Scandal (19 page)

And though he’d told himself to be calm, told himself not to sweat, Abraham jumped.

“I ought to kill you with my bare fists.”

Calm. Calm. Calm. “Has your challenge made you unbalanced, Your Grace? What reason would you have for saying such a thing? Indeed, you have no business being here—”

“Silence,” the duke said, his arm snaking out to clutch Abraham’s cravat by the loose ends. “One twist. Perhaps two, that is all it would take to suffocate the life out of you.”

“I say—”

Rein jerked, all but flinging him away. Abraham very nearly fell to his knees. Any hope that the duke did not know faded with each breath.

“If you had harmed her that day on the ship… if she had been standing near me, and the ball had gone through her heart… if that had happened, right now, Mr. Lassiter, you would be dead. By my own hand.”

And as he looked into the duke’s eyes, Abraham knew Wroxly spoke the truth. He began to shake, his limbs suddenly as unstable as a three-legged table.

“Why?” he asked. “All the way here I have asked myself why.”

Abraham swallowed. He didn’t answer, for there was still a chance…

“But then, as I arrived at your doorstep, saw what you have managed to afford on a solicitor’s salary, it hit me.” He lowered his head so that they were all but nose to nose. “My uncle was ill for two years prior to his death, too ill to manage his own money. The estate was put into your hands until his passing, into your care until the day I inherited the title.”

Bile began to bubble up his throat. The trembling became visibly noticeable.

He’d been discovered.

“How much did you take over the years?”

“Not a farthing, I swear.”

Rein jerked him so that their noses hit. “How much?” he asked in a voice that was low, yet filled with terrible menace.

Abraham found himself saying, “Just a pound here and there.”

The duke released him. There was still time to salvage this. Straightening his cravat, said, “I’ll pay you back. If you give me some time, I can—”

“Pay me back?” the duke interrupted. “Pay you back for dropping me in the worst of London’s slums, a rookery, where you planned to have me killed so that you could go on stealing from the estate?”

“No. I never hired—”

“Silence!” the duke roared, Abraham jumping in his shoes. “You,” he said more softly, “lied to me about the existence of a cousin. I broke into your offices this evening. There are no cousins. Indeed, I began to wonder if there even was a codicil to the will requiring my ‘test,’ though I’ve no doubt you could have forged the one I saw.”

“No,” Abraham said truthfully. “There was a test. I assure you.”

The duke did not reply. Indeed, Abraham knew he was being studied for the truthfulness of his words. He looked beyond the man, judging the distance between him and the door. The duke was a bumble-brain. It was a well-known fact. Perhaps he could trick him into moving aside—

“How many days was I truly supposed to stay in St. Giles?”

The astuteness of the words had Abraham glancing up at him quickly. How the blazes…

“A week? Two?”

Perhaps not as much a fool as the man’s uncle had thought.

“No. It wasn’t even that long, was it? I would wager it was four
days.
That way it was simple enough for you to change the word days to weeks. Such a small change. My uncle wouldn’t even have noticed it when he signed the will.”

Abraham decided that from this point forward he should likely remain quiet.

“Indeed, I wonder if I look at my uncle’s copy of the will what I would find.”

Desperation forced his feet to move. Abraham found himself lunging past the duke. But the man was twenty years his junior and light on his feet. A hand snatched out to stop him, another hand capturing his other arm, though the duke winced with pain as he did so.

“How long?” he said. “How long was the test originally supposed to be?”

Done for. All the duke would have to do was look at his uncle’s copy of the will…

“Four days.”

Wroxly released him, his face looking impassive. No, that wasn’t true. One side of his mouth tilted up a bit, his eyes suddenly bright. “Four days?” He threw back his head and laughed—yes, laughed. “Why not three, or five, Uncle?” he asked. “Surely you did not think four days would do me any good?”

Abraham made another dash for the door, this time opening it.

Mr. Stills, the Runner he’d hired just to make things look more legitimate, stood on the other side next to a stunning young woman Lassiter could only assume was Anna Brooks.

Rage, red and hot as bricks, suddenly caused him to lunge at her. If she hadn’t taken the duke in… if she hadn’t interfered—

The pistol blast hit him in the chest, knocking him off his feet, and at first he didn’t feel the pain in his back, at first he wondered what had happened to bring him down. Then he felt the heat, followed by a keening pain that made him gasp, only he had no breath. He couldn’t breathe.

