Seduced by a Scoundrel (37 page)

“The child
is
your heir,” Queen Eleanor declared, not appearing to be frightened in the least. “I decree it to be so.”

“Cease your raving. Alicia, open the letter. Show me what’s inside.”

She considered refusing. But he might shoot Mama. Her throat constricted, Alicia slowly unfolded the paper and displayed it for his inspection.

“Where are the documents?” he demanded. “Where have you put them?”

“I haven’t seen them. I suppose at one time Mama knew, but she doesn’t remember anymore. So you may as well let her go.”

“I do indeed remember,” Queen Eleanor said indignantly. “This man is a villain. He would overthrow the crown and seize the treasury.”

“Madwoman,” Lord Hailstock muttered, giving her a shake. “Tell me where you put the affidavit from the midwife.”

She drew herself up, a diminutive but regal figure beside his sinister form. “Though you might draw and quarter me, I shall never breathe a word to one such as
you.
” Then she pressed her lips shut.

Did Mama understand what she was saying? Alicia wondered wildly. If she came to her senses, she could guide them to the place where she’d hidden the documents. Lord Hailstock would let her go.

But in the next moment Alicia knew the futility of that. Claire had instructed Mama never to give the papers to Lord Hailstock. And Mama, bless her devotion, had kept that promise for thirty years.

“You belong in Bedlam,” Lord Hailstock growled to the countess. “Where you can confine your ravings to the other lunatics.”

Queen Eleanor lifted her chin. She kept her mouth tightly closed.

Alicia’s stomach churned. “That’s the real reason you wanted to marry me,” she whispered. “You didn’t care for me. You only wanted to lock Mama away. To keep her from revealing your secret.”

A fiery determination burned in his eyes. “And to keep you or anyone else from stumbling upon the proof. Just as your father did.”

“Papa?”

“He found the letter and realized its worth. Then he came to me, begging a loan to pay his gambling debts in exchange for his silence. Until then, I didn’t know any proof still existed.”

Bile rose in her throat. She felt dizzy with disbelief. “You
murdered
Papa?”

“No! I would only give him the money if he gave me the documents. The fool refused. Said he wouldn’t force Eleanor to betray her promise to Claire. Then he went home and shot himself.”

Mama made a small sound of distress. Her lips trembled. A tear rolled down her cheek, the droplet sparkling in the lamplight.

Anguish clutched at Alicia. Mama
did
understand.

Beset by the urge to claw Lord Hailstock’s arrogant face, Alicia clenched her fingers around the paper. “My lord, I will exchange this letter for my mother.”

“Bring it to me,” he said. “I want to know exactly what Claire says.”

“Release Mama first.”

“No. Come closer and show me the letter.”

Alicia took a cautious step toward the marquess and stopped just short of his reach. Without the aid of a lamp, he wouldn’t be able to decipher the faded penmanship. She must convince him the letter was valuable, a worthy barter for Mama.

“Shall I read it to you?” she forced out. “In it, Claire avows that Drake
is
your son. She calls him by name. She describes your jealousy, your refusal to recognize your own child—”

“Her bastard,” he spat. “She deceived me into thinking her a lady, but she had no morals in the bedchamber. She behaved like a bitch in heat. Her child could have been fathered by any riffraff.”

From the doorway of the ballroom, a familiar voice rang out. “It doesn’t matter who sired me. By law, any child born within the bounds of your marriage
is
yours.”

With a gasp, Alicia spun around to see her husband enter the darkened ballroom. Broad and strong and tall, Drake walked with the determined stride of a warrior heading into battle. His decisive footsteps echoed in the cavernous room.

Lord Hailstock snapped, “Stop right there. You can’t prove you’re my son.”

Drake halted a few feet from the dais. His gaze went to Alicia, penetrating deeply into her, before returning to Lord Hailstock. “That letter will help verify my case to the authorities. If nothing else, it will cast a blot upon your sterling name. Let the countess go, and I’ll let you burn it.”

The rasp of Lord Hailstock’s breathing filled the silence. Alicia felt her heart pounding against her rib cage. Then abruptly he gave her mother a shove, sending her lurching toward Drake. “Go to Claire’s whelp.”

