Andrea Kane (39 page)

Tragmore leaned forward, gripping his knees. “I want you to think very carefully, Larson. Were any of the servants present during the vicar’s stay?”

Larson shifted his substantial weight. “If you’ll forgive my impertinence, sir, I’m quite good at what I do, which is the reason you hired me. I needn’t think carefully to recall what transpired. It’s all recorded on paper.” Again, he indicated his written sheet. “To answer your question, the only person other than the butler who entered the drawing room during the vicar’s visit was the maid who brought them refreshments.”

“And did she remain throughout his stay?”

“No. She served them tea and scones, then took her leave.”

“Then they were alone. Excellent.” Tragmore came to his feet with a flourish. “ ’Tis just the additional proof I require.” He shoved some bills in Larson’s hand. “Another fortnight should be enough time to fulfill my purpose.”

“Does that mean you want me to continue surveying the estate, my lord?”

“It does indeed. And pay special attention to the vicar’s comings and goings, innocent though they may seem.”

“Very well. It’s your money, sir.”

“Yes.” Tragmore’s eyes glinted. “It is, isn’t it?”

With a puzzled shrug, Larson stuffed the bills in his pocket. “Shall I report to you next week at the same time?”

“Definitely.”

“Very well. Good day, Lord Tragmore.”

“Very
good day, Larson.”

Tragmore waited only until the investigator had gone before he crossed the room, poured himself a congratulatory drink. Things were proceeding even better than he’d hoped. Oh, he’d known it was only a matter of time before the sentimental dolt began calling on Elizabeth, presumably to see to her well being. But flowers? Yellow roses, no less, even after all these years. And unchaperoned visits? The witless clergyman was making his own job laughably easy.

Lifting his glass, Tragmore smiled malevolently. A fortnight longer, he thought, tossing off the brandy. And then all he cared about would be his: vengeance, money—

A hesitant knock interrupted his celebration.

“Yes? What is it?”

“Forgive me, my lord,” the butler murmured, “but your solicitor is here to see you. He apologizes for not having an appointment, but—”

“Hollingsby?” Tragmore’s face lit up. “Perfect timing. Send him right in.”

“Yes, sir.”

The butler disappeared, only to usher the solicitor directly into the study. “Mr. Hollingsby, sir.”

“Hollingsby, what a splendid coincidence. I was just thinking of you,” Tragmore began.

The solicitor didn’t return his smile. “As I told your butler, I apologize for arriving without an appointment. However, I did need to see you on several important matters. Being in the vicinity, I took the liberty of dropping in unannounced.”

Hollingsby’s stiff demeanor did not go unnoticed. Quizzically, Tragmore inclined his head. “Very well. May I offer you something?”

“Thank you, no. This is not a social call.” Purposefully, Hollingsby remained standing, extracting two formal-looking papers from his portfolio and handing the first to Tragmore. “This document is your official notification that I will no longer be representing your interests.”

Tragmore’s mouth dropped open. “What?”

“To be blunt, Tragmore, those who engage my services pay their bills. I shudder to think how much you owe me. However, rest assured, I plan to determine the full amount of your debt. And once I have, I’ll do whatever is necessary to recoup my losses.”

“This is an outrage!” Tragmore sputtered. “We’ve done business together for years.”

“Yes. Uncompensated business. I’m no longer willing to endure your unfulfilled promises of payment.”

“You’re making a grave mistake, Hollingsby. In less than a month, I expect to—”

“Don’t humiliate either of us by boasting of some fictitious fortune you’re about to attain,” Hollingsby interrupted quietly. “My decision is made.”

“Fine.” Tragmore’s lips thinned as he savored the victory that would soon be his. “You’re the fool, not I. And when the very real fortune of which I speak is mine, I shall engage a shrewder and more influential solicitor to manage my funds.” He laughed, a caustic sound of gloating triumph. “Yes, I believe I shall begin searching for the ideal candidate posthaste.”

Hollingsby shrugged. “That, of course, is your right.” He extended the second formally prepared paper to Tragmore. “There’s a second reason I can no longer represent you, which this document will clarify.”

“What is it?” Tragmore snatched the page.

“It’s a statement of intent. I thought it only ethical to advise you that I’m representing your wife’s interests now.”

“My wife’s—” Tragmore stared blankly at the paper, hot color suffusing his face.

“The marchioness intends to sever your marriage. I’ve engaged a barrister.”

