Andrea Kane (13 page)

Abhorring the highborn, to become a duke.

A shout from ahead brought Pierce up short. As he watched, a dirty lad of perhaps twelve darted down Regent Street, weaving his way among the pedestrians and carriages, a wallet clutched in his hand. In his wake, a distinguished gray-haired gentleman waved his fist furiously, bellowing for the authorities, urging a small group of sympathetic onlookers to apprehend the culprit.

They’ll never catch him,
Pierce thought, mentally gauging the distance between the boy and the oncoming mob.
At least not if he’s any good. If he knows what he’s doing, in precisely twelve paces, he’ll veer down Conduit Street and duck down that tiny alley just shy of the corner. It’s so narrow no well-fed person can fit. By the time the crowd gives up trying, he’ll have scaled the low wall at the alley’s end and be long gone.

No sooner had Pierce assessed the situation than the urchin came to a halt, and swerved down Conduit Street. Five steps in he flattened his skinny frame against a brick wall and slithered down the nearly invisible alleyway.

Moments later, as Pierce’s carriage rumbled by the cross street, the raging masses were still gathered at the alley opening, commanding the lad to emerge with the stolen wallet.

The boy was safe—this time.

Pierce leaned his head back against the cushion. How many this times had there been for him? How many escapes had he made down that very alley, his heart pounding so furiously he feared it might burst? How many almosts, when he’d nearly been caught?

For the two years following his flight from the workhouse, he’d survived on the streets, picking pockets, making his bed on piles of rags, stealing crusts of bread from Covent Garden in the pre-dawn hours. How many nights had he lain awake, weak to the point of delirium, shaking so violently with cold and loneliness and dread that death actually would have been welcome?

But life had prevailed. At least for him. He’d always been one hell of a gambler, steered by infallible instinct as he bet on everything from when a particular winter’s first snow would fall to who would receive the next whipping from Barrings. At the workhouse, his stakes had been food. In the streets, they became money. No longer mere sustenance, but survival.

And survive he had, doubling and tripling his stolen pound notes with each successful wager, earning the respect of London’s notorious thieves as he relieved them of their spoils, hoisting himself from the hopelessness of his plight.

Never forgetting that others hadn’t been so fortunate.

How many children had died, were still dying, on London’s thriving streets?

Lord, if he could only spare them that fate.

But even The Tin Cup Bandit’s stolen jewels together with Pierce’s acquired affluence weren’t enough. Hundreds of thousands of pounds were needed to reach the vast number of starving people. It was so bloody frustrating. If only he had greater influence, greater wealth, greater access—

Reality exploded like gunfire.

He did. Or rather, he would as the Duke of Markham.

Suddenly all vows of “never” faded as the monumental truth struck home. For years he’d sought ways to help. Now the ultimate opportunity was being handed to him with but a few annoying stipulations to impede his path. And he was turning his back on it? Was he mad?

Squelching the bitter protests still clamoring inside him, Pierce forced himself to weigh the facts with unemotional objectivity.

He was being offered a dukedom and all its privileges.

His refusal was based primarily in pride and deep-seated anger. That, and the repudiation of a way of life he abhorred.

The way of life—where was it written he had to emulate it?

If he’d learned anything from his years of poverty, he’d learned that titled wealth bred its own set of rules. Therefore, if the new Duke of Markham chose to mingle with riffraff, scandalously refuse the “right” invitations, and disburse his money in an unorthodox manner, who would dare challenge his eccentricity?

As for pride and anger, wouldn’t accepting the terms of the codicil appease both? After all, as the Duke of Markham he’d be accepted in the very houses he robbed, privy to the details of the aristocracy’s latest acquisitions, their most valuable jewels. He’d hear firsthand who’d won at Newmarket, played the highest stakes at White’s, invested wisely and well.

Consequently, the Tin Cup Bandit could escalate his number of burglaries, taking the
ton
by storm and utterly annihilating their fortunes. By combining the bandit’s spoils and his own allocated ten thousand pounds a week, Pierce could ensure that England’s workhouses thrived.

Not to mention the sheer joy of flaunting his newly acquired blue-blood status in Tragmore’s face and reminding the blackguard that a duke most emphatically outranked a marquis.

