Her Secret Affair (13 page)

“Don’t stand there gawking,” the duke said. “Come closer. Let me have a better look at you.”

Isabel advanced one step. “I’ve come to ask you a few questions, Your Grace.”

“Questions, bah. I’ll ask the questions. Are you the one I sent for?”

“Sent for?”

“Never mind, never mind. Just tell me your name.”

“Isabel.” Watching him closely, she added, “I’m Isabel Darling.”

Letting out a dry laugh, he slapped the gold-embroidered counterpane. “Then come,
darling.
Come to me, you brazen hussy.” His forefinger crooked, he beckoned to her.

Her skin crawled as she looked into his uncomprehending eyes. “You misunderstand—I wasn’t being forward. My given name is Darling. I’m Aurora’s daughter.”

“Aurora?” He blinked in confusion. “Aurora Darling?”

Isabel nodded. “She called you Zeus. She described you in her memoirs.”

His lip curled in disdain. “I remember now. The brassy bitch wrote about me without my consent. And when I told her to stop, she sent me away with a cuff to the ear. As if I were a stable boy.”

The resentment contorting his face startled Isabel. Was he the one, then? Was this half-mad invalid her mother’s murderer?

Isabel chose her words with care. “You must have been furious. What would you do to a woman who made you angry?”

“I have my ways of dealing with headstrong females.” A lewd grin curled his lips and he motioned to her again. “Come here and I’ll show you.”

Isabel remained at the foot of the bed. She was conscious of the damning memoirs, tucked into the little pocket beneath her skirt. “So you visited Aurora about a month before her death last spring. Did you go back to see her after that one time?”

“Death?” He shook his head. “What sort of blather is this?”

“Surely you knew. She became gravely ill several days after you visited her.” Isabel’s throat caught, and her voice grew whispery. “Perhaps you gave her something to eat or drink.”

“Eh?” He cupped his ear. “What have you brought me to drink? Not more of that accursed medicine.”

Was he deliberately acting obtuse? Time was wasting. The servant would return soon, and Helen waited downstairs. Isabel decided to reveal what Minnie had reported. “A man was seen going into my mother’s chamber late on the night before she took ill. When was the last time
you
saw her?”

“Ill,” he muttered. “I’ve had enough talk of illness. Fetch me my backgammon set. You and I shall play.”

“I’ve not come here to play games, Your Grace. I’m simply curious. Did you bring my mother a gift? A box of sweets perhaps? Or a bottle of wine?” If he was determined to stop her from completing her memoirs, he could have added arsenic to any food or drink.

“Stop your babbling. Never did like a female who rattled on too much.” He pointed across the room. “It’s over there.”

It?
She whirled around, half expecting to see a flask of poisoned wine or a signed confession. But there was only the backgammon board sitting upon a marble-topped table.

“Bring it here,” the duke ordered testily. “Or I’ll send you away.”

What did he hope to accomplish by playing a game? Why not simply deny his involvement in the death and be done?

Deciding to humor him, she walked across the fine oriental carpet and picked up the heavy board, carrying it to the foot of the bed.

“Not there,” the duke said. “Here.” He patted a place beside him.

Cautiously, Isabel approached him. He looked harmless enough, his shoulders slumped and his hands loosely linked in his lap. And he was an invalid, confined to his bed. Still, she was glad for the dagger hidden in her pocket along with the memoirs.

“Perhaps you’ll at least tell me how you learned Aurora was writing her memoirs,” Isabel said as she set the game on the counterpane. “Did one of her other lovers alert you?”

He made no reply. She glanced up to catch a wicked glint in his eyes. With a cry of conquest, he pounced.

His arms snaked out and dragged her onto the mattress. Her hip struck the backgammon board; the dice and playing pieces scattered. She fought him, wriggling and straining, but he held her pinned, his muscles surprisingly strong.

“Got you!” he snorted. “’Tis a fine jest, Aurora. Did I play along well enough to suit you?”

He thought she was her mother?
He must be mad, utterly mad. “You’re mistaken,” she cried out. “I’m Isabel. Release me at once.”

He grinned. “You always did fancy a chase. Remember the time I pretended to be a brigand and ran you down in the mews behind Carleton House? We’re lucky your moans of pleasure didn’t awaken the Regent.”

“I am
not
Aurora.”

