The Rake's Ruined Lady (19 page)

She noticed a corner of his mouth tilt upwards. ‘I’ll do whatever you want, sweet...’ He moved towards her, his narrowed, gleaming eyes steady on her. ‘How about a wager?’ he suggested. ‘I’ll bet the money you lost tonight that within a week you come to me.’

Bea shrank back against the side of the coach, alarmed by his indolent confidence and the reason for it. Her eyes were drawn to his thin mouth...the lips that had so recently soothed and excited her and no doubt could savage equally efficiently...

‘All you need stake in return is one night spent with me.’ Hugh captured her chin with a masterful hand as she tried to avoid his eyes. ‘Come...you’re adamant you don’t want me...never think of me...what’s to fear? Take the wager and clear your debts in one fell swoop.’

His fingers fell away from her skin and were held out for her to shake. Beatrice stared at those outstretched digits, then impetuously she grabbed at them, before flinging away his hand as though she’d been scalded. Without a word of farewell she hurtled out of the carriage and up to the Blackthornes’ house, breathless by the time she’d reached the top step.

When the butler opened the door to Bea’s agitated rap she darted past and immediately dropped her face into her shaking palms, making the fellow glance at her in concern.

Chapter Fifteen

‘P
lease accept my sincere apologies for having called so early.’ The impatient visitor shoved his hat beneath an armpit as he jerked a bow. Behind him hurried a housekeeper, who’d been barged aside by the fellow so he might waste no time in securing an audience with her employer. ‘I must let you know that papers requiring your urgent attention have just come to light, Sir Colin.’

In fact Percy Withers Esquire had known for over a week that a severe discrepancy had occurred. In the interim he had been frantically trying to discover how to mitigate his grave error in order to preserve his reputation as an attorney gentlemen might rely on to efficiently manage their business affairs. Having rallied his courage that morning, Mr Withers had set out without delay, praying he might deflect the barrage of criticism he was sure to face.

Colin Burnett rose to his feet, intrigued and yet also exasperated at this intrusion before he’d even dressed for the day. He tossed his napkin onto the breakfast table, tightening the belt on his dressing gown.

‘Well, come in, Withers,’ he invited, a touch sarcastically. He dismissed his hovering red-faced servant with a curt nod.

Colin had been renting this modest townhouse since he’d turned up in the city, and had pondered whether to invest some of his inheritance in buying the freehold. The staff would have to go, of course. He found them all—cook, housemaid and manservant—far too lax in manners and industry.

Confronted with the task of commencing his report, the lawyer seemed momentarily unable to do so. He coughed, jutting his chin twice in quick succession, his Adam’s apple bobbing nervously.

‘These urgent documents?’ Colin prompted, feeling in no mood for bad news.

He’d risen late, having spent a restless night brooding on the events at the Whitleys’. On the journey home Stella had nestled into him in the carriage while Mrs Monk turned a blind eye to her niece’s canoodling. But despite the heat in his loins caused by memories of his betrothed’s teasing touches Stella had faded from his mind when his head had touched the pillow, leaving just his former fiancée dominating his thoughts.

Colin regretted many things where Beatrice was concerned. Mostly he was sorry she had got herself into a bad scrape by listening to Sir Toby Kendrick’s poor advice. Previously Colin had harboured no opinion of Hugh’s elder brother; now he disliked the two men equally. Again and again throughout the night Colin had cursed his damnable uncle for altering the terms of his bequest and denying him the chance of contentment with Beatrice. Instead he had to contend with being shackled to a coquette and to receiving his solicitor at an ungodly hour of the morning.

Irritably Colin cleared a useable space on the cloth by rattling crockery sideways, then indicated Withers take a chair at the table.

Percy remained where he was but did bring forth a scroll from the cavernous inside pocket of his coat. ‘You might recall, Sir Colin, that shortly after your uncle’s will was read, and certain unpalatable clauses were found to be contained therein, you asked me to examine the document for loopholes to allow you to have a bride of your own choosing.’

About to reseat himself, Colin instead unwound, pivoting slowly on a heel, his features a frozen mask. For a long moment he said nothing, simply staring as the fellow’s complexion alternated between sickly pallor and bright pink.

‘Are you about to tell me that finally you have found something...when it is too late?’