Yes, the final victory would indeed be Pierce’s.

Conversely, what exactly would he be relinquishing?

Two years of his life. Two years to live at Markham’s wretched estate, run his businesses, direct his staff of servants. Two years to make his assets prosper.

Pierce lowered the bottle of whiskey thoughtfully. That task posed no foreseeable difficulty. After all, business ventures were his forte. He’d honed his investment skills over long, hungry years, ultimately earning a sizeable sum of his own. He’d make Markham’s bloody fortune flourish. In fact, he’d leave it healthier than ever. Two years hence, Markham’s assets would reach new heights, and his own commitment would be satisfied.

Not quite, Pierce reminded himself. In order to retain permanent access to the Markham fortune, he had also to produce an heir. A legitimate heir.

Which meant taking a wife.

Pierce frowned. The thought was distinctly unappealing. Given his double identity and his illegal missions, he needed his freedom. Hell, the Tin Cup Bandit notwithstanding, Pierce
wanted
his freedom. So whomever he selected as his duchess would have to tolerate his independence, at least for two years.

Two years? Pierce sat up with a start. Marriage couldn’t be negated as easily as business ventures. Even if his wife were willing to go her own way once she’d completed her task, she would be bound to him forever, bearing not only his name, but his child.

Daphne.

Her image came as naturally as the vision of her by his side, and Pierce felt his heart lift for the first time since the day’s madness had begun. Daphne—his wife, his duchess, the mother of his child.

An intrigued smile curved Pierce’s lips. Perhaps the notion of marriage was not so unattractive after all, he mused, digesting this new and fascinating possibility. If he had to be permanently tied to one woman, who but Daphne could fill that role?

Would Daphne want to fill that role? Even with the powerful pull that drew them together, it was far too soon for her to have considered anything as significant as marriage. And while Pierce was worldly enough to discern the rarity of what hovered between them, Daphne was young, inexperienced. So how could he expect her to comprehend the magnitude of what occurred when they met, spoke, touched?

He did know that she trusted him, reached out to him for a complexity of reasons too vast to put into words. She’d even taken a few tentative steps closer to the fire that blazed to life when she was in his arms.

But it still wasn’t enough.

So, how would she react to the thought of becoming his wife? Now. Immediately. She’d be stunned. That was a certainty. But when the shock had subsided, when she’d had time to think, then what? Would she flatly refuse his proposal, or would she entertain the idea of becoming Mrs. Pierce Thornton?

Tragmore. What would he do?

Pierce’s smile vanished. The son of a bitch would be furious. More than furious. His rage would be boundless; vented—how? By striking out at Pierce, or at Daphne?

Just the thought of Tragmore laying one of his contemptible hands on Daphne made Pierce’s skin crawl. Clenching his fists, he cursed aloud.

By wedding Daphne he could wrest her from her father’s brutality. He’d do it in a minute, with or without Tragmore’s consent, if he were certain it was what Daphne wanted. But was it?

I’ll never take what you don’t willingly offer.
Pierce had spoken that vow just yesterday as he’d drawn Daphne into his arms for the first time. He wouldn’t break it. Not now, not ever. She had to freely choose to become his wife.

But was the fragile thread of feeling that had grown between them strong enough? Was Daphne strong enough to defy her father, knowing how much he loathed Pierce?

No. Not yet. There hadn’t been enough opportunity.

But, dammit, there would be.

Abruptly, Pierce leaned forward. “Rakins!” he called to his driver. “Head back to Hollingsby’s office at once.”

“Mr. Thornton. You can’t just walk in there! Mr. Hollingsby is a busy man.” The scrawny clerk made one final attempt to block Pierce’s path.

Sidestepping the man’s flailing arms, Pierce flung open the solicitor’s door and stalked in.

“Don’t blame your clerk, Hollingsby,” Pierce announced, dropping into a chair. “I intended to see you immediately. And nothing and no one was going to stop me.”

“I see.” Hollingsby had jolted to his feet, and now began furiously polishing his spectacles. “You may leave us, Carter,” he told the clerk.

“Yes, sir.” Carter mopped at his brow, sent an aggravated look in Pierce’s direction, and walked out.