“Of course not. You’re a coy virgin and I shall ravish you.”

Laughing in macabre delight, the duke shifted his hand to her breasts. She lashed out, but the bonnet ribbons hampered her arm. Seeing her dilemma, he only chortled the louder.

Bile choked her. If only she could reach her dagger.

“Demme,” he exclaimed. “You’re wearing a frigging corset. Roll over.”

Fighting panic, Isabel feigned compliance. This might be her only chance. As he shifted himself away, she plunged her hand into her pocket. And her shaking fingers closed around the haft of the knife.

Chapter 7

The chit had invaded his house.

Peeling off his gloves, Kern took the main stairs two at a time. He had arrived home a few moments ago to the news that Lady Helen Jeffries and Miss Isabel Darcy awaited him in the drawing room. The luckless footman had earned himself a rebuke, though Kern intended no further castigation.

He, too, had known the power of Isabel’s dark, hypnotic eyes. If anyone required punishing, it was her. Only her.

Holding a teacup, Helen met him at the opened doors of the drawing room. Her mouth wore a naïve smile. “Oh, Justin! How good it is to see you.”

“My lady.” Affording her a brief bow, he stepped into the long chamber and glanced around. But Isabel wasn’t sitting by the tea tray with its plate of cakes. She wasn’t hidden in a window seat or perusing a book in the corner.

The only other occupant of the room was Miss Gilbert. She scrambled off her chair and made a curtsy. “My lord!” she squeaked, dabbing at her lips with a handkerchief. “Oh dear. Oh dear me.”

Kern pivoted toward Helen. “Where is Miss Darcy?”

Her cheeks reddening, Helen bent down to place her teacup on the silver tray. “She needed a moment alone.”

“Where?”

“She had a … a pressing need.”

In a flash, he comprehended Helen’s blush—and Isabel’s diabolical cleverness. “How long has she been gone?”

“Perhaps fifteen minutes. I’m certain she’ll be back straightaway.”

Hell.
Bloody hell.

He tossed down his gloves and started toward the door, but a small hand alighted on his coat sleeve. “Justin, do take a seat,” Helen said. “I’ll pour you a cup of tea, then we can go over the guest list for our wedding.”

“Later.”

“Now,” she said with uncharacteristic firmness. “No doubt you’re angry that I ignored your wishes and came to call on you. However, as an independent woman, I must insist upon exercising my right to make my own decisions.”

This was more of Isabel’s doing, he realized grimly. She had used her influence to dupe a sweet, impressionable girl. All for the purpose of infiltrating his house and creating havoc.

All for the purpose of pursuing her scheme of blackmail.

“Rest assured, I’m not angry at you,” he said, patting Helen’s small hand with a gentleness that belied the violence churning within him. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I, too, have a pressing need.”

*   *   *

Isabel crouched on the bed and watched the Duke of Lynwood. His green eyes were rounded with bafflement, like a child whose toy has been snatched from him. In contrast to the gleeful rapist of a moment ago, he lay perfectly still.

And for good reason.

She held the knife to his privates. “Touch me again, and I’ll unman you.”

Praying he wouldn’t challenge her, Isabel slowly scooted backward on the mattress, never taking her gaze from him. Her heart drummed against her ribcage. The only sounds were the hiss of her quick breaths and the rustling of her skirts. When she reached the foot of the bed, she angled her legs toward the floor. Shakily, she stood up and backed away, brandishing the dagger. She could still feel his ghostly hands on her, groping, pawing, violating. Hands that had once pleasured her mother.

But Isabel wouldn’t let herself think about that. Better she should use this opportunity to question him further. Yes. She should take advantage of his docility.

A deep breath failed to calm her. She could hear the quavering in her voice as she asked, “Now that I have your full attention, Your Grace, perhaps you’ll admit the truth. You added arsenic to some food you gave my mother, didn’t you? A box of chocolates perhaps.”

He stared blankly. “Chocolates? When did I give you chocolates?”

“Not me. My mother. Aurora Darling. She was poisoned—”

Behind her, the outer door clicked open. A draught of cool air eddied into the room. Quick, sharp steps approached through the sitting room.

The manservant.

Isabel’s knees nearly buckled, though she kept her watchful gaze on the duke. If only she had another moment. “Go away. His Grace and I are having a private conversation—”

“Take care!” Lynwood yelled, flapping the voluminous sleeves of his nightshirt. “The wench has a knife.”