‘I examined the text minutely, Sir Colin, as indeed I told you at the time,’ Percy lied robustly.

‘You did say as much...’ Colin remained unmoving, his expression perilously quizzical. ‘Yet I sense you are about to add that something vital was overlooked.’ He watched his visitor shift uneasily. ‘What was overlooked?’ It was a deceptively dulcet enquiry.

‘The authentic document.’ Mr Withers raised the roll of parchment gripped in his hand. ‘The other is a forgery, sir...’

Colin took a single stride towards the fellow, mouth agape. ‘A forgery?’ he bellowed. ‘Where in damnation did you get a forgery?’

‘From you, sir,’ Percy croaked, shrinking back.

Pulling out a chair from the table, Colin slumped into it. He gazed up at Withers, casting his mind back to the critical time and inwardly dissecting what had occurred just prior to his predecessor’s death.

‘Mrs Monk gave me the will. She had nursed Sir Donald during his last days and told me he had ordered her to hand his personal papers to me and no other.’

‘Indeed...’ Percy said in a commiserating tone.

‘What are you implying?’ Colin barked. ‘Mrs Monk was Sir Donald’s sister-in-law. When his brother died and Maggie was remarried to Peter Monk they remained friendly. The woman has nothing to gain from meddling.’ Colin jumped to his feet, pacing to and fro. ‘Donald provided her with an allowance when she was widowed for a second time. The amount did not increase or decline after my uncle expired.’ He ceased prowling. ‘The only person to improve their lot, if she considers marrying me to be a positive step,’ Colin muttered bitterly, ‘is my cousin Stella.’

He gestured away the idea. Colin believed his fiancée to be an ambitious chit but innocent of criminality. He’d noticed that at times Stella seemed careless of his presence, and she never pressed him for a date to be set for their wedding. Only Maggie did that. Stella might cosy up to him when worried she’d angered him with her flirting, but it was absurd to suppose her guilty of falsifying the will to trap him and he told Percy Withers so.

‘Indeed, Sir Colin, neither do I think the girl had a hand in it. I believe we must look to her mother...’

‘Her mother is dead!’ Colin exclaimed testily. ‘My uncle became Stella’s guardian when her parents sadly died. Of course I know we are not natural cousins, and previously I had not met Stella, but she grew up calling her benefactor “uncle”, and Mrs Monk has been an honorary aunt to her.’

He paused, gesturing wildly as though exasperated by his own explanation.

‘Over the years information filtered down through the family that Sir Donald had formed a friendship with Stella’s birth father when they served together under Nelson. So, despite being a bachelor, my uncle stepped in to help when at ten years old the girl was orphaned following a fire at her home.’

‘A fiction, I believe, concocted for propriety’s sake,’ Withers sighed out.

‘By whom?’ Colin demanded, forcing his fists against his hips.

‘By the child’s true mother under direction from the reluctant sire, I imagine.

‘How can you possibly know that?’ Colin spluttered.

‘I have lately attempted to trace the girls’ parents—a Mr and Mrs Rawlings of Pontefract, who perished in the fire—and have found that no such people ever existed.’

Percy twisted his hat between his hands, anticipating that once his client had conquered his obvious amazement he would furiously demand to know why such diligence had not been applied sooner. Withers was unwilling to admit that he had allowed a junior clerk to peruse Sir Donald’s will because business accounts for a more prestigious client had occupied him personally. Mr Kendrick paid handsomely, and on time, and never quibbled over necessary expenses as Sir Colin did. Thus the solicitor had considered the wealthy mine owner worthier of his attention.

But he was regretting his lack of vigilance now that he had finally compared the signature on the document Sir Colin had given him with the earlier version held in his office. The fraudster had made a fair effort to mimic the deceased’s wandering scrawl, but it could not fool the man who had dealt with Sir Donald’s papers for over two decades. And the only difference from the original document was the insertion of a clause that stated Colin Burnett must promise to wed Stella Rawlings in order to take his birthright.

Deeming it prudent to use his ace before Sir Colin had mustered his thoughts and threatened to sue, Percy confidently resumed. ‘During my investigation I turned up the fact that Mrs Monk’s maiden name was Rawlings. It is my belief that she has deliberately deceived you; furthermore I believe she is Stella’s mother and Sir Donald fathered the girl...’

