“Don’t be concerned. The Harvest Post is on the outskirts of London on an isolated road. It’s hardly the type of establishment to be visited by the
haute ton.
”
She let out a sigh of resignation. “All right.” She turned to fetch her coat, which hung over the back of her chair. “I suppose if the place is as out of the way as you suggest, there is no risk that we will be seen.”
They stepped outside to where his driver waited at the corner, and James helped her into the carriage.
The journey to the inn did not take long. Soon the city street lamps faded and the wheels of the carriage slowed and swayed on the dilapidated cobblestones of the rural road. The well-lit inn shone like a welcoming beacon in dimness.
The proprietor of the Harvest Post greeted James warmly. Farnsworth had been embroiled in trouble with his business partner, and James had settled the dispute between the partners, freeing Farnsworth to run the inn on his own.
Exchanging pleasantries and laughing with James, Farnsworth himself escorted them to the inn’s sole private room. A waiter appeared with a bottle of red wine, and James ordered the inn’s specialty, a hearty rabbit stew, for both himself and Bella.
After tasting the first forkful of stew, Bella’s eyes closed in delight. “Mmmm. This is delicious,” she murmured.
His mind burned with the erotic memory of the first time they made love—of Bella sprawled naked across the snooker table, strands of her luxurious dark auburn hair in vivid contrast to the green felt, her eyes half closed and her lips parted in pleasure.
James watched, enthralled, as she drained her wineglass, then licked a lingering drop from her full lip with the tip of her tongue.
He busied himself with refilling her glass, then cleared his throat, forcing himself to focus on the important issue at hand rather than the desirable woman across from him.
“Tell me,” he said. “When did Rupert Sinclair first contact you?”
“Weeks ago in Wyndmoor’s stables. He confronted me there before ... before he attacked Bobby and shot you. I haven’t seen him since the stables. Except ...” She twisted her napkin in her lap. “Except, he had left a note on my pillow the night we dined together at Wyndmoor. He wanted to meet for me to hand over the ledger. My bedroom window was shut and locked. I’ve no idea how he gained entry.”
“That was the night you asked me to pay you for the deed to Wyndmoor?”
She nodded. “Yes. I never found the ledger and I had no choice but to flee.” Her eyes widened, and she whispered, “He threatened to harm you a second time.”
Again she sought to protect him. His heart hammered, and his breath burned in his throat. He truly would enjoy killing Rupert Sinclair.
“I’m even more convinced my plan is sound,” he argued. “You must live with me until Sinclair is arrested and you are no longer in danger.”
“I’m still uncertain. What of your grandmother, the dowager duchess?” Bella asked.
“Do not concern yourself with her. The Park Street mansion is enormous. One could wander for days without seeing anyone but a servant. You can have your own wing if you prefer.”
When she made to protest further, he said, “I’m sending for Harriet, remember? She can act as your chaperone.”
“Surely the dowager will see through such a ruse.”
“I don’t care what she believes. I want you safe.”
For a long moment, she looked back at him. “No one has ever concerned themselves with my safety before.”
“Then allow me to be the first. You cannot run from Rupert indefinitely. The man must be brought to justice for his crimes.”
“Which ones?” she asked. “His past treasonous actions or for shooting you?”
“Both. My only regret is that your spouse expired before he could be held accountable for his abominable treatment of his beautiful wife.”
She stilled, her hand resting on the stem of her glass. The candlelight brushed her elegant features—her heart-shaped face, her catlike green eyes, her wildly tempting lips. She was breathtaking and maddening at once. An arousing combination. The air thrummed with awareness between them.
Awareness and unmistakable anxiety.
Her voice was a tremulous whisper. “Whatever do you mean by Roger’s ‘abominable treatment’?”
James leaned across the table, his eyes locking with hers. “Make no mistake, Bella. My investigator was thorough. He spoke with the Plymouth townsfolk. Your husband was the worst type of man, and spread lies of your frail mental state. We both know you are anything but frail and are of strong, sound mind. But it was his abuse of his beautiful wife that was truly vile. He was a sick man, and his death was a far too easy escape for his crimes.”
A flicker of relief flashed across her features before her eyes lowered to her glass.