“I didn’t expect to see you again, Mr. Thornton.” Hollingsby shoved his spectacles back into place. “And certainly not so soon.”

“I’m sure you didn’t.” Pierce folded his hands behind his head and began without preliminaries. “I have a few questions. First, how did Markham know I was capable of managing his funds?”

Hollingsby’s eyes widened in surprise, but he answered without hesitation. “The late duke knew a great deal about you. He followed your life, at a discreet distance, of course, quite closely. Therefore, he was aware of your brilliant business investments and your equally brilliant mind. When he had me draw up the codicil, he was fully confident that his estate would be entrusted to the very best of hands.”

“How flattering. Next question. You mentioned that once my responsibilities had been fulfilled I would have complete access, within reason, to the Markham funds. Define within reason.”

Now Hollingsby’s jaw dropped. “Does this mean you’ve reconsidered and intend to—”

“Just answer the question.”

“Very well. The only reason your father—er, the late duke, added that phrase was to ensure that his family name and fortune remained essentially intact for his grandson.”

“His grandson. You mean, my son?”

“Yes.”

“In other words, Markham was afraid I would intentionally tarnish his name and squander his money?”

“The possibility occurred to him, yes.”

“Which, in turn, would leave my son destitute, much the way Markham left me, correct, Hollingsby?”

Averting his gaze, the solicitor shifted from one foot to the other.

“He needn’t have worried,” Pierce continued icily. “Lowly bastard that I am, I possess far higher principles than His Grace ever had. I will assure my son every shred of security, both financial and emotional, that my sire denied me. The Markham estate, and the Ashford name, will remain unimpugned.”

“So you are reversing your earlier decision.”

“I am.”

“May I ask why?”

“For many reasons, few of which you would understand. Suffice it to say my conscience refused to permit retreat.”

“You understand the stipulations I described?”

“I do. I also accept them. And to make your job slightly less untenable, I invite you to openly scrutinize my investments as I effect them. You’ll find each to be completely acceptable.” A glimmer of a smile. “In this case, Markham was right. I’m damned good at what I do.”

“I don’t doubt it.” Hollingsby’s obvious relief was mixed with a touch of admiration. “And my scrutiny won’t be necessary, although I thank you for your generous offer. Since I’ll be meeting with you weekly to issue your ten thousand pounds, we can discuss the status of your assets at those times.”

“As you wish.” Pierce rose. “I have one request.”

“Which is?”

“That I be given the right to announce my newfound status on my own.”

“You’re asking me to say nothing?”

“Precisely. Only for a day or two, until I can find the proper setting for my coming out.”

Hollingsby stifled a chuckle. “Very well, Mr.—forgive me—Your Grace. Although I must say I’d hate to miss your grand proclamation.”

“Then don’t. In fact, as I’m new to all this, I could use a suggestion. Where is the next large, pretentious house party scheduled to take place?”

“The Earl of Gantry is hosting an enormous gathering, complete with fox hunt and ball. It begins the day after tomorrow and continues for Lord knows how many days.”

“Pity I don’t have an invitation.” Pierce cocked a pointed brow in Hollingsby’s direction.

This time the solicitor laughed aloud. “I admire your spunk, sir. As it happens, I
do
have an invitation. And I’d be delighted to have you accompany me as my guest. Would that interest you?”

“The earl won’t object, I presume?”

“Certainly not. At least, not once he learns who you are.”

“That goes without saying.” Pierce seized a quill from the desk. “I accept your kind invitation. Now, I presume there are documents I must sign?”

“Indeed.”

“Then let’s hurry the process along.” Pierce’s lips curved in amusement. “I have a legacy to see to.”

“W
E SHALL REMAIN AT
Gantry’s ball for two hours, not a minute longer,” Tragmore instructed Daphne and her mother as their carriage rounded the drive to Gantry’s estate. “I’m in no mood for festivities. Unfortunately, I must endure the fox hunt tomorrow, as well as the dinner that follows it. But I shan’t stay a day beyond that. As for tonight’s party, we’ll take our leave the moment it is plausible for us to do so. Is that clear?”

“Perfectly clear, Harwick,” Elizabeth concurred instantly.

“We could have sent our regrets, Father,” Daphne pointed out. “Given our recent burglary, I’m sure the earl would have understood.”