A Dangerous Man (2 page)

When the door swung open, Jamison drew a steadying
breath, then turned to meet the man approaching him with a
swift and forceful stride.

Richard Wexton, the sixth Duke of St. Austin, was the pinnacle of aristocratic elegance and everything Jamison longed
to be. Power and authority were etched in every line of his
face, from his firm, high cheekbones to his strong, square-cut
chin. The raven hair that fell in reckless disarray about his
face conveyed an air of negligent grace, while the haughty tilt of his head and proud, squared shoulders spoke of an arrogance ingrained through the ages.

There was no doubt about it. The man would breed fine
sons, and Jamison wanted him for his daughter.

"Thank you for agreeing to meet with me on such short
notice," the duke said. His baritone voice rang with the easy
self-assurance one would expect from a man of his station,
and Jamison couldn't help but smile.

"Not at all, Your Grace. Would you care for a refreshment?
Perhaps a glass of claret?"

"No, thank you. I would like to come straight to the point,
if I may."

"Certainly." Jamison gestured to the leather-padded armchair facing his mahogany pedestal desk before returning to
his seat. Sunlight from the bay windows behind him glinted
off the polished desktop. He moved a ledger to block the
glare. "How may I help you, Your Grace?"

"I am here on behalf of my brother," he said. "I understand
he lost a substantial amount of money to you at cards last
night. I would like to settle his debt."

Jamison grabbed a quill from the standish. He ran his fingers up and down the feathered tip as he carefully worded his
response. He eyed the duke. "He was your brother, you say?"

A flicker of amused disbelief flashed in the duke's black
eyes. "Are you implying you didn't know who he was?"

"No, I did not. Truth to tell, until a few moments ago, I
thought he was you. He said he was St. Austin."

Not a hint of emotion crossed the duke's face. "That is a
very serious and upsetting claim. And, I might add, somewhat
difficult to believe."

Jamison flung the quill to the floor and shot to his feet. "Do
you dare to imply that I lie?"

"Not at all," the duke replied without hesitation. "It merely
seems my brother neglected to provide me with all the details of his encounter with you. Perhaps you would care to
enlighten me?"

Jamison gave a stiff nod, then settled back on his seat.
"The lad claimed he was St. Austin. I thought it strange, a
duke in a place like that-The Pigeon Hole ain't real popular
with the titled folk, don't you know-but I saw no reason to
doubt him."

"I see" The words were clipped, controlled, the slightest
tightening of his jaw the duke's only visible reaction before
he continued in a cool voice. "Please, allow me to apologize
for any inconvenience this misunderstanding might have
caused you. You may rest assured, I will deal with my brother
when I get home. If you would present me with his vowels, I
will settle them for you"

Jamison crushed his shaking palms against his knees, all
the while praying he could keep the quiver from creeping into
his voice. "I'm afraid it might be a trifle more complicated
than that"

"What do you mean?"

The words, spoken with icy disdain, sliced through the air
like daggers hurled at Jamison's chest. Sweat drenched his
neck even though the temperature in the room seemed to have
dropped twenty degrees. He yanked his handkerchief from
his waistcoat pocket and swiftly mopped his brow. "Well, he
was pretending to be you. So he signed his note with your
name. And lest you don't believe me, I have the note to prove
it! It seems what we have here, Your Grace, is a case of forgery and fraud, not to mention the insult given me by this deception."

"I see. Exactly how much did Geoffrey lose?"

"Thirty thousand pounds"

"A significant amount of money indeed." The duke flicked
his hand through the air. "Although no excuse, Geoffrey is
young and given to rashness as all young men are. How much
would it take to rectify this situation and alleviate the pain you suffered from this deception? Would, say, sixty thousand
pounds suffice?"

"You insult me again!"

"Forgive me," the duke drawled in a voice that implied he
was anything but sorry. "I fail to see how an offer of sixty
thousand pounds could be construed as an insult."

"I do not want your money."

"It is merely a settlement to ease the anguish you suffered
from this deception."

The condescension dripping from the duke's voice made
Jamison seethe. "I do not want your money," he bit out. "I
do not need it. I own most of the cotton mills in Lancashire.
I've no doubt I have more money than you!"

