Cheryl Holt (30 page)

“I will. Will there be anything else?”

“Is there any news from my brother?”

“Not a word.”

Michael bit off an epithet. With disaster falling around him, he couldn’t be worrying about Alex. Where was the blasted man? What could he be doing that would occupy him for so long?

“Miss Pamela will be down shortly,” Michael explained. “I’ll chat with her; then I’m to be left alone for the rest of the evening.”

“As you wish.”

“And, Fitch?”

“Yes?”

“If you ever catch Amanda in the house again, I don’t care what she tells you, I don’t want her here. Escort her out. If need be, you may fetch me, and I’ll assist you in tossing her into the yard.”

“It will be my pleasure.”

Fitch exited, and Michael stared at the wall, trying to deduce how he’d tumbled into such a dreadful predicament. He had no one to blame but himself, yet oh, how it grated! He’d been snared like a rabbit in a trap.

His only hope was that Emily was so far away from London that she would never be apprised of any town gossip, that she would never learn of his marriage. After how he’d abused her, he was determined to save her that heartbreak.

He pulled out a sheet of paper, dipped his pen, and composed the letter. It took numerous attempts to figure out the correct tone. He’d never advised her as to how he truly felt about her, and at this terrible juncture, it was too late. She wouldn’t believe him anyhow, but he was anxious that she have the money.

With her being so proud and independent, she might decline just on general principles, so he had to convince her to use it for her family but to ignore the source.

He was dabbing wax to seal the envelope as Fitch ushered in Pamela. She was smug and gleefully strutting around. Had she set her sights on him from the beginning? Had Amanda put her up to it?

He couldn’t abandon the impression that they’d duped him, yet he couldn’t imagine Amanda befriending Pamela, couldn’t fathom why Amanda would do Pamela any favors.

She dropped into a chair and barked, “Fix me a brandy, will you, Fitch?”

At the request, Fitch was shocked, and he glanced at Michael, wondering if he should. Michael nodded. Pamela was about to be a married woman. They had to stop treating her as if she was a child.

Fitch poured her two fingers, and when he offered her the glass, she scoffed at the small amount. “Don’t be cheap with Michael’s liquor, Fitch,” she scolded. “He has plenty more.”

Fitch filled the glass to the rim, and Pamela was satisfied. She sipped the strong brew as if she was in the habit of imbibing hard spirits.

Michael sighed again. Was he about to bind himself to an adolescent sot?

Without preamble, she asked, “Have you obtained the Special License?”

“I’ll start on it tomorrow. My solicitor will seek an appointment with the Archbishop. It may take several days.” How he prayed that it would! Perhaps an immediate and generous contribution to his local parish would guarantee a lengthy delay.

“Pity,” she purred. “I wanted to have it accomplished as quickly as possible.”

“I’ll bet you did.”

The encounter was so strange, the concept of wedding her so absurd. Shouldn’t they be discussing important aspects like how many children they would have or how they would carry on? Shouldn’t he propose? Shouldn’t she accept? Shouldn’t there be a ring? An announcement?

As if it was a
fait accompli,
the formalities seemed unnecessary, but when it was such a monumental jump for him it was too casual, too slapdash.

“What about an allowance?” she prodded. “How much can I spend?”

Hadn’t he provided her with everything she’d expected from the moment she’d moved in? “What do you need to buy?”

“A bride must have all sorts of clothes. A wedding dress. A trousseau. Now that I’m about to be a countess, I can’t look like a pauper.”

What a mercenary! They’d been engaged for a few hours, and she already had her hand in his wallet. “We wouldn’t want that, would we?”

“No,” she agreed, not realizing that he’d been sarcastic. “What would people say?”

“What, indeed?”

He studied her, curious as to what was going on in her sixteen-year-old head. Staring intently, he tried to rattle her, but she was a cool customer and couldn’t be cowed.

“Are you positive you wish to go through with this?” he couldn’t help inquiring.

“Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”

“Have you considered what it will be like being married to me?”

“Actually, I’ve been thinking about it for ages.”

“You have?”

“Yes. I’m about to receive all that I desire.”

“Which is?”

“Money, position, notoriety. What would you suppose?”

