One Night of Sin (20 page)

Alec watched her with a brooding stare, mulling over her words. She glanced at him sorrowfully and searched his face, trying to gauge his reaction. If he didn’t believe her, she did not think she could go on. She bit her tongue, however, and waited for him to break the silence. Rather than speaking, he slowly reached over and took her hand between both of his.

Tears rushed into her eyes.

She moved toward him, and he pulled her into his arms. Trembling with soul-deep gratitude, she closed her eyes and took strength from his embrace.

“Oh, Alec, I feel so awful. That’s why I didn’t want to bring you into this, you see? I’m already responsible for that man’s death.”

“No, sweeting, you tried to free him!” he exclaimed in a tender whisper. “You tried to help. They’re the ones who took his life.” His hold on her was firm yet gentle, and she could feel the fierce protectiveness in his touch as he stroked her hair. “You probably gave him the only chance he could have had to get away. You did the right thing.”

“I tried, but it wasn’t enough.”

“Most people would have run. You stayed despite your fear and got him out of there.”

She shook her head. “How could I have been so blind? I can’t believe it was going on right under my nose. I still have no idea who he was or why they were holding him. Do you know what the worst part is? I dropped the medal he gave me somewhere out on the moors. Whoever he was, now his family will have nothing at all to remember him by. I tried to find it, but they were coming after me so fast . . . I had to run. It’s probably still out there somewhere, rusting. I just feel so awful.”

“You did all you could. You mustn’t blame yourself, Becky.” He kissed her head. “Everything’s going to be all right. We’ll get your home back for you, and then we’ll get everyone in your village, if need be, to help scour the moors until we find it. Your cousin’s not going to get away with this. I promise you that.”

Struggling against tears, she hugged him tightly. “I’m scared, Alec.” She buried her face against his neck.

“I know, sweetheart. But you’re not alone in this anymore, do you understand? Whatever happens, we will face this together. And I’ll tell you something else.” Cupping her cheek, he leaned closer and kissed her forehead. “I’m not letting you out of my sight until this is resolved.”

“You’re not?”

“No.” He shook his head slowly, trying to coax a smile from her. “I am appointing myself your royal bodyguard, my lady. I trust that you are pleased.”

It worked. She succumbed to a hapless smile and blushed, dropping her gaze. “I am.” Reliving the still vivid nightmare in the telling of her tale, she was all too happy now to accept his protection in lieu of his forced, dutiful offer of marriage.

“Good.” Turning away with a resolute nod, Alec stood and took charge, climbing out of the pew to prowl restlessly across the chapel. “Very well, then. We must determine the best way to proceed.”

Watching him, Becky could not think of anyone she would have rather had as an ally. “Mikhail has come to London now, as you’ve seen, but I’m sure some of his Cossacks are still stationed in the village or even at the Hall in case I try to come back.”

“Well, you’re not going back until it’s safe.” Alec shrugged the tension out of his shoulders. “First off, you’re sure the property is not entailed?”

“Certain of it,” she answered, nodding as the creaking of the great church doors alerted them that the faithful had begun drifting in early for the noon service. “It can be purchased—if my cousin can be induced to sell it.”

“Or tricked into losing it somehow, hm?” he murmured wickedly.

“What do you mean?”

Alec was already onto the next thought, still pacing. Arms folded across his chest, he tapped his lips with his finger in thought. “But . . . if we prosecute him first and succeed in getting him convicted of a felony, his property will be forfeited to the Crown, and then it will be even more difficult for you ever to get your home back. Either the royals will keep the Hall for their own private use or will put it up for auction, where you will surely be outbid and outspent. After all, an ancient manor near a grousing heath would no doubt prove quite appealing to the shooting set, also given its historical significance. Best not to call attention to the place, or that’ll drive the price straight up.”

“I hadn’t thought of that.” She frowned. “So, what should we do?”

“Seems to me we should work on getting your house back first and
then
bring your cousin to justice. The sooner we get the house away from him, the sooner his troops will clear out of your village. It shouldn’t be too difficult, since it sounds like he’s not that keen on the property, anyway. We just have to figure out where to hide you in the meantime and how to get the best price for that jewel. May I see it?” he asked respectfully.

She nodded and withdrew it from her bodice, handing it to him with greater confidence this time and a slight smile of contrition. Alec accepted it with a gaze that assured her there were no hard feelings for her earlier doubt.