“You’ve… shot me,” he managed to hiss in Rein’s direction.

Darkness began to descend.

“Indeed, I did,” he heard from a distance. “Just as you shot me.”

The darkness grew even more. And then Mr. Lassiter saw no more.

Chapter Twenty-three

Anna could scarcely believe that it was all over so quickly—and that her grandfather had been correct. Like the pieces of the wooden puzzles she’d loved to do as a child, it all fell into place.

The authorities were notified, Rein was questioned, a constable arrived. Further investigation revealed a will located at Rein’s uncle’s home. When the two were compared side by side, the word
days
had been changed to
weeks
, but only in one copy—the copy Abraham Lassiter had shown to Rein when he’d gone to the solicitor for the reading of the will.

“Crafty cull,” the barrel-chested constable had said, his basset hound cheeks quivering as he shook his head. “Unless one knew to look for the change, one would never have seen it. Like as not your uncle checked only one copy, judged them both to be correct, then blithely signed the original and the copy.”

“We’ll never know,” Rein said.

They’d only just moved to Rein’s town home, and what Anna saw there made her feel afraid to move: the plush light blue carpet in the sitting room she stood in matched by the ice blue settee and chairs placed near the center of the room.

He wanted her to be his mistress.

And though he was correct, though he’d never misled her about that fact, Anna understood now that she wanted more. So much more.

“Bloody odd business,” the constable said from his position on the armchair, the man spilling out over the edges. “I’ll wager you wish now you’d challenged the will from the moment it’d been read.”

Rein turned to face them. “No, Constable Caruthers, I do not wish that. Complying with the will’s challenge has been the making of me, as I suspect was my uncle’s intent.” His gaze met Anna’s, their eyes catching and holding. And as always happened, she felt the same lurch to her world, the same waves, the same sense of peace, his eyes clearly saying to her,
I would have never met you.

And he wouldn’t have. He was a duke. A peer of the realm. Far, far removed from St. Giles. It was as he’d said. She would need to be his mistress. She’d reasoned out on the long trip back to London that he couldn’t wed her, though a part of her had hoped…

And what a silly hope that had been. He was part of a different world. The
ton.
Wealth. Privilege.

Her stomach tightened. She looked away, her gaze catching on a vase made of crystal, the thing so shiny and large, she could see her reflection in the cut glass, fragmenting into pieces that looked exactly as she felt—broken, shattered, fallen apart.

“Still, I am pleased to be back home.”

“Don’t doubt it, Your Grace.”

When she managed to tear her gaze away from the splendid vase, she looked at the walls, at the fancy framed portraits that hung on them, at the sconces between, their covers shaped like the shells she used to collect back at the coast.

If she agreed to be his paramour, she would be no better than those other market maids who’d gone off to earn their living on their backs. And though that had once been all right, suddenly it felt far from right.

“Well, then,” the constable said, pushing his large girth out of the chair with a groan. “I’ll be off then, Your Grace.”

Your Grace. There it was again. The correct form of address for a duke. Not My Lord like the majority of nobility in England, but Your Grace, a title as old and distinguished as the Crown itself.

“Pleasure meeting you, Miss Brooks.”

She nodded, wondering if she should curtsy, trying to remember what her mother had taught her about rank and privilege. With an answering nod, the man left the room, Anna starting at the soft sound of the door closing behind him.

He wanted her to be his mistress.

She couldn’t do it.

“Come here,” Rein said, opening his arms.

Suddenly, she couldn’t move. So he moved to her, wrapping his arms around her, and as he did, a fear rose within her unlike any she’d felt before.

“You may spend the night here, if you wish.”

She didn’t wish. Goodness, just being in his house, unchaperoned, wasn’t really allowed, not that anyone cared about her reputation. But it was more than that. She was afraid to touch things here. Odd as it sounded, she wanted to go back to St. Giles. Or perhaps the cottage she and her grandfather had occupied until that afternoon.

“I should return to my grandfather.”

His gaze turned to one of concern. “Anna, I realize we haven’t had time to talk—”

“No,” she interrupted. “Not tonight. Let us speak of the future tomorrow.”