She was smarter than he’d given her credit for being, more shrewd than he’d assumed. Emily had insisted that Pamela was a vixen and a schemer, but Michael had rebuffed her assessment of Pamela’s character.

Emily had been correct. Too bad that he’d had to arrive at such a horrid place before he’d heeded her warnings.

“I’ll have my secretary arrange accounts for you.”

“Thank you.”

“You may charge whatever tickles your fancy.”

“Fabulous.” She stood to go. “Let me know when the special license is prepared. I’ve hired an artist to design the invitations.”

“Isn’t that a bit fast?”

“Is there any reason to dawdle?”

As this was a disaster waiting to happen, he could conjure up a thousand reasons to defer the nuptials, but she was too bent on matrimony, and after what he’d done, he had no right to refuse.

“None at all,” he concurred.

“There is another matter I’d like you to handle.”

“What’s that?”

“As this is my home, and I’ll soon be your wife, I shouldn’t have to suffer Amanda’s presence. I demand that you bar her from the premises.”

She swept out, her remark destroying any suspicion he’d harbored that Amanda and Pamela were conspirators. He listened to her footsteps as she whisked down the hall, and he tried to envision himself joined to her, tried to envision himself introducing her as his bride.

It was such a ludicrous notion that he couldn’t get it to gel, and it occurred to him that he couldn’t continue to reside in the mansion. He couldn’t share a house with her. She was a stranger, one he didn’t like and didn’t care to know any better.

He had to escape, and he decided to dump the entire debacle into the laps of his attorneys. He’d party up the town, would drink till he couldn’t see straight, and when the details were finalized, he’d appear for the ceremony.

You’ll have to consummate the union,
a niggling voice scolded. The very thought made him ill.

He rose to leave, when Fitch hurried in, his expression frantic.

“It’s your brother, sir.”

“What’s wrong?”

“He’s dying. You must go to him at once.”

“Dying?”

“He was in a fight. There’s a messenger. He brought you this note. . ..” Unable to explain further, he waved a piece of paper. Michael was already racing by and shouting directions as he went.

“My horse, Fitch,” he commanded. “Have it saddled. And summon the doctor so that he’s here when I return.”

He ran toward the door, not pausing to don his coat, when Margaret popped out of nowhere and slipped her small hand into his.

In the chaos, he’d forgotten about her, hadn’t spoken with her to clarify what was transpiring.

“Lord Winchester, I need to ask you a question.”

He yanked away. “I haven’t time, Margaret.”

“But it’s dreadfully important. When may I have a moment?”

As usual, she was incredibly polite, but he was too distraught for civility.

“Not now, Margaret!” he snapped, and the hurt look on her face was so colossal that he halted and dropped to his knee. “I apologize, darling, but my brother, Alex, is in trouble. I must rush to his aid. Immediately.”

“I understand,” she said. “Don’t let me detain you.”

She gazed at him, her big blue eyes pleading, and he felt like the lowest sort of vermin. In dealing with her, he was so out of his element, had never known what to say or how to act, and he was reminded of why it was for the
best that he’d never fathered any children. She presumed he was someone he wasn’t, much as Emily had before she’d learned the truth.

Would he disappoint Margaret as he had Emily? Margaret was about to be his sister. How long would it take to shatter her illusions?

“The minute I’m back, we’ll talk,” he promised. “We’ll talk all night if you wish.”

“All right.”

He dashed out, and it seemed that she murmured, “I hope it’s not too late by then,” but he kept going.

Pamela strolled down the hall, pretending to have no destination, when in reality, she was on a mission. Michael had fled and hadn’t had the courtesy to inform her. The corridors were quiet, the servants at supper.

She peeked into every room, eager to stumble upon Margaret. She hadn’t found the girl yet, but when she did, she’d make her so sorry.

How dare she eavesdrop! There was no telling how much she’d overheard, and Pamela couldn’t risk that Margaret would tattle to Michael. Pamela was determined to wed him, and nothing would stop her. Particularly not her irksome, annoying little sister.

She arrived at the library and glanced about. Espying no one, she tiptoed in, and within seconds, she was riffling through Michael’s mail. When they’d chatted earlier, she’d observed the envelope he’d been addressing, and the thick oaf hadn’t realized she had two eyes in her head, that she could read what was in plain sight.