“I hate for you to have to sell your family heirloom,” he mused aloud as he took it from her and sauntered over toward the stained-glass window to inspect it by the light. “I have a great many friends in the aristocracy who are obsessed with collecting such baubles. Who knows? For the sake of gallantry, even Drax or Rushford might keep it in trust for you—”

“No!”

He looked over in surprise.

“Forgive me, Alec, I know they are your friends, but they are not the sort of men a girl would like to be indebted to.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“I am certain Lord Rushford hates me after I kicked him, anyway. Please—I don’t want the whole world knowing how Mikhail threatened me or how my own family cast me off. I am . . . a rather private person, if you hadn’t noticed. It was hard enough to share it all with you. I was only going to tell the Duke of Westland out of necessity. Please promise me you won’t get anybody else involved.”

“Well, that makes it more difficult, but . . . very well. If that’s how you feel.” That sturdy male pride gleamed in his eyes again. “I’m sure I am perfectly capable of handling this on my own, in any case.”

“Thank you,” she said in relief.

“Let’s see what we’ve got here.” He slipped the ruby out of its little leather pouch and took it between his fingers, holding it up to the light. “I’m told I have quite an eye for beautiful things.” He sent her a suggestive half smile.

“Who told you that?”

“George.”

“George who?”

“H.R.H. Prince of Wales. You know—” His brief glance brimmed with droll humor. “Prinny.”

“The Regent?” she exclaimed, then quickly reminded herself to lower her voice while Alec chuckled. They were, after all, in a church. “You know the Regent?”

“Oh, sure. We’ve played cards on many occasions. Daresay I’m one of the few people who actually likes him.”

She was still marveling at this revelation when the church door creaked open again. She glanced over nervously and saw more parishioners coming in. “We’re going to have to leave soon. The service will be starting any minute. Well?” she prodded, unable to resist her impatience. “Any idea how much it might be worth?”

Alec did not answer; he had not moved.

Standing in profile to her below the stained-glass window, he continued scrutinizing the ruby by a single shaft of sunlight.

“Oh, dear,” he murmured.

Becky did not like the sound of that. “What is it?”

Without explanation, he pivoted and walked out of the chapel into the brighter nave.

She followed, bewildered. “Alec?”

He still did not answer.

Ignoring the people taking their seats for the service, he walked over to one of the colorless windows and studied the jewel again for a long moment, his chiseled face etched with intense concentration.

“Alec, what’s the matter?” she demanded.

Slowly lowering the ruby, he turned to her with a dazed look. “Uh, Becky—I’m not sure how to tell you this.”

“Tell me what?” she exclaimed, her heart pounding.

He put the jewel back in her hand with an apologetic wince. “It’s a fake.”

CHAPTER

SEVEN

“
I
t can’t be!”

“It is,” Alec said, chagrined to have to be the one to tell her.

“But the Rose of Indra has been in my family for centuries!”

“Shh!” an old lady hushed them as the scant congregation rose and began singing the entrance hymn.

Alec took Becky’s arm and led her out of the church. “It’s not an uncommon situation,” he explained in a low tone as he opened the heavy door for her. “One of your ancestors must have gotten into a scrape, sold the original for ready money, and then replaced it with this in hopes the family would never find out. Trust me, this sort of thing happens every day.”

“But it’s just not possible!” she insisted as they went back out into the dappled sunshine of the churchyard, the heavy door slowly creaking shut behind them, muffling the opening strains of a familiar hymn. “I’m sure you’re wrong!”

“I know I’m right. I’m sorry, Becky. I know about jewels and such. I’ve been around the finer things my whole life, and that,” he said emphatically, “is a fake. It’s paste—a form of glass. If you were to hit it against something hard, it would shatter into bits.”

“Well, we’ll just see about that!” A blazing light came into her eyes as she turned away, but he was too slow to stop her.

“Becky, don’t—”

Bang!

She smashed it against the stone balustrade and cried out in shock as it crumbled into a few fractured pieces and a handful of strawberry-colored dust in her palm.

She stared at it in horror.

“Oh, Becky,” Alec said wearily, setting his hands on his waist with a sigh. “I wish you wouldn’t have done that.” She really was a rash and impetuous creature, he thought. Not so unlike him.

As the sandy remains of the fake jewel sifted through her fingers, she lifted her stricken gaze to Alec, utterly at a loss.

“It wasn’t entirely worthless,” he informed her in a rueful tone. “Even as paste, we still could have sold the thing for twenty, thirty quid.”