A hand shackled Isabel’s wrist. The painful pressure wrested a cry from her. The dagger dropped from her numb fingers and thumped to the floor. And she found herself gazing up into the icy features of Lord Kern.

He held tightly to her arm. Her protest came out a dry, muted croak. Marshaling her scattered defenses, she returned his bold stare. For a moment they were locked in a silent battle for dominance. Then he released her so suddenly she stumbled backward and bumped into the wall. Unable to support herself, she sagged against it.

Lord Kern picked up her dagger and tucked it into an inner pocket of his coat.

Dear God.
Dear God.
She’d been caught. And yet strangely she felt safe now. Safe from the mad duke.

“The chit threatened to cut my balls off.” Slapping his hands over the nightshirt, Lynwood cupped that portion of his anatomy. “I don’t understand it. She enticed me, she toyed with me.”

“Miss Darling does like to play games,” Kern said, giving her a chilling look.

With effort she lifted her chin and glared back. “’Tis lucky you arrived when you did, m’lord. Else your papa would be a soprano by now.”

But Lord Kern didn’t appear to be listening. He walked to the bed and helped the old man slide beneath the coverlet. “Calm down, Your Grace. She won’t trouble you anymore. I shan’t allow it.”

“You won’t ever allow me a strumpet,” the duke whined; then abruptly he pounded his fists on the bed. “Bloody prison guard! This is
my
house and I’ll entertain whomever I please.”

At the bedside table, Kern calmly poured out a dose of liquid from the brown bottle and put the spoon to his father’s mouth. “Swallow.”

“No.”

“Swallow,” Kern repeated.

“It will castrate me swifter than any knife.”

“It’s your illness that’s castrated you. Now drink for the sake of your health.”

The duke took the spoonful and swished it around in his mouth. He slid a sly glance up at his son, who promptly pinched the duke’s nostrils shut, forcing him to swallow. Lynwood gulped and coughed, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. “Cold bastard.
You
never let your cock rule your wits.”

“Now there you’re wrong.” Lord Kern paused, his face hidden from Isabel as he looked down at his father. “I most certainly am not a bastard.”

She had but a moment to wonder at the animosity between father and son when the door opened, and the manservant came rushing inside, clad in clean livery embellished by spotless white lace. On seeing Lord Kern, he bobbed up and down like a jack-in-the-box and apologized to the point of groveling. Kern spoke a few words of instruction to him before turning from the bed.

Isabel straightened, concealing a shiver as the earl strode toward her. His face was stern, implacable in its handsomeness. He took her arm and hauled her out of the bedchamber, through the gloomy sitting room, and into the passageway. She stumbled along at his side, her petticoats tangling in her legs and her ruined bonnet bumping her hip.

He couldn’t intimidate her, she wouldn’t let him. With Helen waiting downstairs, he could only rage at Isabel and then let her go. What did a tongue-lashing matter when she had achieved her purpose in speaking to the duke?

Not that she had learned anything useful. She would have to return here …

“Lynwood is half mad,” she said. “That’s why you keep him confined to his chamber. You can’t trust him in public.”

Kern cast a dark glance at her. “At present,
he
is not the madman.”

On that ominous statement, he thrust open one of the many doors along the passage, escorting her into another enormous bedchamber. The closed draperies barred the sunlight. Dust sheets covered the chairs and bed, giving the illusion of ghoulish watchers.

He released her, pacing with restrained anger to the unlit hearth and back again. The click of his heels resounded on the wood floor.

Isabel’s skin prickled, and her bravado wavered in the face of cold male fury. “I should like to rejoin Lady Helen,” Isabel said. “She’ll be wondering what’s keeping me.”

She edged toward the door, but he stepped into her path. “Let her wonder. I’m sure you’ll come up with another lie.”

“It’s improper for the two of us to be alone. We’ll cause a scandal.”

“You should have considered that when you enticed an old man.” Kern looked her up and down as if he found her utterly contemptible. “No doubt you tried to sweeten your blackmail by offering yourself. Let it be known, I have legal control of Lynwood’s business affairs. So your efforts were for naught.”

“I wasn’t blackmailing him.”

“No? Then did you hope to take your mother’s place in his bed?”