The duke relaxed in his chair and crossed a booted foot
over his knee. His sun-darkened features were perfectly composed, but the eyes that studied Jamison over steepled fingers
were as hard and unforgiving as the jagged cliffs that carve
the northern coast of Devon where Jamison had lived as a
boy. Bitter memories of gnawing hunger and ragged clothing
flashed through his mind.

At that moment, he hated the duke for his privileged birth
almost as much as he coveted his noble title and envied his
cool composure. Good God, how could the man look and
act as if they were discussing the weather rather than a criminal act that would cast shame and dishonor upon his family
name?

Suddenly, the duke smiled. It was more a savage baring of
teeth than an expression of amusement. "Exactly what is it
you want?"

A shiver coursed over Jamison's skin. This was it, the
moment for which he had waited a lifetime. He perched on
the edge of his chair. "I have a daughter. A lovely girl, just
eighteen. As sweet and biddable as you please."

He stabbed his finger through the air. "I want you to wed
her. In return, after the birth of an heir, I will give your brother's note to you. If you refuse, I will have no choice but
to go to the authorities."

The duke grinned. "What an amazing man you are. You
think lying beneath you, and yet, you've managed to refine
blackmail into a true work of art"

Jamison bit back his angry retort. "What will it be, Your
Grace? A scandal? Or a wedding?"

The duke said nothing. He merely arched one thick, black
brow. He kept his keen eyes trained on Jamison as he waited,
seemingly undisturbed by the silence between them.

Jamison fought the urge to wiggle beneath the duke's unrelenting stare. He had come too far to turn back now. He
clenched his fist. "I repeat: What will it be?"

The duke laughed. "Although I admire your ingenuity, I fear
I must decline. A cotton miller's daughter is hardly suitable
material for a duke's wife."

"There is nothing unsuitable about Leah," Jamison retorted. "She is pretty enough to look at, but her dowry is the
real prize. Two hundred fifty thousand pounds, plus more at
the birth of an heir. Such wealth makes her acceptable to any
level of the nobility, eh, Your Grace? It's done all the time,
ain't it? If you don't agree, your brother will find himself in
the Fleet."

The duke shrugged. "A few months in the Fleet will not
kill him. Then again. . ." A wry smile graced his lips. "Let
Geoffrey wed the chit as payment for his debt. It is a
supremely fitting punishment, and given the option of a wedding or gaol, even he would choose the wedding-"

"Oh, no, Your Grace, that won't do. The boy's a tosspot as
well as a gamester. I have no desire to see my money lost at
the tables. Besides, I'm of a mind to be grandfather to a title.
It will have to be you, or no one"

"Then it will be no one"

Jamison slammed his fist on the desk. "If your brother's treachery becomes public knowledge, the Wexton name will
be synonymous with scandal and dishonor."

"Scandal is nothing new to the Wexton name, so that threat
holds no weight." The duke rose from his chair. He pulled tan
kid gloves from his frock coat pocket and slowly drew them
on. "Better men than you have tried and failed to bring me
to the altar with their `ever so sweet and biddable daughters.'
Go to the authorities, with my blessing. But remember, extortion is also a crime. You will find yourself in the Fleet right
beside Geoffrey."

He pivoted on his heel and headed for the door.

"I do not think you want to do that," Jamison called after
him, his voice laden with quiet confidence.

The duke swung around and fixed him with his cold, dark
stare.

"Your brother was deep in his cups" Jamison shook his
head in mock dismay, then heaved a heavy sigh. "Drink.
Loosens the tongue, don't you know. Things get said that are
better left unsaid. Things of a delicate nature. Very delicate,
I'd say. And once a rumor starts, well ... there is no calling
it back, is there?"

The duke took two steps forward and flattened his palms
on the desk. His eyes flashed with lethal promise as he towered over Jamison. "I am not sure what you think you know,"
he said in a voice gone soft and deadly. "But take caution if
you dare to threaten me ""

"Threaten you?" Jamison held up his hands. "No, you mistake the matter. 'Tis the truth I'm talking about. How can the
truth hurt? Unless, of course, one is afraid of the truth. Tell
me, St. Austin, are you afraid of the truth?"

