A Most Delicate Pursuit (3 page)

Still, if he were a better man, he'd be the first on his knee proposing marriage to her. Sadly, that was not even possible. Beatrice deserved a man better than he, though it pained him greatly.

Navigating his way through the crush, he finally sighted the exit. Pushing back thoughts of Beatrice and his own inadequacies, he slipped out into the corridor unscathed.

Just before reaching the exit, however, a familiar face appeared before him.

“My lord.” Sir Edward Pennington stepped in front of him. A tall, thick, angular man, he leaned too close, and when he spoke, bits of spittle flew from his mouth.

“Penny, old man,” Michael said with a feigned surprise. “How fare you these days?”

“Well enough, I suppose,” he said, scanning the crowd and wearing a bored expression. “I've many to see at this event, so let's keep our meeting short. My charge, Lady Merriweather, has arrived and wishes an audience with you, though Heaven knows I've no idea why.”

Michael's heart sank. He'd hoped that their affair had ended amicably enough. He should have known better. Their parting had been too easy, her mood too forgiving.

Still, no need showing his concern to the likes of Pennington. The old knob already had his oversize nose in far too many scandals as it was.

“Then I must make haste to see her. I've so missed her these months we've been apart. If you'll excuse me.” He nodded and quickly turned away.

A minute later he'd navigated only a few steps closer to the door when he saw one of Ash's footmen approaching.

“Here, man,” he called over. “Please send my regards to Her Grace, the dowager, and give her my most sincere regret that I must postpone our meeting. I'll be staying the night and if she wishes, I'll be available after breakfast for our meeting.”

“Yes, m'lord.” The man bowed and turned toward the door.

Michael sighed. Having just escaped one near-disastrous affair, the last thing he needed was to become tangled up in another. He knew Amelia was only concerned with his happiness, but she'd surely not known that his fortunes, when it came to romance, had always ended poorly. He must make it his first priority to inform her at their next meeting.

He only hoped she would understand and allow him his freedom in this. The very last thing he wanted to do was disappoint the dowager duchess. It was tantamount to disappointing a saint.

“What in the devil is taking your master so long?” The old man's voice boomed so loudly, even the servants outside heard his bellowing. “I've been waiting nearly half an hour. Much longer and I shall tear this wretched house apart to its last stone.”

Richard Bainbridge was angry. More than angry. Didn't these cretins know what an important man he was? Hadn't they heard of his exploits running guns during the Spanish campaign, or hear of his delivering munitions to France when Wellington led his armies there? Was the Summerton fellow aware that he would be in the presence of the third-richest man in all of Britain?

Surely not, Bainbridge spat.

He scoffed, threw his hat on the table, and began to pace in earnest. One of the richest men in all the realm and he was reduced to waiting on this high-pocketed, self-important snob when there were a myriad of other things he'd rather be doing.

Like bedding the young woman who'd been promised to him in marriage, for one. And drinking a local alehouse dry for another.

“Mr. Bainbridge, I presume?”

Bainbridge turned to see the duke standing at the door. “At last,” he growled. “You've poor manner, sir, to keep a man of my standing waiting hours for an audience.” Bainbridge wielded his cane in anger.

Clearly a man of breeding and refinement, the duke showed no reaction to his behavior. Still, it was no deterrent to Bainbridge's tirade.

“Your Grace,” he said, bobbing his head, but he couldn't hide the contempt in his voice.

The truth was that Richard Bainbridge loathed the aristocracy. Hated them with every inch of himself. Having been born to a merchant and a prostitute, he's seen how the upper crust had looked down on his family. He'd watched while his father had labored endlessly to gain their favor. The simple sot hadn't realized that those he sought to please had only concerns for their own and never gave a thought to anyone outside their own narrow world.

His mother had been much wiser, though. A working girl, she'd used her attributes to serve them but always with the intent on what she could gain. Thieving, whoring, and even murder were not beyond her. At least when she was young and she remained pleasant to look upon. While she catered to the wealthy, she held them all in contempt and taught her son to do likewise.

As a result, when Richard Bainbridge made his way into the world, he'd his father's head for business and his mother's hatred of the wealthy and he used both to claw his way into a better life, one where he'd become superior to the rat-faced peerage. And he did so with his advanced intellect and massive wealth. He'd bought his fair share of judges and constables, had loaned money to ailing aristocrats, and had even been a valuable asset to the War Office.

Of course, that was on the surface. His own interests lay far beneath the law, beyond what decent people knew about, and he meant to keep it that way. No matter what. And the ripe young woman he meant to take to his bed would fulfill his other tendencies quite well.

“It's my hope that we can dispense with your business quickly as I have a party to return to.”

