“Ye don’t have any boots yet. The cobbler’s comin’ first thing in the mornin’.”
Raking a hand through his hair, Connor wheeled around and resumed his pacing. “So I’ve been told. Along with the tailor, the linen draper, the haberdasher, the hatter, the stationer, the jeweler, the fencing master and some fellow whose sole purpose in life seems to be helping me pick out the right case for my toothpicks.” He swung around to glower at Brodie. “I don’t even have any bloody toothpicks!”
Brodie fished a silver toothpick from his heap of treasure and offered it to him. “I don’t know why ye’re so crotchety, lad. Ye’ve barely been here for an afternoon and ye’ve already found yerself a bride. How do ye think that makes me feel?”
Connor folded his arms over his chest. He didn’t want to confess the stab of panic he had felt in that moment when Pamela had turned to walk out of the solarium. Didn’t want Brodie to guess that his ears had suddenly echoed with the damning clang of cell doors slamming shut. “You know very well that I’ve no intention of marrying Miss Darby. I just wasn’t about to let her stroll out of here and leave us imprisoned in this gilded cage. For all I know she could be planning to make off with the reward, then send the authorities an anonymous note telling them I’m an imposter.”
“So you don’t trust the lass then?”
Connor felt his face harden. “Of course I don’t trust her. She’s English, isn’t she?”
“Well, that’s a relief, isn’t it? I always thought I’d see ye hanged before I saw ye leg-shackled to some lass for the rest o’ yer life.” Brodie blew out a smoke ring, watching Connor from beneath his heavy eyelids as it floated toward the medallioned ceiling. “’Twas a wee bit odd, wasn’t it, when the duke said ye had eyes just like yer mother? Gave me a bit of a shiver, it did.”
Connor shrugged off another uncomfortable pang of guilt. “Gray eyes are common enough. Both of my parents had them. Besides, Pamela was right about one thing. People tend to see exactly what they want to see instead of recognizing what’s right in front of them.”
Pamela lost her way three times on her way to the dining room. The maid who had knocked on her door to inform her that supper was being served had pointed her in the right direction, then vanished down a back staircase. Pamela quickly discovered that Warrick Park was a maze of long, soaring corridors and immense rooms that led one into another with no particular pattern or predictability.
Her stomach growled a protest as she took another wrong turn. She hadn’t eaten since that morning and was beginning to fear that some haughty footman would find her bones months from now at the end of a dead-end corridor.
After an arduous trek through a portrait gallery lined with generations of dour Warricks who all seemed to be sneering down their aristocratic noses at her, she was finally rewarded for her persistence. As she approached a tall oak door, a bewigged footman dutifully threw it open, pausing only long enough to cast her ensemble a withering glance.
Slowing her steps, she smoothed her skirt, suddenly wishing she had remained lost until supper was over. Since she’d worn her best frock to their audience with the duke that afternoon, she’d had no choice but to don her second-best frock for supper.
The white poplin gown with its blonde lace flounce was more suited to morning wear. The gown’s deep, square-cut neckline only served to make her feel more woefully exposed. Fearing the sharp-eyed duke and his sharp-tongued sister would recognize paste jewelry when they saw it, she’d had no choice but to leave her throat and the creamy swell of her bosom unadorned. At least no one could see the toe peeping out of her ragged right stocking or would know that she’d squeezed her long feet into Sophie’s only decent pair of slippers.
Tilting her chin to a defiant angle, she swept past the footman and into the dining room. If she embarrassed Connor in front of his new family, he had only himself to blame. In truth, it would serve him right if she made him the laughingstock of all London!
She had time for only a fleeting impression of a long linen-draped table with the duke seated at its head and Lady Astrid at its foot before Connor rose to greet her, his imposing figure filling her vision. He was still wearing the stolen shirt, kilt and plaid he had donned that morning in the seedy inn where they’d passed the night. It galled her that he could travel most of the day, suffer any number of insults and indignities, and still look so deliciously fresh.