James wasn’t fooled and knew the reason. She feared his investigator had stumbled across the additional rumors—that she was responsible for Roger Sinclair’s death. James didn’t care if she had pushed the drunken fiend down the stairs or not. God knew, he would have done it for her had her villainous husband lived. But he kept his knowledge hidden. She need not face everything, not now, when he desired her cooperation.
“Roger had an obsessive and addictive nature,” she said, meeting his gaze. “He was consumed with amassing a fortune, by whatever means necessary. When trade with France ceased, the demand for French goods heightened, and he realized the money to be made. He started small with French brandy, lace, and perfume, but his greed soon took over and he began exporting munitions. He was addicted to brandy as well, and when it came to me ...” She swallowed, then went on to say, “He was fiercely jealous. First of my writing, which he immediately prohibited, then of any attention I received from the women and men in Plymouth. I lived in fear of his volatile temper and his abuse, and through his threats against the one person I cared for he ensured I never ran away.”
“I’ve observed his type in my legal practice. Demented souls who cannot be rehabilitated. Many are addicts of alcohol or opium, others respectable tradesmen with dark secrets and violent tendencies. Rupert Sinclair shares your husband’s traits. We can work together and see this through to the end. But you must agree to live under my roof,” he said.
She inclined her head. “If that’s what you truly wish, then I’ll go with you.”
Profound relief swept through him. He raised his glass, and said, “A toast then, to our agreement.”
She drank, and he was quick to refill her glass.
There was a low knock on the door. The waiter entered to remove their plates, and James ordered more wine. Dessert was served, strawberries with Devonshire cream. Bella visibly relaxed and seemed to enjoy his company, just as he enjoyed hers.
Which was entirely foreign. Women had always served a single purpose in his life thus far—mutual pleasure. He wasn’t immune to Bella’s charms in that regard. Even now his gaze was repeatedly drawn to her luscious mouth as she licked the cream from each strawberry. The dessert was a concoction to arouse and inflame him. Yet it was her keen intelligence and courage that drew him and prompted this fierce possessiveness.
Eventually the conversation slowed. She yawned, then stretched.
James pushed back his chair. “I don’t want you falling asleep in your chair, Bella. We should head home.”
He helped her to her feet. She swayed slightly and smiled up at him with heavy lids.
He chuckled. “You’ve had too much wine.”
“Don’t be a ninny, James. I’m certainly not drunk, just relaxed.”
He rolled his eyes. “A ninny? No one has ever accused me of such a crime.”
She giggled, then threw his words back at him. “Then allow me to be the first.”
Chapter 29
Bella leaned on James in the carriage. Since arriving in London, the stress had worn on her, but now she had a defender. A powerful duke on her side, a man who had stolen her heart. She could share her burdens and cease looking over her shoulder in fear of Rupert’s retaliation for her not finding the ledger he so desperately sought.
The carriage wheels rolled over a rough patch of country road, and James pulled her more firmly against his side. The hardness and warmth of him was comforting and arousing at once.
There were complications, of course. This time, she had
agreed
to live under his roof. But in her wine-induced state, she pushed her worries aside.
Bella looked up at him, her cheek brushing his coat. “How can I ever repay your kindness?” she asked.
His hawklike gaze looked fierce in the carriage lamplight. “A kiss is sufficient.”
Yes,
she thought and raised her chin.
“But we should not, Bella.”
She frowned. “Why not?”
“You’re inebriated.”
“I am not,” she huffed. “I’m merely a bit tipsy. You said diversion would work to ease worry, remember? I’m only following your suggestions.” She raised her lips to within an inch of his.
His gaze dropped to her mouth. “Serves me right,” he ground out. “A woman who can argue like a barrister.” He pulled her close, and his head lowered....
Just then a loud crack sounded outside, and the carriage jerked to a sudden stop.
“Stand and deliver!” a voice boomed outside.
James sat upright. “Christ! It’s highwaymen.”
“Highwaymen!”
James reached beneath the bench seat for a knife—a wicked-looking four-inch blade that he slipped into his boot.
Fear spurted through Bella. She had heard of highwaymen, pirates of the rural roads who preyed on vulnerable carriages at night. Never had she thought she would fall victim to one.