In the same motion, he grabbed Alicia. His fingers dug into her arm as he yanked her hard against him. The paper slipped from her fingers and fluttered to the floor. She pushed frantically, trying to escape his iron grip. Then something made her go perfectly still.

The gun barrel nudged her neck.

*   *   *

Lady Eleanor tumbled off the dais and into Drake’s arms. Though she was a small woman, the impact caused him to stagger backward. Her veil draped his head, blinding him. He gripped her for a second, then let her slide to her feet while he clawed away the gauzy stuff.

Too late.

Hailstock held Alicia. He pressed a dueling pistol to her neck at the vulnerable place just below her ear.

Uttering a savage growl, Drake released the countess and sprang forward, his muscles tensed to leap.

Hailstock cocked the pistol. “Stay back,” he snarled. “I won’t hesitate to use this weapon.”

The click of the gun froze Drake. His nerves thrummed with a wild rage, a rage he dared not indulge. His gaze bolted to Alicia’s wide blue eyes. He couldn’t risk her life. Or the life of their unborn child.

In a rustle of heavy skirts, Lady Eleanor glided to his side. “You certainly took your time in answering, my summons,” she chided, as if this were a game. Gentleness entered her voice. “But now I know why you look so familiar. You’re Claire’s son. You’ve her coloring, the black hair and blue eyes. So very striking.”

Drake kept his eyes on Alicia. Softly he said, “I must ask you to move away, my lady. There is danger here.”

“I am not afraid. I am Queen Eleanor of Aquitaine.”

“Even queens must protect themselves, Your Majesty. Go now.”

Fumbling with the clasp of her moleskin cape, she vanished into the shadows. Relief touched him, but only for a moment.

He focused on Hailstock, who held Alicia on the raised dais. “Let her go. I don’t want your damned title. Nor your wealth or anything else you own. All I want is my wife.”

“You expect me to believe that?” the marquess sneered. “You don’t know the meaning of honor.”

Drake refrained from retorting that Hailstock was the most heinous sort of criminal, to threaten a woman. He could see fire in the marquess’s eyes; a wrong move might push him over the edge. Forcing his voice to remain steady, he repeated, “Let her go. This is between you and me. She has nothing to do with our quarrel.”

“You may have the letter, my lord,” Alicia said, her voice remarkably strong. “I dropped it right there.” She moved her foot slightly, pointing with a pink-slippered toe.

Pulling her along with him, Hailstock edged toward the paper. Drake gripped his fists. He hated his own helplessness. He hated seeing his wife threatened by this nobleman. He hated himself for instigating the revenge that had brought them all to this crisis.

Wheels clattered from the doorway. “Father!” James called out, his voice echoing in the immense ballroom. “What the deuce are you doing?”

Hailstock had started to reach down for the letter. His face stark with alarm, he straightened. “Leave here at once. You shouldn’t be here.”

“Indeed I should. I want to know why you’re holding a gun to Alicia.”

“I’m protecting your inheritance from this vulgar upstart.”

“I told you, James can keep his inheritance,” Drake said in a tight voice. “Harming Alicia will gain you nothing but a hangman’s noose.”

James rolled to the dais, staring up at his father. “Have you gone completely mad? Put down the gun. Release her and we’ll forget this nonsense.”

“It isn’t nonsense. If I don’t stop him, he’ll take everything when I die.” Hailstock’s voice quavered with strong emotion. “You’ll be left destitute. A helpless cripple.”

“I’m not helpless, and I never was,” James said forcefully. “I was sulking, and you encouraged me so I’d be dependent on you. As for the title, I shan’t take what isn’t mine.
You
raised me to be a better man than that.”

His forehead furrowed, Hailstock stared down at his younger son. “You don’t understand. You have blue blood—your mother was a Quincy. The title
must
go to you.”

“No, Father. I shan’t accept it. So you see, there is no purpose to holding Alicia hostage.”

The pistol wavered. Drake tensed his fists, concentrating, willing the marquess to drop the gun. He feared to say anything that might antagonize him.

Lady Eleanor chose that moment to reappear out of the gloom. She tugged on Drake’s sleeve. “Hsst.”

“Stay back, Your Majesty,” he whispered.

She jerked harder on his arm. Standing on tiptoe, she murmured in his ear, “But I have something for you, my lord.”

My lord.