The burnished maple of his hair was neatly bound at the nape by a velvet queue and his jaw was perfectly smooth, which meant he’d already shaved a second time that day. Perhaps he’d ordered a footman to do it for him, she thought unkindly, already missing the surly ruffian with the wild hair and beard-stubbled jaw.
“Good evening, darling,” he murmured, taking her hand. The tender smile that tilted his lips was belied by the wary glitter of his eyes. “I was hoping you wouldn’t be too weary from our journey to join us.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, pumpkin,” she replied, her own adoring smile and the voluminous folds of the tablecloth hiding the fact that she was grinding the heel of her slipper into his instep. “You know that every moment we’re apart is sheer torture for me.”
Connor hid his grimace of pain with equal skill, leaning forward to brush her cheek with a chaste kiss. She turned her head at the last moment, hoping to force his mouth into her hair. But he anticipated the move, adjusting the angle of his descent so that the very corner of his mouth brushed hers with a possessive tenderness that made her toes curl.
The duke cleared his throat with a harsh bark. “I’d stand if I could, girl. But since I can’t, you may as well sit.”
He watched from his wheeled chair—his skin sallow but his eyes unnaturally bright in the glow of the candlelight—as Connor escorted her to a chair midway down the table, then returned to the place directly opposite hers. Given the size of the table it was fortunate the room had good acoustics, Pamela thought. If not, they would have all had to bellow at each other.
Lady Astrid dredged up a wan smile. “You should both be honored. It’s been months since my brother has felt well enough to join us for supper.”
Pamela stole a puzzled glance at the long rows of empty chairs that lined either side of the table. Since there was no one else there, she could only assume that Astrid’s “us” was equivalent to the royal “we.”
She felt a twinge of dismay. Although she wasn’t exactly looking forward to coming face to face with her mother’s murderer, she had hoped to be presented with a more promising list of suspects. Lady Astrid certainly didn’t look the sort to dirty her lily-white hands by burning someone to death.
Before she had time to pursue that grim thought, a quartet of footmen appeared, each one bearing a steaming china bowl of haddock soup.
They had barely finished delivering them when Connor picked up his bowl and brought the rim to his lips. Oblivious to the horrified stares of the footmen and Lady Astrid, he took a deep sip of the broth, then sighed with satisfaction.
The duke pounded on the table like an overgrown baby, his lips curving in a doting smile. “Just look at that, Astrid! He has a healthy appetite. I’ve always admired that in a lad! Heaven knows I had a host of healthy appetites when I was his age.”
Connor slowly lowered the bowl, suddenly realizing he was the object of every eye in the room.
“Oh, I’m sure he’ll be in keen demand at every soiree and supper party,” Lady Astrid replied, her thin lips pursed in a moue of distaste.
Unable to bear the woman’s smug condemnation or the flush slowly creeping up Connor’s throat, Pamela defiantly picked up her own bowl and took a loud slurp of the soup. Lowering the bowl, she beamed at the duke. “My compliments to the cook, your grace. ’Tis a delicious broth.”
“Yes, it is, isn’t it?” the duke agreed. He reached for his spoon, then waved it away with an impatient gesture and scooped up his bowl in both hands. They were trembling so violently that one of the footmen had to rush forward to help him steady the bowl before he
spilled its contents in his lap. He did not stop drinking until he’d drained it dry.
Lady Astrid was gaping at them as if they’d all lost their wits. But when her brother lowered his empty bowl to glower at her, she put down her spoon with a defeated sigh and picked up her bowl. After a delicate sip or two, she set the bowl aside and dabbed at her lips with her napkin. “I don’t wish to spoil my appetite. I do believe I’ve had quite enough for one evening.”
Judging by her pained expression, she was talking about more than just the soup. They sat in awkward silence while the footmen whisked away their bowls and returned with the main course.
While one of the footmen filled their wineglasses, another servant circled the table with a silver tray, carefully placing a plump slab of braised trout on each plate. Pamela licked her lips, terrified the delectable aroma was going to make her stomach growl.