“Thirty quid?” she cried, her face ashen. “That’s not enough to buy my house back! It’s going to cost at least five thousand pounds!”

“No, but it would have been enough to get me into a respectable game of cards.”

“Cards?”
she gasped. “You intend to gamble for the money?”

He shrugged and held her in a blunt stare. “Got any better ideas?”

A short while later they were in a hackney coach, headed where, Becky neither knew nor cared. Her cause was lost already. She was sure of it.

She was ruined. She was broke, cast upon the charity of her ravisher. She could not get to Westland, and her only hope now of saving her village from Mikhail and his Cossack army was a rakehell gambler without any luck. She was doomed.

Outside the carriage window, London went high-stepping by with its usual crisp self-importance, but she could only gaze unseeingly out the carriage window, still numb to discover that the jewel she had been guarding with her life was just a bit of glass, exactly as the first jeweler had tried to tell her when she arrived in the Town.

So much for her inheritance. She felt like such a dimwit. Of course her kin would never have left her anything of real value. Who did she think she was fooling? Men like Mikhail always got away with their crimes. He was a prince, boyhood friend of the Czar. He had all the resources of her grandfather’s title and fortune at his disposal, not to mention his own barbarian horde. She was no match for him, even with Alec’s help.

“Becky?”

She realized he had been staring at her when he squeezed her shoulder in a gentle offering of comfort. “Are you all right? Talk to me. You’re too quiet.”

She shrugged. “It’s ironic, isn’t it? You pretend to be rich when you’re not; I pretended to be a harlot to secure the food and shelter you offered; and now the Rose of Indra has turned out to be something it’s not, as well.” She started laughing dully, shaking her head. “Glass!”

“It’s going to be all right, Becky. I won’t let you down.”

“Oh, Alec, I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, I truly don’t, but how can this mad plan possibly work—gambling for the money to buy my house back? At my grandfather’s death the property and its three hundred acres were assessed at over five thousand pounds, and you said yourself you’ve been on a losing streak.”

“There are ways. Strategy games that take more skill than luck.”

“Like what?”

“Whist and vingt-et-un. Those weren’t the games that got me into trouble, you see.” He hesitated. “It was faro. Hazard. Games of chance. And I—I could play cautiously. I usually don’t,” he admitted after a moment.

“Oh, God,” she breathed, looking away in disbelief.

“Try to trust me, Becky. I know you’re scared, but—try.”

Staring out the coach window, she could feel his earnest gaze upon her. “It seems I have no choice.”

Before long the carriage slowed to a halt. Alec jumped out first, helping Becky to descend.

“What is this place?” she murmured, shading her eyes against the noonday sun as she glanced up at the towering Palladian mansion at the edge of Green Park.

“Knight House.” Behind them the hackney clattered away again, rolling off toward St. James’s Street. “This is my eldest brother Robert’s house. He is the Duke of Hawkscliffe. Nobody’s home,” he added to soothe the quick flash of alarm in her violet eyes, given his promise not to bring anyone else into their quest. “The whole clan’s gone north to Hawkscliffe Hall for the summer. A blessed event is expected by the end of the month, Their Graces’ second child. The other women all wanted to be there to help when the babe comes, so Jacinda and Lizzie have gone up to the castle with Rackford and Strathmore. Demon and Lucifer have also gone up to the castle with their wives.”

She furrowed her brow. “Demon and Lucifer?”

“Sorry—Damien and Lucien, the twins.”

“Oh. It’s not very nice to call your brothers that, is it?”

He grinned. “Maybe not, but it fits.”

“How come you’re not with them?” she asked, slanting him a pointed glance.

“It’s, ah, complicated.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“Let’s just say they’re a little out of charity with me.”

“Oh,” she remarked, reluctantly restraining her female curiosity, much to his relief.

Walking her up to the stately front entrance of Knight House, Alec thought about his family gathered for the summer at the old ancestral pile, missing them with great affection. Most of all he hoped that Bel was doing all right. In many ways, the beautiful young duchess had become the heart of the family since Robert had married her a few years ago.

Alec did not mention it to Becky, but the doctors had voiced some concerns about Bel’s second pregnancy. He did not know why. He only knew there was no way he was going to disturb them at a time like this. If he wrote to Robert to get advice about Becky’s situation, Bel would be able to tell in a glance that something was preying on her husband’s mind. She would no doubt manage to finagle the whole disturbing story out of Robert, and that could not be allowed. Nothing must upset her and risk her health or the babe’s. In any case, Alec had no intention of drawing Robert’s attention away from his wife’s side at this critical time.