Clenching his teeth in denial, Drake glanced over to see her standing beside him, the moleskin cape draped over her arm. A piece of the blue satin lining gaped open, the threads dangling. She probed inside and drew forth an oiled paper, folded over several times, brown and bedraggled in the dim light from the lamps.

Her games didn’t interest him now. Only Alicia, still in Hailstock’s power. But Alicia was frowning, watching her mother. Then Lady Eleanor pushed the unfolded paper into his hand.

He looked down, and his gaze riveted to the page. Spidery handwriting on an official-looking document. Beneath it, a second paper, a statement signed and notarized.

Ghostly prickles ran over his skin. He gripped the papers tightly. Lady Eleanor had had these documents with her all the time. A marriage certificate. And proof of his birth. If he’d had any doubts before, he didn’t now. He
was
legitimate, born of Claire, Lady Hailstock.

“Are those the papers?” Hailstock asked hoarsely. “Give them here.”

“I’ll do better than that,” Drake said. “I’ll save you the trouble of burning them.”

Striding to the edge of the dais, he pulled the lamp closer and lifted the glass chimney. Alicia uttered a choked gasp as he touched the documents to the flame. He looked straight at her, willing her to believe in him again. The oiled paper took a moment to catch.

Then he jerked his gaze to Hailstock. “Let her go now.”

His face stark with surprise, Hailstock said in a raw, incredulous voice, “You really do mean it. You don’t want the title.”

“I never did.”

Moving as slowly as an old man, the marquess lowered the pistol and loosed his hold on Alicia. She darted away, descending from the dais and drawing her mother back into the shadows. Drake felt a boundless relief at her safety, greater even than his satisfaction at burning these documents. He wanted to go to her, to hold her in his arms, to reassure himself that she belonged to him.

The racket of wheels sounded from behind him. He kept his gaze on the smoldering documents, watching the edges blacken. “You’ll want to witness this, James. Now you can keep your bloody damned title—”

The chair careened into him. Drake staggered sideways; his shoulder struck the lamp. He heard the shattering of glass as momentum threw him to the floor.

Without the documents.

James had snatched the papers away. He’d lunged for them with such force, he’d thrown himself out of his chair and landed onto the parquet floor. With his bare hands, he beat out the flame. But larger flames raced toward him, the spilled oil pouring down from the dais in a stream of fire.

Even as Drake leapt to his feet, Hailstock scrambled off the dais, slipping on the spilled oil as he shoved James to safety. Drake sprang forward to drag James well away from danger.

Then gut instinct sent him surging toward the doorway to shout, “Fire!”

Mrs. Yates must have been waiting outside in case a scuffle arose. Carrying rugs to beat out the flames, she and several footmen ran into the ballroom.

Drake tore off his coat and raced back toward the blaze. An agonized cry echoed through the ballroom.

The sound made his stomach curdle. He spied a figure by the dais, encased in flame, a living pillar of fire.

Hailstock.

The marquess staggered away from the dais. Alicia frantically tried to put out the flames with the moleskin cape. In a flash of movement, Drake reached his father, thrusting him to the floor, smothering the flames with his coat. But it was too late. The marquess lay badly burned, breathing in ragged gasps, his face a mass of charred flesh.

Drake crouched beside him. He called to one of the footmen, “Fetch a doctor!” The man dashed toward the doorway.

Caught in his own private hell, Drake had a numb awareness of the other servants extinguishing the last flames, and the choking smoke in the air. Alicia had shielded her mother from Hailstock. They knelt by Mrs. Philpot, who sat up, coughing. Mrs. Yates helped her to her feet.

James hitched himself forward by his elbows. His voice rough with pain, he whispered, “
Father.
”

The marquess groaned. His breath rattled in his throat and then ceased. James uttered a low cry, reaching out to touch his father’s unmoving chest. Then he bent his head and wept.

Drake pressed his fingers against his burning eyes. A welter of emotion choked him, the longing he’d felt for a father’s love, the regrets that he couldn’t change the past. Hailstock had given his own life to save his younger son. And Drake had to admire him for that.

He didn’t know how long he and James remained there. But when he lifted his head, Alicia and her mother were gone. An overwhelming panic struck him. He told himself she would be putting her mother to bed, seeing to Mrs. Philpot. There would be time enough to speak with his wife. Time enough to hold her, to coax her, to work himself back into her good graces.