“Elizabeth is trying to secure a divorce?”

“She is.”

“On what grounds?”

“Extreme cruelty.”

Tragmore sank slowly into a chair, still gaping at the document in his hands. “Does she understand the ramifications? To her? To Daphne? Elizabeth will be shunned and Daphne will be bastardized.”

“Not if we’re granted a parliamentary divorce.”

The marquis gave a humorless laugh. “A parliamentary divorce? You’re more of a fool than I imagined, Hollingsby. Elizabeth is a woman. She and I are estranged. She is, therefore, without money or credibility, both of which are needed in vast amounts to pursue something as unlikely as a legal divorce.”

“And both of which are possessed in vast amounts by the Duke of Markham.”

A chilling silence.

“Markham? That lowlife, contemptible—”

“The very same.” A corner of Hollingsby’s mouth lifted. “My association with him, judging from your reaction, represents another conflict of interests.”

“Do you realize who he is? What he is?”

“You must know that I do. I was, after all, the one who notified him of his newly acquired title. I represented his late father for decades.”

“And you’ll trust his word over mine? A workhouse bastard?”

Hollingsby’s gaze was icy. “There are all different types of bastards, Tragmore. I’ll take a scrupulous one like Thornton any day. Moreover,” a biting smile, “he pays his bills. Good day.”

Tragmore stared vacantly after Hollingsby’s retreating form, blood pounding through his temples. His numbed gaze lowered to the pages he held—Thornton’s ultimate degradation.

With a muttered oath, he crumpled the documents into tight fists of fury, hatred for Thornton coursing through his veins.

The bastard had pushed him to the limit; stripped him of his money, his family, and now his dignity.

But it wasn’t over. Far from it.

Let Hollingsby do as he would. Let him and the street scum he worked for think they’d won.

He knew better.

Backed into a corner, he knew there was but one way out. One way to flourish and punish all at once.

Unclenching his fists, Tragmore smoothed out the rumpled papers. Then, with deliberate precision, he tore them once, twice, and crossed his study to toss the shreds into the fire.

“Daphne, don’t!”

Pierce took the room in five long strides, catching his wife’s waist and hoisting her off the chair where she’d stood on tiptoes, reaching for the window. “What the hell are you doing?” he demanded, setting her feet on the floor.

With a start of surprise, Daphne regained her balance, her dismayed gaze darting at once to Pierce’s shoulder. “You shouldn’t be lifting me. Your shoulder—”

“Is healed, and has been for a week. Now answer my question. What the hell are you doing?”

“I’m adjusting the curtains.” Tucking a loose wisp of hair behind her ear, Daphne gazed about Markham’s new, neatly arranged classroom with utter satisfaction. “Once the slates and chalk arrive today, our schoolroom will be ready for use.” Quizzically, she regarded Pierce’s furious scowl. “Why are you angry?”

“Because you could have fallen, damn it. You don’t stand on chairs when you’re with child.”

Daphne’s lips twitched. “Really? And how many times have you been with child?”

“I’m not amused.”

“No, but you’re terribly heroic.” Daphne reached up, laying her palm on her husband’s jaw. “Fear not. The babe and I are fine. I’m taking excellent care of us both.”

“This from the woman who invaded Benchley, endangered her life and the life of our child, knowing she was pregnant.”

Daphne gave a resigned sigh. “You’re never going to forgive me for that, are you? Even though I’ve told you time and again that, in my heart, I knew no harm could befall me or our child. You wouldn’t allow it.”

Pierce pulled her to him. “Your faith is humbling and frightening. What if—”

“It wouldn’t. You wouldn’t permit it.” Daphne pressed her forehead against the hard wall of Pierce’s chest, warm even through the barrier of his shirt. “At Benchley, you were beside me. The babe and I were safe. ’Tis as simple as that.”

Reflexively, Pierce’s arms tightened about her. “You truly believe that, don’t you?”

“I do.” He swallowed, audibly. “Snow flame, don’t take any more risks, all right? For my sake.”

“Very well.” She kissed his throat. “Although I must say, my reckless husband, that impending fatherhood has rendered you quite boring and stodgy.”

Pierce smiled against her hair. “I heard no complaints last night.”

“True.” Daphne tilted her head back, her eyes alight with laughter. “Perhaps your recently abated sense of adventure will show itself in new and innovative ways.”

