Heartbreak and Honor (17 page)

Alexa pointed to Mr. Ponsby. “I assume there’s proof, one way or the other, as well as instructions in the event I didn’t return amongst those papers?”

How could she sound composed? The future she hoped to build might well tumble bosom over bum in the next few moments, and she hadn’t a past to return to. In an instant, she could find herself a rudderless ship sailing a sea to nowhere with limited means. No position. No place to live . . .

“I was declared dead. How could my father have antici—”

“I demand to know why these documents are being produced now. It’s been eighteen years, for God’s sake. How long was this farce to carry on? This cannot be legal. I shall challenge it in court.” Harrison, his face gone crimson, leapt to his feet, crashing into the table and shaking his fist.

Enough.

Tamping down her fury, Alexa cocked her head and stroked Sir Pugsley. “It’s none of your affair, you intrusive
trow
. That’s Scots for troll, in the event you weren’t aware. Sit down, and be quiet. This does not concern you, and if you interrupt Mr. Ponsby again, I shall ask Uncle to have you removed from the house.”

Chew that, you ruddy cawker.

Harrison turned rosier, his eyes bulging as he emitted strange, inarticulate sounds. A tantrum didn’t seem a farfetched notion at all.

Aunt Bridget snickered, actually
snickered
, and Uncle Hugo’s eyebrows and lips jerked spasmodically as if he, too, longed to laugh.

“Come now, Peterson. Give over.” Uncle gestured toward Alexa. “With Alexandra’s return, and her identify verified, her death in absentia has been rebutted. I’m sure you’re aware it’s not uncommon for wills to specify terms which are honored years postmortem.”

“Still doesn’t explain why he,” Harrison speared a finger at the solicitor, “has new documents. How do we know they aren’t forged?”

He tried to grab the papers from the table, but Mr. Ponsby seized them and eyed Harrison icily.

“I assure you, they are authentic, Mr. Peterson, and their presentation at this time is warranted because Lord Atterberry had feared for his life and his firstborn’s. He took measures to make sure she,” he rolled his head toward Alexa, “would be safe, in the event anything happened.”

The color left Harrison’s face as quickly as it appeared, and Alexa didn’t doubt she, too, blanched white as virgin snow.

God above. Her father feared for their lives. Why? What could have happened to make him think such a thing? Did the solicitor know? Should she be concerned for her safety still?

“Fear? For his life?” Her hand pressed to her throat, Aunt Bridget went as gray as Sir Pugsley’s aged muzzle. She gave Uncle Hugo a frantic look, but he didn’t notice.

Head inclined the merest amount, he scrutinized Harrison as one would a convicted felon dangling from the gibbet.

“That’s ridiculous and bloody impossible to substantiate.” Harrison slammed his fist on the settee’s back. “And you damned well know it.”

“That’s outside of enough, Peterson. My wife already asked you to hold your vulgar tongue.” Uncle Hugo patted Aunt Bridget’s shoulder, while pinning Harrison with a deadly glare.

“We assumed—in fact, were told by the both of you,” Uncle Hugo extended his forefinger and wiggled it back and forth between Harrison and Minerva, “Steafan’s death was accidental. Unfortunately, no one requested an inquest. Who, besides Alexandra, benefited the most from his demise?”

Minerva’s confounded gaze fluttered from person to person once more. “I cannot think you mean to imply I had anything to do with my late husband’s death.”

Perhaps not you, but the viper beside you would have.

What had started as a wonderful day had turned into a wretched nightmare Alexa couldn’t rouse from. She curled her toes in her slippers and clenched the chair’s arms. “Those other papers. What do they say? What would have happened if I didn’t return?”

Lifting his focus from the documents he’d been thumbing through, Mr. Ponsby considered her above the lenses perched atop his nose. “These are sworn and witnessed letters from your father, which specify if, after twenty years, you hadn’t been found, Miss Shona would inherit. They also clearly state Shona is his offspring. The dowager carried Shona when Lord Atterberry married her.”

“No. It cannot be true.” Aunt Bridget gasped and slapped her hand to her mouth, her eyes swimming in tears.

Minerva moaned and, hands covering her face, collapsed onto the settee’s arm, weeping. “I told you. I wasn’t lying.”