He didn’t look pleased with the idea. His eyes searched her own.

“Please,” she added.

And then he straightened, nodded a bit, tucked a strand of her hair back behind her ears. The pad of his finger made her shiver as it touched her cheek.

“Odd, but I’m afraid to let you go.”

She smiled bravely. “I’ve spent almost half my life on my own.”

“Indeed you have,” he said softly, his finger touching her lips now. And despite her fears, despite the heartache that’d begun to gnaw at her insides, she felt herself soften. This was what she wanted, to be with him, alone, in a room, forever. Instead she would have to share him with society, perhaps in a few years a wife and so many other obligations. Anna felt her anxieties multiply like a mound of ants, ones that crawled over her skin and made her want to run.

“Go,” he said, bending down and kissing her with a soft brush of his lips.

She stepped away from him then, though he still held her right hand, her worn and callused hand.

“I shall see you on the morrow.”

Would she? She wondered as the pad of his thumb lightly circled the knuckle of her index finger. Would he come back to her? Or would he suddenly realize that poor little Anna Brooks was a passing fancy?

She stepped forward, quickly kissing him on the cheek, holding her head next to his for a moment as she inhaled his scent.

Don’t leave me.

Don’t let me go.

She moved back. He released her, their hands falling away from each other.

“I’ll have my carriage brought around.”

“No, don’t—don’t disturb your staff.”

“Anna, you will not find a hack this time of night.”

She felt her shoulders bow a bit. He had a point.

“It will only take a trice.”

And, indeed, that was all it took, Anna wondering if Rein’s coachman had lain in wait for his summons. And perhaps he had. Lord, Rein likely had a staff of thirty just waiting on his every whim. She swallowed.

“What time does the judging start on the morrow?” Rein asked as he walked her out of the study and into a long hallway as wide as her attic back in St. Giles. A servant materialized from nowhere, making Anna jump, the candelabra he held lighting their way. Had all of his staff been waiting for her to leave?

“Anna?” Rein asked, reminding her that he’d asked a question.

She found herself looking up at him in confusion.

“The competition?” he prompted with a half smile.

Oh, good heavens, the competition. She’d forgotten. “Noon,” she said, lying to him for the first time since they’d met. But the thought of having him with her tomorrow, the thought of all those people bowing and curtsying to him, made her ill. She couldn’t do it. She wanted Rein back. Plain Mr. Rein Hemplewilt.

“Noon,” he said. “Good heavens. That seems a very odd hour.”

Because it was. The competitors would display their devices in the morning, and judging should be well over by noon. At least she hoped so. “They need to look over all the entries before awarding the prize.”

“Ah,” he said. “I see.”

From the dark street came the sound of a coach and horses. “Your carriage, my lady,” he said with a smile, giving her his arm, gnats flying past them and into the candlelight. Anna looked down the steps to spy a black carriage almost exactly like a coach she and Molly had spied once upon a time, one they’d imagined themselves riding in, the two of them laughing at how silly an idea that seemed.

He gave her his good arm. She took it without conscious thought, trying to control her sudden shaking as he led her toward it. And though it was dark, though it was the middle of the night, the coachman still had on his livery, and two postilions sat the horses on the right.

“A damn sight better than that bloody hack, eh?” he said as a tiger—a young man of no more than five and ten—came forward to open the door for her, the smell of the inside wafting out on a sudden draft stirred by the door. It smelled as rich and as fine as the mantua-makers’ shops down on Bond Street.

“Goodbye, my dear.”

She refused to meet his eyes, felt suddenly shy in front of his staff.

What a bloody fool. They were just people, people like him and her. They were employed by Rein, was all. Servants of the nobility, just as she had been when she’d sold her wares in the market. Except she’d been asked to become his mistress.

Dear God. He wanted her to become his mistress.

Odd, how it hit her then. Odd, how she’d been through so much with him, felt so much love for him, yet the thought of becoming his mistress suddenly filled her with such a sickness she could barely breathe.

