What in God’s name was Elizabeth doing here?
Jones passed by him again, oblivious to his covert position. Quickly the butler went down the stairs. He exchanged some murmured conversation with Elizabeth that Michael could not make out. Then, together, the two of them mounted the staircase.
Alastair was receiving her?
His muscles contracted, his pulse beating harder yet, his entire body tensing as though in preparation for battle. It took his last shred of will not to reach out as she crested the stairs, to stop her from entering that study. His brother was not a man to be trifled with. If Alastair lifted a hand to her—Christ, if he so much as raised his voice—
He waited, barely breathing, as Jones returned again, alone, to descend the stairs.
Not wasting another moment, Michael stole out from his hiding place and raced silently down the hall.
The door to the study stood closed. But there was indeed a keyhole for spying. He knelt and put his ear to it, dimly aware of the indignity of the position, not giving a damn about it. At the first sign of goddamned trouble he would burst into that room and—
“Forgive my presumption,” said Elizabeth. “I know we have not been introduced. But I have a matter of great urgency to discuss with you, and it could not wait for the usual niceties.”
Michael knew that his brother’s appearance must shock her—and that Alastair would be eyeing her with steely distaste. But she sounded utterly composed, if a touch cool.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Alastair replied, “for as you may imagine, it is my fondest desire that we remain perfect strangers.”
“Then the polite thing would be to thank you for the kindness of receiving me,” she said. “But I won’t thank you. I see no reason to be mannerly with a man whose recent actions toward his brother rightfully deserve only my contempt.”
Michael exhaled. It was a curious thing to hear her defend him. A curious and . . . misplaced pleasure, in such circumstances.
What was she doing here?
“That is frank,” said Alastair.
“Yes,” she said, “I am known to be frank. And I will be franker yet. You see—”
“Did you encounter my brother on your way up?”
This idle question was answered by the briefest pause. “No,” she said. “Is he . . . here, then?”
Michael dug his nails into his palm. That notion clearly rattled her as his brother’s words had not. By God, but he wanted to see her—
He schooled himself with a long breath. Patience. He had to know why she was here.
“I suppose he has left already,” said Alastair. “Well, make it quick, then. I do not have time for women such as you.”
Her laughter was low and dark. “Then your standards have risen considerably of late—and certainly since these letters were written.”
A longer silence now. Michael peeked through the keyhole. Her back was to him, but she had handed Alastair a bundle of papers. He was leafing through them with a good deal more energy than the legal documents had merited.
“Where did you get these?” he said then, and his voice might have been cut from glass.
“From one Mr. Nelson,” she said. “He tasked me to bring these to you, and to beg, in return, your sponsorship of his bid for a barony at the least. And I was to ask a bequest of my own, perhaps eighty or ninety thousand pounds, the better to pay off my debts—which he will be glad to advertise, when he learns that I divulged his part in this scheme. But instead I have a different proposition for you entirely.”
Michael shook his head slightly. Nelson had blackmailed her? Threatened to reveal her impoverishment?
He was going to kill that bastard.
“Nelson,” Alastair said.
“Charles Nelson. Your wife’s lover. One of them, at least. As you see.”
“Barclay,” his brother muttered. “And Patton!”
“Yes,” she said, “and Huston as well. The late duchess was quite busy, wasn’t she? One wonders what you were doing all this time. Ah, yes—I remember now: you were playing politics, and promoting your favorites. But it seems your wife disagreed with your politics, for her affections favored the opposition—and they seem to have profited greatly by it. Why . . . your grace, I daresay that your wife was something of a kingmaker as well!”
Michael sucked in a soundless breath. Now it was clear to him. The letters she’d handed over were connected to Margaret.
Somehow Nelson had gotten hold of Margaret’s private correspondence.
Christ. Nelson had been one of her lovers.
In his disbelief, he nearly laughed, a wild laugh that would have exposed him in an instant. Instead he bit down hard on his knuckles and strained to hear their next words, even as his mind raced. Why had she not told him? Why had she not come to him?
“These are the originals?” Alastair asked.
“A sampling of them,” she said. “I will hand the rest to you later. Yes, I know—there are more! Imagine that. Very prolific, was your wife. But before you receive her collected works, first you must do me a particular favor.”
Michael’s breath stopped. Why, with this leverage over his brother, she might demand . . . anything from him.