A groggy haze blanketed Alexa. Did this change everything? How could it not? She blinked and shook her head, relieved for Shona. Some good had come of today’s upheaval.

Ponsby produced two letters. “These have not been opened yet. My directions are to read this one,” he lifted the first at the corner, “and to give you the other, Miss Atterberry. Do you read, or shall I read it for you?”

Stark humiliation rent Alexa. Another reason to refuse the duke’s offer. Society would always assume her an ignorant illiterate, beneath his touch. And theirs.

She lifted her chin. “I can read.”

“Very well.” He laid her letter on the tea table beside the silver tea service before adjusting his pince-nez. “A word of advice. Until a ruling has occurred as to which daughter is awarded the title, no one should be addressed as Lady Atterberry.”

Harrison straightened and addressed the solicitor. “Doesn’t the committee tend to grant in the petitioning party’s favor?”

Alexa longed to slap the crafty expression from Harrison’s face.

Ponsby peered down his nose, which twitched as if detecting ripe offal. “Often, but not always. They consider the particulars, and if an objection is raised or a second party challenges the petition, they can be convinced to make another ruling.”

“Harrison, as my niece said but moments ago, stubble it. One more word, and I shall have you forcefully removed.” Uncle Hugo’s carefully enunciated words revealed how near to losing his temper he’d become.

Ponsby rattled the folded paper. “I shall read this and see what Lord Atterberry thought so important, he insisted it be kept secret.”

Breaking the letter’s seal, momentary surprise skittered across Mr. Ponsby’s face when a second sealed missive slipped from the first’s folds. Other than her father’s instructions written on the front, the first page was blank. He must have worried someone would try to decipher the contents. Every person in the room remained captivated by the second note.

Breaking the seal with his thumb, Mr. Ponsby read the letter, his face indecipherable. The solicitor directed his gaze at Alexa, and sympathy tempered his stern features.

She battled the urge to cover her ears with her hands like an intractable child. Whatever he meant to say, she didn’t want to hear it. Instead, she spread her fingers through the coarse fur at Sir Pugsley’s nape.

The dog groaned and wiggled in bliss.

Savoir faire, Alexa.

“Please, what does it say?” She ran her tongue across her dry lips.

Mr. Ponsby removed his lenses and drew a deep breath. “Your father arranged and paid for someone to hide you until such time you were old enough to protect yourself and it became safe for your return and claim your inheritance and title.”

A mélange of gasps and rude noises met his announcement.

Did she cry out? Someone had.

From the grave, Steafan Atterberry had thoroughly flummoxed the lot of them.

“We can but speculate who he sent you to—why you weren’t returned earlier,” Mr. Ponsby droned on, “and the reason he didn’t send you to the Needhams. Those details he didn’t reveal.”

Steafan sent her to live with the travellers? A wave of dizziness swept Alexa, and sheer determination prevented her from bursting into tears.

Betrayed.

Holding herself stiffly to maintain a rigid grip on her self-control, she looked to her uncle. “Did you know? That I’d been hidden amongst the gypsies?”

Chapter 20

Scanning White’s for familiar faces, Lucan’s scrutiny skipped across the table where he’d sat with Yancy before they toddled off to Scotland a few short weeks ago. At that same spot Lucan had questioned whether he’d ever marry.

He gave a minute, self-castigating shake of his head.

Now look at me
.

Doggedly pursuing a tantalizing, mystifying temptress, as surely besotted as he’d once poked fun at his friends for being.

Perusing the betting book, he firmed his lips and traced Renishaw’s scrawl. Bold as brass, the arse. He’d made no effort to hide Jeremy’s identity or Lucan’s for that matter. Peterson was no better.

Ld R bets Mr. Peterson 20g to 5 a certain idiot brother of HG the Duke of Harcourt will be jailed for trespass by Yuletide.

Not hardly. With the safeguards Lucan had put in place, a gnat couldn’t sneak onto or off Chattsworth property. Lucan tapped the book. “He’ll lose the bet, the dolt.”