Judging by the voracious glint in Connor’s eye, he was probably even more famished than she was. His brow furrowed as he surveyed the bewildering array of forks, knives and spoons grouped around his plate. He finally selected the most threatening-looking knife in the bunch and prepared to stab the piece of fish with it.
Pamela delicately cleared her throat. As he glanced up at her, she chose the small fork nearest her plate and used it to tuck a bite of the succulent fish between her lips. Connor hesitated for a moment, then laid aside the knife and followed suit.
“My son has already told me about the kindly couple who took him in after”—the duke hesitated, his face clouding—“after he lost his mother. But he thought you might want to explain how you happened upon him.”
Pamela wondered what Connor would do if she blurted out, “Oh, he was robbing my carriage at gunpoint.”
Instead, she smiled brightly and said, “Well, as he might have already told you, I’d followed up every lead and exhausted nearly every avenue in my search for him. It never occurred to me that I would find him studying for the clergy.”
“The clergy?” both the duke and his sister exclaimed in amazement.
“The clergy?” Connor echoed, choking on a piece of fish.
“That’s right.” Pamela clasped her hands together beneath her chin as if in devout prayer. “I finally found him at the abbey in St. Andrew’s, studying the commandments of God and living like a monk.”
The dangerous set of Connor’s jaw warned her he was currently contemplating breaking several of those commandments, starting with Thou shalt not kill.
“A monk, eh? Well, he certainly didn’t inherit those tendencies from his father.” The duke took a thoughtful sip of his wine. “I never thought we might have an archbishop in the family.”
“Then your hopes won’t be dashed, your grace,” Connor assured him, “because I’ve decided to set aside my studies so I can devote my full attention to learning the duties expected of your heir. And to pleasing my darling bride, of course.”
He lifted his wineglass to Pamela, the smoldering look he gave her over its beveled rim leaving little doubt as to just how full and pleasing his attention could be.
She inclined her head, hoping the flickering candlelight would hide the heat rising in her cheeks.
“Just how soon do the two of you hope to wed?” the duke asked.
“June,” Connor said at the exact same moment Pamela blurted out, “Late December. Of next year.”
Connor chuckled. “You’ll find my bride-to-be has a rather droll sense of humor. Since our courtship was so hasty, the lass believes we should take some time to get to know each other before we wed.”
“It sounds like a very practical notion to me,” Lady Astrid remarked with her first hint of approval.
“Ah, but since when have practicality and passion ever gone hand in hand?” Connor gave Pamela another one of those scorching looks. “She knows very well that I’ve no intention of waiting that long before making her mine.”
No longer able to hide her blush, Pamela crossed her feet at the ankles, wishing her legs were longer so she could kick him in the shin.
“Can we expect your family at the wedding, Miss Darby?” Lady Astrid inquired.
“I’m afraid not, my lady. I’m an orphan,” she confessed, watching Astrid’s face for any visible flicker of guilt.
“How tragic,” the woman replied, washing down a dainty bite of the fish with a sip of wine.
Pamela sighed and finished off her own wine. At this rate it would be December of next year before she exposed her mother’s killer.
But at the sound of a loud commotion outside the dining room door, Lady Astrid’s indifference vanished. She rose halfway out of her chair, her spine ramrod stiff but her lips trembling.
“Sit down, Astrid,” her brother snapped. “The servants will handle it. That’s why we pay them so handsomely.”
Quelled by his icy stare, Astrid sank back down in her chair, gripping the edge of the table with white-knuckled hands.
As the harsh cacophony of masculine voices swelled, Pamela shot Connor an alarmed glance. His hand was already inching beneath the table, probably to reach for a pistol he was no longer wearing. Or worse yet, she thought with a flare of panic, to reach for a pistol he was still wearing.
“Take your paws off me, Phillip!” someone shouted, the voice faintly slurred. “You’ve no right to keep me away from them!”