He could still contact the twins—well, easygoing Lucien, anyway. No-nonsense Damien was still disgruntled at him for coaxing a loan out of his heiress-bride, Miranda, a few months ago. Alec knew he shouldn’t have done it, but he was desperate, and after all, he and Miranda had been great chums ever since the statuesque, raven-haired beauty had married into the family. But aside from having promised Becky that he would not involve anyone else, it was the thought of his wee nieces and nephews that forbade Alec from calling on his brothers.

It would be wrong to call their papas into action and risk their lives when his brothers had young children at home. No, Alec reflected, the heroic twins had already faced more than their share of peril in the war. If he got in over his head, then he would call in the cavalry, but not one bloody moment sooner. This was something that he had to do by himself. Baby brother was on his own.

He suddenly noticed that Becky seemed to be shrinking into her pelisse; she hung back with an overawed stare up at Knight House’s soaring columns, haughty portico, and gleaming white facade. “Something wrong?”

“It’s very grand, isn’t it?” she murmured.

“That is the idea,” he said wryly. Looking askance at her, he realized his plucky country lass was beginning to feel very much out of her element. He glanced again at the family showplace and did not need to wonder why.

The Town residence of the Hawkscliffe dukes had been built to intimidate all who entered, an opulent statement in stone of the family’s pomp and power, from its fortresslike foundations to the crown of bronze goddesses posing here and there around the roof.

“What are we doing here, anyway?” She didn’t look quite keen on going in.

Little did she know most girls of the ton would have killed for an invitation to Knight House, especially for a private tour on the arm of one of the Knight brothers.

“I daren’t risk bringing you back to the Althorpe after what happened in the mews. Just in case there were any witnesses to my battle this morning, I don’t want your cousin to be able to track you through me.”

“Do you think he could?”

Alec shrugged. “I’m not taking any chances. My neighbors, as you noticed, are all young bucks. Can’t bring a chit as pretty as you into that place without everybody noticing. Roger Manners is probably the only one who got a good look at you so far, and he’s sensible enough to keep his mouth shut, but it’s best to play it safe. Besides, if you’re going to be staying with me for a while, we’ll need some supplies.”

“Like what?”

“Has anybody ever told you that you ask too many questions?” he asked lightly. “Come.” Giving her hand a gentle squeeze, their fingers still firmly linked, he walked in without knocking, drawing Becky with him.

“Crikey,” she breathed, ogling the white marble entrance hall and curved staircase that floated up to the first floor without any visible supports.

Alec turned at the sound of slow footsteps and spied gray-haired Mr. Walsh, the unsmiling Hawkscliffe butler, approaching at his usual funereal march. Mr. Walsh’s nostrils flared at the sight of the family’s scapegrace youngest son with yet another disheveled female, but Alec grinned.

“Good morning, Walshie!”

The butler honored him with a dutiful nod. “Lord Alec,” he intoned, then bowed to Becky. “Miss.”

“Good day, sir,” Becky mumbled, slipping partly behind Alec in a sudden fit of shyness. Apparently his little battle-maiden was more frightened of the superior, frosty-eyed butler than she had been of the Cossacks. Recalling the bad luck she’d had with ducal butlers earlier today, Alec could understand why.

Mr. Walsh now eyed her with discreet suspicion and a stare that seemed to demand: Who might
you
be, on the arm of one of our young masters? And
where,
young lady, is your chaperon?

Harrumph,
he seemed to say to himself before turning to Alec with arrogant precision. “How might I be of service, my lord?”

Alec cleared his throat. A distraction was needed to occupy this formidable old guardian of the doorway. “Will you, ah, have a spot of breakfast prepared for us in the morning room?”

Mr. Walsh pursed his lips and bowed. “Right away, sir.”

“Excellent. Capital chap. Miss Ward: this way.”

“He’s terrifying,” Becky whispered as they mounted the grand staircase side by side.

“No, he only pretends, trust me.” He hurried her up to the third floor and showed her down the upstairs corridor, trying to remember which was Bel’s dressing room. “You’ll have him eating out of your hand within the hour.”

“I don’t know about that.”

Hearing Mr. Walsh’s footfalls echoing swiftly behind them, Alec gave an indignant growl under his breath. Becky glanced back worriedly at the butler, but Alec nodded to her to follow and marched on.

He stopped abruptly and turned around. “I say, old boy, are you following us?”