“He’s an idiot. Is the man incapable of declining a bet?” Bretheridge pointed to four other entries on the page with Renishaw’s name inscribed. “He’s lost at least ten more wagers here, and most are against Bellary. Not wise on Renishaw’s part. Bellary’s hot-tempered and doesn’t take kindly to swindlers.”

Thumbing through a few previous pages, Bretheridge scratched his forehead. “In the last six months he’s fought two duels against men owing less than Renishaw. Killed one, maimed the other. Renishaw had best pay up, or he’ll be looking down the nozzle of a pistol himself.”

Lucan rubbed his jaw and pointed to the ledger. “Wonder if I can buy Peterson’s bet? Ever been done?”

“No. You cannot alter the books or change the wagers—not even to scratch or black them out.” Bretheridge drew in a harsh, hissing breath. “By God, the damnable cur.”

Seldom did Bretheridge become angry or curse.

“What?” Lucan glanced at the scribbled entries again.

His mouth pressed into a stern line, Bretheridge stabbed the book with his manicured finger. “Just there.”

Ld R bets Ld. Craven a hundred to fifty the gypsy AA will be compromised or disgraced before Season’s end, two hundred to fifty if Ld R succeeds in seeing the deed done personally.

Alexa’s initials leapt from the page before rage blurred Lucan’s vision and blood whooshed in his ears. He balled his hands until his nails cut into his palms.

“Ruddy bastard.” Lip curled, he practically snarled. “I’ll kill him.”

Renishaw’s coming across Alexa at the bookstore hadn’t been by chance. He’d sought her and created a public spectacle intentionally. The churl intended to ruin her for sport and profit.

Money passed through Renishaw’s fingers faster than piss through a drunkard. If he masterminded the fire in Derbyshire—and Lucan would wagers his title Renishaw had—the thugs who started the blaze wouldn’t wait for payment.

With pockets to let, Renishaw would have to procure funds. And fast. Their sort didn’t take kindly to being bilked any more than Bellary did. The viscount might find himself with a broken arm. Or worse.

Far past time the members of White’s blackballed Renishaw and threw him into the gutter where he belonged. Lucan would pursue that another day. Right now, however, a cold sweat engulfed him as concern for Alexa and Jeremy formed a shriveled knot in his gut.

Men of Renishaw’s ilk possessed no honor, a truth Lucan knew too well. Harvey rested in the family cemetery these many years as a result of a Renishaw’s unscrupulousness. The bugger would use any means to ensure he collected his wagers.

Lucan shoved his right-hand fingers into his glove. Best have a word with Needham and warn him of the danger to Alexa. Wise, also, to send a note round to Chattsworth, advising Genny to use extra diligence regarding Jeremy.

“Placing a bet, Harcourt?” Renishaw’s overly loud voice penetrated Lucan’s ire-induced haze.

Lucan spared him an indirect glance and crammed on his other glove. “Sod off, Renishaw.”

“Tsk, tsk. No need to be boorish.” A shrewd smile teased the viscount’s mouth. “The question was innocent enough.”

Nothing the fiend did was innocent.

Renishaw ambled closer and peered at the ledger. His mouth twisted into a full smirk when he saw the page Lucan and Bretheridge studied. “Thought you were above such mundane pursuits.”

“You know bloody well I place an occasional wager.” Always, entirely harmless.

“Hmm, true.” Renishaw touched his chin and affected a contemplative pose. “Wait, it would be duels your
maman
won’t let her little boy participate in.”

“For you, I’m sorely tempted to make an exception and send you straight to hell to burn for eternity.” Sending a covert glance round the room, Lucan pointedly edged away from the viscount. He’d like to place something in the betting-book, all right.

Renishaw’s smug face.

“How is your mother? Heard her health was failing. Whoever will care for your imbecilic brother—?”

“Stubble it, Renishaw.” Bretheridge slammed the betting ledger closed.

“Speaking of my brother, you piece of . . .” Lucan mustered every ounce of control he possessed and smothered the vulgar oath tapping behind his teeth. “Harm Jeremy, even look at him unkindly, and you’ll rue the day you returned to England.”

The din and conversations dwindled as regulars noticed the tense exchange and stilled to listen.

A satisfied glint entered Renishaw’s eyes. He enjoyed this.

Lucan wouldn’t have thought it possible, but Maurice Renishaw was even more arrogant and loathsome than his older brother.

