But, in truth, how could Marcus, a man of wealth and position, understand a man who possessed nothing? A man who fought with the only weapon he had: his mind. Marcus laughed inwardly. How many years had he fought his enemies with the sword—the very thing Ryan had fought against?
Marcus turned his attention to his brother-in-law. "We are far from finished with Price Ardsley. We shall deal with him in a way that brings about his demise because of his own actions."
Steven's gaze intensified. "All I ask is that I be allowed to witness his end."
"Aye, lad," Marcus replied in a quiet voice. "You will be one among many."
Marcus watched, concealed by the evening shadows among the trees, as the seventh carriage that night passed through the iron gates of Price Ardsley's mansion. The crunch of gravel beneath the carriage wheels grew fainter until the high and low seesaw pitch of cricket music again filled the quiet. Marcus's horse shifted beneath him and he gave the animal a soothing stroke. Steven's horse nickered softly, nuzzling his companion's nose, and Steven patted his shoulder.
Marcus looked at him. "What time is it?"
Steven pulled a pocket watch from the breast pocket of his suit. "Nearly eight," he whispered, and slipped the watch back into its place.
Marcus returned his attention to the mansion. "Is that the last of them?"
"Unless Brentley rode with one of the other board members, no."
"You are sure your vice-chairman will attend?"
Steven grunted. "Price would be glad not to have Brentley attend. Brentley is a thorn in his side. But Brentley has been chairman since the inception of the company and the other members would not attend a meeting of such importance without him."
Steven peered down the road and they lapsed into silence. The cricket symphony abruptly halted and, an instant later, the faint clop of hooves and turning of carriage wheels sounded on the public road up ahead. Marcus squinted until the outline of a coach took shape in the darkness.
"Brentley," Steven said.
The carriage passed through the gates and the darkness, once again, closed in around it. The nightlife sprang back to life. Still, Marcus waited several long moments, acutely aware of his companion's impatience before saying, "Now, Brother," and urged his horse from the cover of trees.
They slowed their horses through the gates and onto the gravel of the private lane. The cool air of fall brushed across Marcus's face, then snaked its way between his collar and neck in chilled fingers. The road wound through the grounds until, at last, a faint glow lit a beacon through the thick trees to the left. The road made a sudden left turn and the mansion came into view, two gas lights blazing on each side of the doors. No servant waited to greet them. All expected guests had arrived. Both men dismounted at the base of the stairs and hurried to the door. Steven entered with Marcus close behind. A butler appeared from a door at the end of the hallway carrying a tray laden with decanter and glasses.