Her gaze flew to the window. It was dark, save for the torches held by the robbers. There were two ... no, three ... men, one mounted on a horse. Their driver was on his knees, a look of terror on his pale face as a highwayman held a knife to his throat.
“Do they know you are a duke?” she whispered.
“For certain. No doubt they’ve targeted the ducal crest on the side of the carriage,” James said.
Seconds later, the door was jerked open. A large, bald man holding a club the size of which she’d never seen stared at James. “Get out of the carriage. And empty yer pockets.”
Heavens! It was the size of a tree branch, yet the man held the club with ease in a meaty fist, as if it weighed no more than a small branch.
“You’re making a grave mistake,” James said in a hard voice.
“Me? I don’t think so, me lord.” The man jerked his head toward Bella. “The chit stays inside. Ye get out. Now.”
“Stay here, Bella,” James commanded before hopping down and closing the door.
Icy fear knotted inside Bella, and she strained to see out the window. The ruffian holding a knife to their driver began to search his pockets. The third highwayman stood apart from the rest, clearly the leader. He wore a hooded cloak and was of average height. A terrifying thought struck her.
Could it be Rupert Sinclair?
James threw a purse at the feet of the bald man. “Take it and go.”
Bella watched as the leader raised his hand and made a quick slicing motion across his throat. A signal to kill James?
No!
her instincts screamed out.
Without further thought she flew from the carriage and flung herself at the bald man’s arm. She was no match for him, and he struck her across the face and threw her like a rag doll. Her head split in pain as she fell to the ground.
James had a fiery, angry look that was completely unfamiliar to her. With lightning quick reflexes, he reached into his boot and came up with the blade in his hand. His eyes were hard and merciless as he slashed the arm of the bald highwayman and then hurled the knife at the ruffian who held the driver. With an eerie swoosh, the blade struck the man in his gut.
“Let’s get out of ’ere!” the leader shouted.
From where she lay, she saw one of the ruffians turn and flee and heard the sound of horses’ hooves pounding over the dirt road.
“Bella! Look at me!”
She turned to find James beside her on the ground. Her head hurt; every movement ached like the devil.
“They were going to kill you,” she mumbled.
He gently gathered her into his arms and stood. “No, sweetheart. I was ready for them. You risked your life. Why?”
“I couldn’t let him hurt you.”
James cradled Bella in his arms inside the carriage. He had told his driver to rush to the Park Street mansion.
“I’ll be fine,” Bella insisted. “The brute struck my cheek. I’ve suffered worse in the past.”
Lord! What hell had she lived through? Roger Sinclair was lucky indeed that he was already six feet underground.
As for tonight, when the highwayman had struck Bella and thrown her to the ground, his heart had slammed into his ribs. Bloodlust had consumed him, and he had attacked with murderous intent.
She had risked her life when she had left the safety of the carriage. James stared down at her upturned face in wonder. She may have been emboldened by the wine, but he knew it was her courage that had made her leap from the carriage and throw herself at the hulking criminal. She could have been killed, taken from him before he could truly make her his.
His voice was harsher than he intended. “You shouldn’t have left the carriage.”
“He was going to kill you. I had to act.”
“No. I was watching and knew their intent. You could have been gravely injured.”
“But—”
“Promise me that you’ll never do that again. That you’ll never disobey a direct command and risk your life again,” he said.
She bit her bottom lip, a nervous habit he now recognized. He curbed the impulse to shake her until she agreed.
“I was never good at taking orders, but I’ll try.”
James laughed; he couldn’t help himself. How could he stay angry at her when he wanted to kiss her?
Tightening his arms about her, he kissed the top of her head. “Then that will have to do for now. Rest, Bella. I’m taking you home.”
Lady Blackwood, the dowager duchess, was in the midst of one of her intimate parties. Forty guests—all influential members of the
beau monde
—stood around a long table in the silver drawing room, where a mesmerist, Master Ormond, was in the process of hypnotizing Lady Booth, who had volunteered for the task.
Her ladyship was well aware that her intimate soirees were the talk of the
ton
and that many would sell their souls to garner an invitation. She prided herself on serving the finest champagne, exquisite food prepared by her own highly sought-after French chef, and offering the most unique entertainment via the mesmerist. When Lady Booth barked like a dog, the guests collectively laughed, then clapped.