“After our earlier exchange, Renishaw, a man claiming a whit of common sense, or the faintest intelligence, would have steered clear of me.” Catching Bretheridge’s attention, Lucan slapped his hat atop his head and jutted his chin toward the door. “Let’s go. I find the air inside has grown most offensive.”

“I’ll say.” Bretheridge followed suit with his hat. “We can continue our conversation later.”

“That gypsy wench is a tasty little morsel I mean to have.” Renishaw licked his lips and cupped his crotch.

Holding his breath, Lucan closed his eyes and clenched his jaw.
He’s goading you.
He curled his toes in his boots and fisted his hands, picturing Alexa’s lovely face then his mother’s frail features.
Don’t react.
Lucan tried to recall one of the many scriptures he’d heard during Sunday sermons on patience and being slow to anger.

Didn’t help one iota.

Oh, to hell with it.

He seized the shorter man’s lapels and jerked Renishaw near. God, he wanted to pulverize the prick.

“I don’t know what warped game you’re playing, but if you harm one hair on either Miss Atterberry’s or my brother’s head, if there are
any
more mysterious fires or suspicious occurrences within five miles of
anything
I own, if you place another bet which affects me or mine, I promise you,” Lucan lifted the viscount another pair of inches and shook him until his teeth clacked, “you will regret ever having been born. I shall ruin you.”

“Harcourt.” Bretheridge laid a calming hand on Lucan’s arm. “Let him go. You have an appointment. Remember?”

Lucan released Renishaw, and resisting the urge to slug the bastard, shoved him away. “Bother Miss Atterberry again, murmur her name—even in a dream or your perverse thoughts—and you’ll answer to me. Feel free to wager on
that
.”

Renishaw stumbled backward a few paces, a flush darkening his countenance. His livid gaze roved the room as he straightened his rumpled clothing. “Awfully protective of the chit. Makes a man wonder why, if you have designs on her yourself.”

Thread of truth there. Lucan must convince Alexa to marry him. Soon. Once she bore his name, she’d be safe. None dared risk his wrath or the power his position afforded him. More than one man experienced absolute destruction due to an offended, high-ranking peer.

He hadn’t ever gone that route before, preferring not to abuse his title, but for Renishaw, he would make an exception.

“Or,” Renishaw winked at a couple of his already half-foxed cronies, “perhaps you’ve already sampled her charms yourself.”

Outraged objections mixed with a smattering of lewd chuckles exploded round the room until Lucan elevated a brow and stared down a handful of men.

“What was she like?” Renishaw licked his lips, lust glazing his eyes. “Does she know any heathen tricks?”

That bloody well does it.

“I’m afraid I have to delay our departure for a few moments.” Lucan handed his cane then his hat to Bretheridge.

“You’re an utter imbecile, Renishaw.” Bretheridge shook his head and stepped to the side. “Just don’t know when to leave off, do you?”

Confident everyone’s attention focused on him, Renishaw grinned and raised his voice. “I heard she likes her swiving rough and willingly spread her legs for her brutish captor—”

Lucan swung—a fierce right hook straight to Renishaw’s beak-like nose.

Bone crunched, and Renishaw crumpled to the floor.

“Here now, Your Grace.” The manager and a servant rushed over. “We cannot have such ungentlemanly behavior in this establishment. I’m afraid I must ask you to take your leave.”

The retainer knelt to attend an unconscious Renishaw. He half-heartedly daubed at the blood oozing from the viscount’s nose.

“My apologies, Mr. Raggett.” Lucan accepted his possessions from Bretheridge. “I was but defending a lady’s honor.”

Raggett gave a sage nod, slinging Renishaw a contemptuous glance. “Indeed. Shouldn’t be necessary amongst White’s gentlemen.”

Lucan flexed his hand.
Might have broken a knuckle.
After swiping his hair off his forehead, he slapped his hat atop his head before addressing the other patrons.

“I strongly suggest, that in the future, no one agree to any sort of wager with that blackguard.” His gaze veered to Renishaw, moving his head back and forth and groaning. Swiveling to the door, Lucan bumped into a newcomer. “Beg your pardon.”