The duke narrowed his eyes.

Confident now that he had the man right where he wanted
him, Jamison smiled and leaned back in his chair. "Before you
refuse my offer, you should contemplate that scandal ... then
think of Lady Alison."

"Should we send for the doctor?" Leah Jamison pushed the
auburn hair off the young boy's brow. His skin, slick with
sweat and sticky beneath her palm, was growing hotter by the
moment, and still he shivered.

Mrs. Bristoll, her cheeks ruddy from boiling a posset of
milk and ale, placed the steaming cup on the sideboard by the
make-shift bed. They had moved Thomas into the pantry in
hopes of keeping the illness from spreading to the other children. "Do not worry yourself, miss. 'Tis only a childhood
grippe. It will pass"

Leah's doubt must have shown on her face, for the stout
matron patted Leah's shoulder, as if she were one of her
charges. The scent of sorrel and red sage rose from her apron.
"The posset will sweat the fever from him. He will be up and
about by tomorrow. I promise you that"

The illness had come on so swiftly, Leah greatly feared it
was much more serious than a mere childhood complaint, but
Mrs. Bristoll had years of experience caring for children.
Surely she must know of what she spoke.

With a sigh, Leah gathered her cloak. She did not want to
leave, even though she knew she must. Her father would
suffer fits if she did not appear properly dressed at their evening meal. Provided she remained the dutiful daughter, he
did not seem to care how or where she spent her days, though
she shuddered to think what would happen if he learned of
her visits to the foundling home.

No, she could not risk it. She had to go.

She cast a last, lingering look at Thomas. Huddled beneath
the blankets, he looked too small, too helpless. If only her father
were a different man, she would scoop the boy into her arms and
carry him home. She pulled her hood up over her hair. "You will
send word if he worsens?"

"Of course," Mrs. Bristoll said. She escorted Leah to the
door, waiting until she climbed into her carriage before disappearing back into the house.

As the carriage rattled its way over the cobbled streets,
the crumbling, overcrowded tenements of St. Giles soon gave
way to the beautiful homes of Bloomsbury Square.

The stark contrast never failed to startle Leah.

Her first warning that she had stayed away from home too
long came when she climbed from the carriage and noticed
that the afternoon sun had given way to dusk. The second
came from her aunt's frantic greeting at the door.

"Where have you been? You are late," Emma said, her
hands fluttering through the air. Tufts of gray hair had escaped from the knot at the base of her neck and now curled
wildly about her cheeks. "Your father wishes to see you in his
library. He is in such a state. Hurry, my dear. Hurry."

Her aunt's obvious distress was so at odds with her usual
placid demeanor, Leah cringed. Papa must be furious indeed.
She handed her cloak to the waiting footman before heading
through the hall. "Any hint to the crisis?"

Emma shook her head as she scurried to match Leah's
rapid pace. "But he set the servants to searching for you over
half an hour ago. As Alexander chose that moment to call,
you can well imagine your father was not pleased."

No, he would not have been, as Papa had no liking for Alexander, though Leah could not imagine why. A kinder,
more respectable young man had never existed. "I was not expecting Alex until this evening. Did he leave a message?"

"The dear boy was most apologetic," Emma said, a tender
smile softening her harried expression. "He cannot escort us
to the theater tomorrow, as he had hoped. An urgent summons
from his grandmother has called him to Suffolk."

Oh, bad news indeed, but Leah had no time to dwell on this
pronouncement, as the library door had snapped open and her
father was glaring at her, his lips curling as he took in the
soggy state of her frock.

When he lifted his hand, Leah stepped back, but not quickly
enough to keep him from grabbing her forearm and dragging
her into the room. He propelled her toward a gentleman who
stood facing the bookshelf on the far wall.

The stranger did not turn or give any indication that he
heard the commotion behind him. The exquisite cut of his
clothing revealed a powerful frame blessed with long legs and
glossy black hair curling roguishly over a pair of stunningly
broad shoulders. Hands crossed behind his back, he held his
head high and his spine straight in the easy, graceful stance
of a man supremely confident of his worth.