* * *

Hugh Kendrick had enjoyed no better sleep than had Colin Burnett, and for the same reason: Beatrice had been on his mind the night through. Whereas Colin had tossed and turned, rueing that a sweet, decorous woman had slipped through his fingers, Hugh’s thoughts about her had been reprehensibly torrid. To Hugh, Beatrice was no poised goddess worthy of a pedestal; she was a maddeningly sensual temptress whose silky limbs had entwined perfectly with his while she’d panted sweet breath against his lips.

Till dawn light he’d lain with his hands pillowing his head, scowling at the ceiling, with the scent of her skin teasing his nostrils. So aroused had he felt following their passionate encounter in his coach that he’d almost flung off the silk sheets and got dressed. But he hadn’t set off for Gwen’s or Sophia’s, despite being charged with sexual frustration, because he knew it would have been pointless. Neither woman had the power to heal an ache that had started years ago in his loins and then spread to enclose his heart.

Bea was the one he desired above all others; she was also the woman with whom he wanted to grow old. He wanted her in his bed and at his table; he wanted to host parties with her by his side, dressed in satins and sumptuous jewels, then watch her blush in pleasure beneath his adoring gaze. He wanted her to mother his children...

Hugh knew that he loved Beatrice and wanted to marry her, and but for his damnable pride getting in the way he would by now have told her so—although he’d have some explaining to do about his time in India. But he trusted Bea to understand; she had an empathetic and kind and loving nature... He grimaced ruefulness. Obviously she’d held back on bestowing it on him recently...and with just cause.

He could have proposed last night and vowed to protect her as his wife from his foul brother. Instead he’d come very close to losing control and taking advantage of her while she was at a low ebb. From her startled response to his increasingly intimate seduction he’d learned that the doctor hadn’t bedded her. Hugh knew he’d come close to taking her virginity on the seat of the coach, and had he done so he would have deserved her loathing and disgust. He would certainly have had his own.

What point had there been in coercing her into a stupid wager? He could not remember taking more than a couple of shots of whisky at the
soirée
and yet he now believed he must have been drunk to act in such a way. Whether he won the wager or not, forcing Bea to surrender and come to him, he’d deal with Toby. He’d make certain his brother never again dared hurt Beatrice because he was too cowardly to pick a fight with
him
.

Hugh pushed away his coffee cup and stood up. He’d stop acting like a sulky youth and declare his feelings and his honourable intentions. If she refused him... He tossed back his head, frowning at the ceiling. What would he do if she refused him? Revert to trying to make her his mistress? Or would he give up gracefully? A mirthless laugh grazed his throat. He knew he couldn’t give her up...

‘Your brother is in the hallway, sir...’

Hugh snapped his face to the servant hovering on the threshold and his features, shaped by agonised indecision, began displaying his aversion to the imminent meeting. He had not been expecting Toby quite so soon, yet had guessed he’d be confronted by his gleeful brother, keen to rub salt into his wounds, at some point during the day.

‘Bring him in.’ Hugh resisted the urge to ask the footman to fetch him a brandy decanter at the same time. Instead he poured himself another cup of coffee from a silver pot.

‘I thought you’d be partaking of something stronger this morning.’ Toby swaggered over the threshold.

‘Why is that?’

‘Come...are we to pretend that you are not furious with me for putting Miss Dewey in a bad light?’

‘You showed yourself up more than you did her,’ Hugh responded contemptuously. ‘Could you not see that, you fool?’

Toby coloured as that barb hit home. He’d never been popular, but the few friends he did have had probably now deserted him...just as his fiancée had. He’d received a note from Katherine’s father that morning, advising him that he intended cancelling the marriage contract. Toby was incensed that an alternative source of income had been cut off and he must rely solely on his brother for hand-outs. He knew he had to tread carefully...yet press home his advantage.

‘I’m not fretting, but I think you are. You want the chit—you always have done. I know you don’t like seeing her at the gossips’ mercy...or at mine.’ Toby’s expression became calculating. ‘As you know, I’m not a callous chap. I’ve kept my mouth shut about your
commitments
in India, haven’t I?’ He sniggered as his comment strengthened Hugh’s acerbic smile. ‘But needs must when the devil drives, dear brother. You keep threatening to tighten your fist against me, so what am I to do but find another way to make a shilling?’