But the dowager knew the excitement behind tonight’s soiree had nothing to do with any of these offerings. The thrumming excitement and tangible curiosity of the gossips was not due to the talented mesmerist but the shocking discovery of the new Duke of Blackwood. The guests lingered, requesting more and more outrageous tricks from Master Ormond, all in the hopes of catching a glimpse of James.
Lady Caroline was in the thick of the crowd. The dowager knew Lady Caroline’s game as she herself would have played the same way had she learned her betrothed was no longer first in line for the title, but a penniless younger son. Lord knew Gregory had his faults—the drinking, gaming, and the opium dens—but Caroline had never given Gregory’s addictions a second thought.
Until now.
If Lady Caroline wanted to become a duchess, she had no other choice than to set her sights on James. Caroline had tried. The dowager knew, of course. Her personal servants were as efficient as the Regent’s top spies when it came to eavesdropping. The dowager couldn’t blame Lady Caroline for trying, but still ...
Gregory was her grandson. She may not have wanted him to inherit the dukedom, but she felt a tinge of sympathy that he would lose both the lady and the title.
For Caroline would never have Gregory now.
But neither would she succeed in snaring James.
The dowager knew this deep in her bones. James Devlin was his own man. He had ruthlessly carved out a career as a successful barrister when many illegitimate sons would have spent their lives begging for every shilling from their wealthy relations.
But not James Devlin. He had lived life on his own terms, accountable to no one.
His life had changed overnight with his father’s deathbed confession. He’d have to marry and produce an heir. Despite his irritation when they had last spoken on the subject, James was shrewdly intelligent and fully aware of his duty. As a boy he had sought his father’s approval—even his acceptance—like a puppy begging for his first bone.
Life was ironic indeed. Now that James had his father’s title and wealth, he exhibited not gratitude at his fortune, but disdain.
She should have anticipated his cynicism. James had been a barrister and a rogue his entire adult life. His exploits with women were as well known as his success in the courtroom. As far as she was aware, he had never fathered a child and had never desired to have a family. Now duty required it.
When James had failed to return from Hertfordshire, the dowager had inquired and had learned a lovely, young widow by the name of Bella Sinclair was in residence. Knowing James, the dowager had understood why he had tarried.
The truth was the dowager desperately wanted grandchildren and the sooner the better. At eighty-two years old, her time was running out. The chest pains that had plagued her over the past year had increased in intensity and frequency. Yet she refused to succumb before ensuring the future of the dukedom before she died. If Lady Caroline was not to his liking, then James must choose another and quickly.
The dowager was considering which ladies from titled and wealthy families she would want to bear her grandchildren and strengthen the dukedom, when the drawing room door was kicked open with startling force and James stalked in with a young woman in his arms.
The guests spun from the mesmerist, mouths gaping open at the sight of the tall, sinfully dark and imposing man who glared down at them with an ominous expression.
The dowager came forward, and James’s blue gaze snapped to her. “Who are all these people?” he asked rudely.
The woman in his arms started to struggle. “James, let me down. I’m fine now.”
His arms only tightened around the lady. She appeared dazed and cradled her cheek with her hand, but she was strikingly beautiful with rich auburn hair and green eyes.
“Pardon,” she said. “I’m Bella Sinclair. We were alone in James’s carriage when we were waylaid by highwaymen on the way here, and if he hadn’t acted swiftly, we’d both have been gravely harmed.”
The guests stared agog; a group of young ladies in the corner giggled behind their fans. Master Ormond stomped his foot. “Enough! My demonstration is ruined!”
James’s fierce countenance silenced the temperamental mesmerist.
The guests followed in fascination as the new Duke of Blackwood spun on his heel out of the drawing room, calling for Stodges to summon a physician. Then James carried the woman across the marble vestibule and marched up the grand staircase.
Lady Caroline’s eyes narrowed as she placed her hand on the dowager’s sleeve. “His first social appearance as duke and he brings a harlot into the house,” she spat.
The dowager felt her chest tighten. “Watch your tongue, Caroline,” she admonished. “The lady is not a harlot.”
She just may be this house’s salvation, and the answer to my prayers.