“Not to worry, Harcourt.” Bellary’s stern countenance remained unchanged until his attention lit on Renishaw. The planes of his face hardened to granite, his eyes slits of wrath. He stamped to the moaning man.

“You can expect more of the same, or worse, if I wait much longer for you to honor your wagers, Renishaw.” He nudged the viscount with his boot, a sneer contorting his face. “You have two weeks, then I’d choose my seconds if I were you.”

As Lucan exited the club, he turned to Bretheridge. “My man of business is out of town for an extended period. Might I impose upon you to have yours inquire at every gaming hell, card room, and club in London and purchase Renishaw’s vowels? Anyone he owes a farthing to, I want to buy out.”

Bretheridge cocked his head, his acute gaze probing. He gave a half-nod and fell into step beside Lucan. “Yes, I’ll see to it today. I shall also see if Warrick can aid me. Perhaps even Devaux-Rousset. He’s returned to England for an extended stay.”

“Devaux-Rousset? Isn’t he the chap who helped protect Lady Bretheridge? He visited Craiglocky, didn’t he?” Lucan adjusted his hat and nodded at an acquaintance.

“Yes.” Bretheridge nodded a greeting too. “He has quite a network of men who specialize at covert sorts of things.”

Gratification tempered Lucan’s heated blood. “Do request Devaux’s aid. I intend to crush Renishaw.”

“I gathered as much.”

They skirted a pair of young women peering into a shop window. The ladies burst into giggles when Lucan and Bretheridge strode past.

Thank God, Alexa didn’t giggle, at least not a high-pitched bird-witted tittering that set his teeth on edge, crossed his eyeballs, wilted his staff, and made him crave a bracing gulp of whisky.

“Harcourt, might I ask why you are so infuriated?” Bretheridge eyed him speculatively. “Renishaw’s an unmitigated arse.”

Yes. He is.

“And, what he said about Miss Atterberry was undeniably reprehensible.”

Inexcusable.

“But, by George, you lost your temper and broke his nose.”

Most satisfying.

“Not the least typical for you, my friend. And now you’re hell-bent on revenge.”

Lucan spared Bretheridge a sidelong glance. “He deserved what I dealt him and more, truth to tell. I stopped him from striking her at the Temple of the Tombs this morning.”

He swung his cane and set a brisk pace. He’d promised to call upon Alexa, and Needham must be warned of Renishaw’s ill-intent.

“God rot him then. Cannot say I blame you in the least.” Bretheridge heaved a sigh. “He’ll call you out. I would bet on it.”

Lucan shook his head. “No, he won’t. Not when I possess every I.O.U. he owes and spread word that if he challenges me, anyone who lends him a groat, or extends him credit, will experience my ire.”

His ears still rang with Renishaw’s filthy suggestions. He wanted to punch the bastard again. And again.

He would give Renishaw a choice.

Lucan would pay Renishaw’s debts if he signed an agreement to leave England and never return, or he would demand payment for Renishaw’s vowels, which he couldn’t pay. He’d bankrupt him, make sure every door and resource was closed to the cur. If the thugs he owed money to didn’t get to him first.

Bretheridge stopped and gripped Lucan’s arm. “This isn’t like you, to abuse your position. You didn’t after Harvey’s death, and you bloody well had good reason to then. Why now?”

Lucan met Bretheridge’s green-eyed gaze. No condemnation or accusation shone there—merely concern and confusion.

“I’m going to marry her, Flynn, and I need your help.” Shutting his eyes, he strove to regain his self-control as another wave of ire overcame him.

“Marry her?”

Lucan almost smiled at the incredulous expression distorting Bretheridge’s face and the way his voice rose to a schoolboy’s squeak at the end.

“After that,” Lucan jerked his thumb in the direction of White’s as he resumed walking, “she must have the protection of my name as swiftly as possible.
Le bon ton
will take after her like the devil himself.”

“There’s truth to that, unfortunately.” Bretheridge stepped behind Lucan to allow a couple to pass.

Lucan checked his watch. He’d be late if he didn’t hasten his pace. Should’ve rode. “Please inform our friends. Our circle must rally around her, show their acceptance and support and act as a buffer until I can convince her to accept my suit.”