She didn’t remember the door closing behind her. Didn’t glance at Rein as they set off. The whole way back to St. Giles—the outside noise so muted by the well- appointed carriage, she felt like she rode in a bubble—Anna fretted. Did he truly love her? He said he did—but did he? Was she a passing fancy? Now that he no longer needed her, would he tire of her? Dear God, what would she do if he did?

And though she didn’t know it happened, she found herself suddenly sobbing. Hers weren’t the slow tears of a woman holding on to herself by a thread, they were the deep, stomach-wrenching sobs of a woman who felt as if she’d lost a dream.

Something felt amiss, Rein thought, his carriage rolling past various ships moored to the quayside for the naval competition, colorful flags flying from their masts beneath a breezy, sunny sky. Odd ships, to be sure, and perhaps that was what bothered him. Two or three had machinery protruding from the decks, one looked to have had a tilted-back mast and, most strange of all, one ship had holes in the side for what looked to be oars. Oars. But as Rein’s coachman pulled his six horses to a stop in front of his yacht, he realized that wasn’t it. That wasn’t it at all.

There were no spectators.

Indeed, the length of pier sequestered off for the competition looked bloody deserted. Rein looked at the gangplank to his own yacht. No crew appeared ready to set sail, and most of all, there was no sign of Anna.

None.

Pulling the stiff brim of his black hat down low on his brow, he walked toward his ship. Perhaps they were all at the judging. But a glance up and down the quayside revealed a domed white tent, chairs set before it, but no naval personnel.

What the blazes?

He stopped, turned in a full circle, a swarm of leaves suddenly pushed by on an oddly warm breeze dancing around his feet. Next he glanced at his pocket watch, then tapped the face wondering if it might have stopped. But, no, his coachman had checked the time, too.

He turned toward his yacht, striding toward it with the firm steps of a man determined to get to the bottom of things.

The ship, however, was not deserted. Indeed, the moment he stepped on board, a man called out to him.

“Your Grace?”

Rein turned.

Captain Jones came at him, obviously having spied the rather grandiose carriage he now owned, the one with the ducal crest on the door. He could claim his wealth now, thanks to the swift action of the courts.

“Your Grace, might I tell you what a pleasure it is—”

Captain Jones came to a wall-slamming stop. Rein might have laughed if he hadn’t been so determined to find out what the blazes had happened to Anna.

“Why, you’re… you’re…”

“Just so,” Rein said, his eyes narrowing as he snapped, “Where is Miss Brooks?”

“She’s…” Jones straightened. “Your Grace, might I venture to say that you really should have told me—”

“No, you may not. Indeed, since you seem unable to tell me where Miss Brooks is, you might as well busy yourself packing your belongings. You, sir, are released from my employ.”

“Your Grace?”

Rein turned away.

“She’s on the poop deck,” the man called out, as if by telling him what he wanted to know it would save his chances of remaining ship’s captain. It wouldn’t. Rein just turned on his heel and headed to the back of the ship. Around the rear mast he went, between the lines that hung down from the sails, up the steps built into the left side of the ship and that led to the deck above the living quarters.

No wonder he hadn’t seen her from the quayside, for she stood alongside the rail that overlooked the bay beyond. A shadow cast down from one of her sails turned her white pelisse gray, her matching cotton hat a dark brown. Bits of her lovely hair escaped from the edges of that bonnet, streaming out behind her as she stood with her back to him.

“Anna,” he called.

She didn’t turn.

Rein clutched the rail, then abruptly let it go as he hurried toward her, wondering if she was angry with him for missing her competition. Had he misheard her last night? Had the competition been delayed?

“Anna, I must apologize. I must have heard you incorrectly last eve.”

She still didn’t turn.

“Anna,” he said, placing a hand on her shoulder. When she remained stubbornly turned away, he removed his hat and placed a kiss against the back of her neck.

“Forgive me, my love.”

She stepped away from him. Rein’s hand dropped back to his side. “Anna, what is the matter?”

Slowly, she turned, and when she did, her perfectly shaped face looked pale beneath her dapper hat, her amber eyes nearly the exact color of strands of straw. He’d never seen her dressed so finely, the fancy white pelisse she wore over her dress dotted with flowers that matched the shape and color of the silk ones in her hat. She looked like a lady, and for a brief moment he wondered where she’d gotten the gown.

“Good day, Your Grace,” she said with a small curtsy.