“Say the word,” Pierce murmured, his voice husky with sensual promise, “and I’ll keep you abed for a week, demonstrating my ever-thriving inventiveness.”

“We’ve scarcely left our chambers all week.”

“That was a precautionary step.” He brushed her lips with his. “My shoulder needed to heal, so we didn’t have to explain the coincidence between my sudden injury and that of the Tin Cup Bandit who, as the newspapers reported, was shot and wounded upon fleeing Benchley.”

“The staff thinks you were ill.” Daphne shivered as Pierce’s lips found the pulse point in her neck.

“Tell them I had a relapse.”

“Pierce, I can’t.”

“Then tell them nothing.” Releasing his wife, Pierce crossed the room, turning the key in the lock. “Our new schoolroom needs to be initiated.” He pivoted, advancing toward Daphne with a suggestive gleam in his eye. “You choose, Snow flame. The oak desk or the oriental rug.”

Daphne’s eyes widened as she realized what her husband, intended. “Pierce.” She flushed. “You can’t actually mean to—What if someone should—”

“Abated sense of adventure, you said?” Pierce shrugged out of his coat, tossing it to the floor, followed quickly by his shirt and cravat. “Boring? Stodgy?” His arms enveloped Daphne, reaching around to unfasten her buttons in rapid succession. “Am I being innovative enough, my spirited wife?” he breathed just before his mouth closed over hers.

With a soft sound of pleasure, Daphne twined her arms about Pierce’s neck, everything inside her going hot and liquid with longing.

“Choose,” he commanded as her gown and petticoats slid to the floor.

“I—” Daphne couldn’t think, much less choose.

“The rug is softer.” His thumbs caressed her nipples until they strained against her chemise. “But on the desk I can go deeper inside you.”

“Oh God.” Daphne’s knees buckled, and she stepped back, bracing herself against the desk. “Here,” she managed, tugging her chemise over her head.

Pierce’s gaze raked her hungrily. “I applaud your choice, Snow flame.” With undisguised urgency, he dragged off the remainder of his clothing, lifting Daphne onto the edge of the desk. “Let me feel you,” he demanded in an uneven whisper. Still standing, he urged himself between her thighs, leaving her totally open to receive him. “Do you want me, sweetheart?” He took her mouth under his, simultaneously gliding his fingers into her welcoming wetness.

Daphne moaned, clutching him more tightly to her.

“Ah, Daphne.” His lips burned a trail down her neck, her throat. His fingers began an unbearable rhythm that burned through her like a torch. “Yes,” he breathed as her hips undulated in response. “Now lean back on your hands.”

Immediately, Daphne complied, her eyes closing with pleasure as she gave Pierce free access to her body.

He welcomed the gift, lowering his head to her breast, drawing the aching tip into his mouth, relinquishing it only when Daphne cried out, and then, only to lavish her other breast with the same attention.

“Christ, you’re so beautiful,” he muttered, his lips moving restlessly down her body. He paused, laying his palm on her abdomen. “My child is growing inside you. Can you imagine what that knowledge does to me?”

Wetting her lips, Daphne attempted to answer.

Her answer never emerged.

Pierce’s tongue sank inside her, his fingers drifting up the sensitive skin of her inner thighs as they pressed them wide apart to allow him greater freedom.

Daphne was unable to stifle her cry, arching until she felt the cool wood against her back, her elbows totally giving out beneath Pierce’s relentless onslaught. The pleasure was acute and unendurable, converging instantly into a blinding pinpoint of sensation that exploded in seconds, spasms of excruciating ecstasy radiating out from her very core.

“Pierce!” She sobbed his name, reaching for him even in the throes of her release.

She was still shuddering when he entered her, taking her in one deep, inexorable thrust.

“Wrap your legs around me, Snow flame,” he rasped, clamping his hands on her hips, holding her while he withdrew, drove forward again.

Daphne whimpered, her spasms intensifying as she raised her legs, gripping Pierce inside and out, reveling in his groan of pleasure.

“Unbelievable,” he ground out. “Christ, I want to prolong it, but—” He threw his head back, giving in to the inevitable, thrusting into his wife again and again until the world erupted, his seed pouring into her in great, endless bursts.

Still embedded in her clinging softness, Pierce stood, lifting Daphne in his arms and turning until he was seated on the desk, his wife cradled to his chest. “It just keeps getting better,” he said in a husky whisper, his hand shaking as he stroked her hair.