At that moment the dining room door came flying open and a man came staggering into the room. He yanked his arm free from the footman who had been struggling to restrain him.
The stranger glanced around the table, his contemptuous gaze finally coming to rest on Connor. “So, what they’re saying in town is true, is it? After all these years, my uncle’s long lost heir has finally returned to the adoring bosom of his family to claim his inheritance.” He swept out one arm and sketched Connor an unsteady bow, his voice dripping with scorn. “I came as soon as I heard the news. I couldn’t be more delighted to make your acquaintance, Cousin Percy.”
Chapter 12
Pamela winced in alarm as Connor rose to his full height to face the stranger. She had not forgotten his threat to shoot anyone who dared to call him Percy.
“Forgive me, your grace,” the footman said, his gloved hands trembling as he faced the duke and tugged his rumpled coat straight. The poor servant’s face was scarlet and his wig askew. “I did everything I could to discourage him.”
The duke dismissed the man with a curt flick of his hand. “It’s all right, Phillip. I know just how impossible my nephew can be.”
No wonder Lady Astrid looked so pale and miserable. This drunken interloper was no stranger, but her son—the “whelp” the duke had spoken of during their interview. The whelp who would have inherited the duke’s title and fortune if not for her mother’s letter and the unexpected return of his cousin.
Both his eyes and hair were as dark as midnight. His unruly curls tumbled over his brow in fashionable disarray. Although Pamela judged him only a year or two older than Sophie, his air of dissipation and the cynical twist of his lips made him appear far older. He was dressed in clothes that would have been the envy of any young buck strolling down Bond Street on a Saturday night, but his cutaway tail coat was missing a button and his cravat hung loose around his throat. The aroma of brandy wafted off of him like French cologne.
Now here was someone who looked capable of murder, Pamela thought, her lips tightening.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, and whipcord-lean, but still had to cock back his head to look Connor in the eye. Which he did, with equal measures of boldness and insolence. “So I hear you’ve been living in Scotland all these years. And to think, my uncle has always said the Scots never produced anything of value but decent whisky and target practice for our English soldiers.”
Pamela sucked in an audible breath, knowing perfectly well that Connor didn’t need a pistol to defend himself. He could simply clout the young man into next week with one blow from his massive fist.
“And I was told the English never produced a
nything of value at all.” Connor looked the man up and down. “Apparently, it’s true.”
The man’s dark eyes narrowed in an expression eerily similar to Connor’s. “Why, you—”
“May I introduce you to your charming cousin Crispin, son,” the duke said dryly, polishing off his wine. “It’s fortunate you returned before he could gamble, drink and whore away my entire fortune.”
“Archibald!”
His sister’s scandalized tones appeared to have little effect on the duke. He simply held out his wineglass so a footman could refill it. “No need for histrionics, Astrid. It’s not as if the lad was going to live long enough to inherit anyway. Given his delightful disposition and his penchant for cheating at cards and dallying with married women, someone is bound to kill him before I croak my last. He may be one of the finest swordsmen in all of London, but that’s not going to stop some jealous husband from shooting him in the back.”
Lady Astrid shrank back into her seat, two spots of color burning high on her cheekbones.
Crispin gave his uncle a sullen look before shifting his attention to Pamela.
He prowled around the table, his gait none too steady, and dropped to one knee beside her chair. He brought her hand to his lips, a sunny grin infusing the lean planes of his face with charm. “And just who is this captivating creature?”
“That captivating creature is my fiancée,” Connor said, “and I’ll thank you to keep your hands off of her.”
The lass belongs to me.
As Connor’s words from the castle ruins echoed through her memory, Pamela felt that same delicious shiver dance across her flesh. Once again, he’d uttered the lie with such conviction she was almost tempted to believe him.
Stealing a glance at Connor from beneath the sinful length of his dark lashes, Crispin lowered his voice to a clearly audible stage whisper. “Be forewarned, my lady. He’ll probably want to get an heir on you as quickly as possible so I’ll still have no chance of inheriting should he meet with an unfortunate accident.”