Bainbridge scoffed. Just like the selfish, ego-centered aristocrats. Always more concerned for their own miserable lives. No matter, he'd likely be grateful to dispense with the girl at the earliest opportunity.

“Mine as well. The less time I spend in this overindulgent hovel, the better. I've come to see about my bride.”

The duke blinked. “Your bride? To whom are you referring?”

Cursing, Bainbridge reached into his jacket and gave the high-nosed imbecile his papers. “Miss Beatrice Hawkins. Here is the promissory letter from her only living male relation, a Sir Alfred Danbury. In it he has arranged a marriage between Miss Hawkins and myself. With his permission, I'm to escort her from the premises. As you see, he has reclaimed his right as her legal and binding guardian. I will remove her forthwith from your care and take her to my home in Scotland as is outlined before you. Now, if you would see to dispensing my bride, I will be away from here at the first opportunity.”

The other man stood quiet a moment, studying the documents Bainbridge had given him. When he looked up again, he wore a tight, angry expression.

“Has the lady agreed to this arrangement?” The duke asked the question as though he'd already known the answer.

“She has not, but it matters little. Her guardian…”

“…is a senseless fool if he thinks I'm going to surrender her care to the likes of you or anyone else he chooses. He has a history of mistreating the Hawkins women, from their mother to my wife, and even Beatrice herself. I'll not allow him or you to take her from my home.”

The man's audacity knew no bounds. “You will allow me, sir, or I shall see you in court.”

The duke shrugged. “See me wherever you will, I'll not give you my sister-in-law. She has a family here that loves her and I won't force her to marry against her will. And, seeing the likes of you, no woman would agree to that.”

Bainbridge leaned in close, his voice low and threatening. “How dare you speak to me so. You have no say in the matter and neither does she. You have until midnight to have her packed and ready to go. A minute past and I'll have the law here, sir.”

The younger man stood still for a moment, his eyes narrow and his expression tight. “Do as you must. You have my answer.”

Furious, Bainbridge stormed out of the room. How dare the fool keep him from the woman. Had he no idea with whom it was he was crossing swords? No inkling of the power that Bainbridge wielded?

“Pickering!” Bainbridge yelled. “Get my carriage.”

A tall, gangly man, all arms and legs, with a small, almost child-size body, rushed to his side. “Right away, sir. Will the lady be joining us?”

Bainbridge's first thought was to strike the man, but thankfully he wasn't one to let his emotions rule his head. “Not yet. We're going to White's. I've heard we can get a fair meal there.”

“But what if the lady isn't here when we return?” Pickering asked as the carriage rolled up the drive.

“I very much doubt she will be.” He waved his hand. “I've never trusted the aristocracy, anyway. I've another plan for securing my bride-to-be. It's already been set in motion. I'll have the wench in my bed by the end of the month, have no doubt about it.”

The one thing that Bainbridge excelled at was outmaneuvering the upper crust at every turn. While the Duke of Summerton was no fool, he was as pathetically weak as were all his counterparts. And no one alive knew how to exploit these clods better than Richard Bainbridge, to be sure.

Ash paced the room. He'd read the orders to relinquish Beatrice into Bainbridge's care. It was sure disaster. He'd heard of the man before.

“Who was that man?” Amelia asked at the door.

Taking a deep breath, he considered lying to his aunt. The last thing he wanted to do was set her to worry about Bea's situation more than she already did. Since his sister-in-law had begun living at Summerton, she'd been offered for many times and had refused them all. Not all of the gentlemen had been accepting of her rejection, and the dowager and he had been sternly supporting her decisions. But it was getting harder and harder to keep Beatrice out of the fray.

In the end, he knew he had to be honest with Amelia, like as not her spies amongst the staff would tell her of Bainbridge's visit anyway. No sense in ruffling her feathers as well, he thought.

“His name is Bainbridge,” Ash told her, motioning her to the chair across from his desk. “And he is trouble, to be sure.”

“I don't understand? Did he threaten you?”

Ash shook his head. “Not directly, but if I don't comply with his demands, he's assured me he will take actions against me.”

“How dare he?” She shook her head. “Must be quite a fool to face off a duke.”

“Believe me, a fool is the very last way I'd describe him.” Ash reached beside his chair and pulled the servant bell. “He's come to take our Beatrice away.”

Shocked, his aunt started to speak but held her tongue when Bentley entered the room. “Yes, Your Grace?”

“I need you to fetch Lord Bladen as soon as you can find him. I believe he's in the receiving parlor.”

The butler nodded and left.

“What do you mean, he's taking our Beatrice? How dare he?”