She seized it and stuffed it down the bodice of her
gown, then hastened to her bedchamber, where she could examine the contents in private. After breaking the seal, she scanned the words, which reinforced her opinion that she’d been wise to follow up.

My dearest Emily
. . . the letter began, and Pamela seethed. She dug further, discovering a bank draft, and the enormous sum had her livid. His money was about to be
her
money, too, and she had no intention of sharing a single farthing with Emily Barnett.

He’d written to the despicable tyrant! He’d offered to assist her! Why . . . he’d contacted her on the very day he’d become engaged to Pamela!

His gall was amazing, and he would pay for the insult; Pamela would see to it. He would pay in more ways than he would ever be able to count.

She tore the note—and the bank draft—to shreds and threw the pieces into the fire.

“Where’s my brother, Mr. Drake?” Michael demanded.

“Your brother?”

The villain behind the desk was cool, calm, but his composure was a façade. The man was too alert, poised for action, and as his hand was hidden under the wood, he was very likely aiming a pistol.

“Show me to him.”

“And you are?”

“You bloody well know who I am,” Michael fumed, “or you wouldn’t have sent for me. How much do you want?”

“For what?”

“Don’t play dumb. I’m extremely wealthy. Name your price, and I’ll forfeit whatever you require.”

“You’re not much of a negotiator.”

“I have no time for games.”

“A hundred pounds, and he’s all yours.”

Michael groaned. “I haven’t such a large amount in my purse!”

Drake shrugged. “I don’t extend credit.”

Michael ripped his signet ring off his finger and tossed it on the desk. It was ornate, studded with rubies and diamonds, and he’d always loathed the gaudy bauble, detesting the rank and station it represented. “Here, you can have the blasted thing.”

Drake assessed it. “What the hell would I do with it?”

“Do what you will. Just so long as you take me to Alex.”

“You must care about him.”

“For the sake of a few pounds, am I to tarry while my brother perishes?” Drake gaped as if Michael were speaking in a foreign language. “Have you a brother, Mr. Drake?”

“No, but I have a sister.”

“Wouldn’t you do anything for her?”

Drake was silent; then he surprised Michael by giving back the ring. “Keep your trinket, but you owe me a hundred.”

Michael nodded as Drake led him out of the dark office where they’d been meeting. They were down on the docks, in an old warehouse. It was icy, and it smelled of rotten fish and moldy air. Michael shuddered, stunned that Alex had landed himself in such a dastardly place.

They walked down a lengthy corridor, and Drake pushed open a door. Another criminal was huddled inside a small room. A candle burned.

“Is he alive?” Drake asked his sentry.

“Last I checked,” the fellow replied.

“Help the earl carry him outside.”

Michael stepped into the cramped space, and his heart plummeted to his shoes. Alex was resting on a pallet on the floor, his shirt and boots gone. His skin was pasty, and he was deathly still. Someone had nursed him. A poultice had been applied to his chest, and it was secured by bandages wrapped around his arm and shoulder. He was battered from a fight, his face and clothes bloodstained, his knuckles raw, an indication that he’d held his own in the altercation.

“Oh, my Lord,” Michael breathed as he slumped to his knees and clasped Alex’s hand.

“One of my men was an army sawbones,” Drake stated, “and we doctored him as best we could.”

“Dare I move him?”

“Better you than me.”

“How did you find him?”

“A tavern owner notified me. If your brother manages to survive,” Drake counseled, “you should explain that this isn’t the neighborhood to be flashing around cash and jewelry, especially when he’s too foxed to defend himself.”

Michael wondered if there was enough life force remaining for his brother to regain consciousness. “Alex,” he whispered, “it’s me, Michael.”

He was glad the pair of ruffians was behind him, so
that they wouldn’t notice his distress. The day had been sufficiently awful, and this was the very worst conclusion he could have imagined. He’d lost Emily. Would he lose Alex, too? How could the Fates steal them both?

“Michael . . . ?” Alex’s eyes fluttered open. “What are you doing here?”

“I’ve come to take you home.”

“I’m so cold.”

Michael peered over at Drake. “Have you a blanket?”