“He dares because that dratted Alfred Danbury has revoked her guardianship. In return for a substantial payment, he's arranged an engagement between Bainbridge and Beatrice.”

“Can he do that?”

He hated seeing his aunt so upset. “Yes, he can. It's already filed with the courts. As soon as he secures her acceptance, they'll be announcing it in the banns.”

Amelia stood up. Though a petite woman, her stature far outmeasured any man's Ash had ever known. “You can't let this happen. We don't even know what sort of man this fellow is.”

Ash let out a breath. “On the contrary, I do know what sort he is. Wealthy, powerful, and cruel first come to mind. Don't worry, I've no intention of handing her over.”

“What will you do?”

“Get her married as soon as possible, is what. The courts rarely go against an established marriage. The sooner, the better. I'm afraid her very life may depend upon it.”

There can be many things in life that one regrets. Missed opportunities, harsh words spoken that can never be unsaid. Entanglements that one couldn't avoid—or rather should have but didn't. The foolishness of youth and the desperation of loneliness. A bitter drink to swallow, but when one must claim them all, it was weight beyond measure.

Taking a deep breath, Michael prepared to face his past. He found his former lover in the upstairs parlor. The sitting room meant for Summerton's visitors had been designed for comfort. Large, overstuffed chaise lounges, a bracing fire in the fireplace, high windows with thick burgundy velvet drapes.

Dimly lit, with the afternoon shades drawn, he saw the figure of his former mistress seated in the farthest corner of the room. A dark beauty, he suddenly got the sense she belonged in the shadows. She sat as still as stone, her spine straight, shoulders back, and arms crossed in front of her. Wearing a black mourning gown, with matching hat and gloves, his former lover was the perfect picture of the grieving widow.

For years, she'd pretended concern for her husband, doting on him endlessly in public. But her attentions didn't come without a cost.

He had the scars to prove it.

Ten years older than he, she carried her age well. Her hair pulled in a severe chignon, and wearing the scent of an expensive French perfume, she was the height of fashion. A tall, austere woman, her beauty was legendary and her temperament one of cool guile and cunning. Had she been a man, Constance would have commanded armies. As a woman, she commanded any man who dared venture too close to her.

He easily remembered her green eyes and her small, slightly upturned nose. But it was her lush, inviting mouth and narrow chin that made a man beg for her attentions. Men flocked to her like bees to honey, and she opened herself to each one as if they'd been her first, true love.

She was considered to be one of the most intriguing women of the ton, and Michael had been fascinated by her from the very first.

Of course, at the time, he'd barely been out of the schoolroom, nearly sixteen when they'd had their first tryst. She'd been a kind and generous lover, teaching him all that he needed to know when it came to bedroom affairs. Later, after his many failed attempts at courtship, Constance had found him on a night when he'd been vulnerable and too deep in his cups to resist her charms.

Young fool that he was, he'd have stayed with her if he hadn't been ordered home by his father. Upon arrival, he'd learned that his father had already arranged his marriage to a wealthy baron's daughter.

Though he'd tried his best, marriage hadn't agreed with him, and fidelity less so for his wife. They hadn't been married long when his wife had gotten caught in a terrible scandal. She'd written him a letter, in which she'd blamed him for her unhappiness. Immediately after, she took her own life. Though no one directly blamed him, Michael felt responsible.

Distraught at his failure as both a son and a husband, he'd thought his life was over. The very day he'd returned home from burying his wife, Constance had been waiting for him. It hadn't taken much convincing before he climbed into her carriage and threw himself into oblivion for the three months that followed. He only left because the war had taken a turn and he'd deserted her to join in the fray.

“Hello, Michael.” Constance smiled. Her expression of displeasure changed upon seeing him. He'd seen that look before on his former lover. Though he'd once found her irresistible, these days she reminded him of a spider hiding in the shadows, ready to spring at any moment. “I've missed you so much.” She beamed at him.

Never more in his life had Michael felt like a fly, caught in her dangerous, sticky web.

Married to a man nearly twenty years her senior who'd had no interest in her save for that of her family's connection, she was now left a widow. A dangerous, wealthy, and influential widow, in fact.

Michael thought it odd that she chose to visit him, certain she'd had plenty of other suitors among the ton, most of whom were far better off financially than he. But she'd made her intentions known and he was going to have to settle things between them, the sooner the better.

The truth was, his fascination with her had never been one of love. He knew that now. It had been one of convenience, one of two people needing comfort in the arms of each other. He readily admitted that spending a weekend with her, or even a week or more on occasion, had always been pleasant. Fun, even. But more and more he found himself counting the hours until their time together ended. Their final tryst, three months earlier, had ended badly.