Abruptly he stood. He did not want to hear this. No wonder she had not told him of Nelson’s threat—for she meant to blackmail Alastair, just as Nelson had done to her. He could not breathe, for a great volcanic rent seemed to be opening in his chest. It was a disappointment, a betrayal, beyond all endurance—
No. She would not do this. Not to his brother.
The next second, he knew she would not do it. She would never disappoint him. Never betray him in such a way—or in any way so fundamental.
The certainty of this belief unwound through him so rapidly and powerfully that it nearly crushed the breath from his lungs.
Why, he had no doubt of her. None. And this certainty, which he had once believed, known, he would never feel for any woman—why, it did not seem so miraculous, after all. It felt . . . natural. Trusting her was the most natural and simple thing in the world. He had no choice in it; his faith in her was like his breath, steady and involuntary.
For so long he had been afraid to repeat his parents’ tragedy. But this was love: not something separate from trust, but woven of it. This was what his parents had lacked.
His parents’ story would never be his.
Feeling dazed and strangely weightless, he knelt again, just in time to hear her say, “You will reopen your brother’s hospital. That is my favor. And you will resume—whatever it was you did for his work before. I want your promise in writing, drawn up by my solicitors, that you will fulfill your bargain to him for as long as he requires it.”
Michael closed his eyes. Elizabeth, you idiot. She hadn’t needed to do this. He’d had it well in hand. Damn it, she should have demanded money for herself. She—
He stood and threw open the door.
Alastair looked up from the letters. Elizabeth, turning on her heel, went pale.
“Eavesdropping?” Alastair said. “How charming.”
“Give her the money,” Michael said. “Eighty, ninety thousand pounds. Do it, or the letters go public.”
“No.” She stepped toward him. “No, that isn’t the right way. Michael—”
“I don’t need his support,” he said. “God damn it, I don’t need it. But you need the money.”
Her face changed. She stopped in her tracks, her hand at her throat. “And you think I would take it? From him? You thought better of me yesterday!”
He’d offended her. His idiocy appalled him. “No,” he said, striding forward and catching her hands. “No, you misunderstand me. All I want is that you—” He tightened his grip when she tried to break free. “Listen to me, Elizabeth! You cannot marry another man. I won’t allow you to do it. You will take the goddamned money!”
A scraping sound came to their left. Alastair had cast the letters into the fire, and was stabbing them with a poker.
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“There are more,” Michael said to him. “And by God, I’ll print them myself, I’ll distribute them in the streets—”
Elizabeth’s hands turned in his, her nails against his wrists calling him back to the moment. “You will not,” she said sharply. “You’ve no business in this. He is your brother, Michael.” Releasing him, she faced Alastair. “But my own threat holds good. I will have that promise from you, sir, ensuring that the Lady Marwick Hospital reopens—and remains open—from next week onward. Or you will regret it.”
She turned back to Michael, lifting her hand to touch his cheek very lightly. But when he would have caught it in her own, she shook her head and stepped away.
“I must go,” she said softly, and walked toward the door.
“No.” The hell with that. He moved without thinking, catching her by the arm and hauling her around. “You will not walk away from me. Did you not hear? I have found a solution for the hospital. And—”
“And no solution for me,” she said gently. “Michael, if it were only my future at stake—I would so gladly put it in your care. But . . .”
“I love you,” he said. “I will find a way. I will find a solution. You cannot walk away.”
She stared at him, her lips parting. They trembled visibly, and the sight hurt him. He reached up, very gently, to still them with his thumb.
“Trust me,” he whispered. “As I trust you. We will find a way.”
A strange whimper broke from her. “But . . . I . . . if it were up to me alone . . . but so many people are depending on me . . .”
“And we will find a way.” He nearly had her now. Victory was leaping in his blood. “Only say you trust me, and I vow to you, I will never disappoint you.”
She blinked up at him, and a single tear slipped from her magnificent eyes. Green as jade. He could not bear to see her cry. Slowly he leaned down and captured that tear with his lips.
“I am going to forbid you to weep,” he said. “I’ll make the parson put it into our vows.”
Her shuddering breath singed his ear. “Oh,” she said. “All right, then . . . if you . . . promise.”
“I promise you everything,” he said, very low.
With a broken noise, she grabbed him by the hair and pulled his mouth to hers.
It was a hot, deep kiss, and it tasted of—relief, by God, she was his, he had her. He wrapped his arms around her and hauled him to her. “You’re not leaving me,” he said.
“No,” she said. “I—can’t, I think.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake!”
Elizabeth flinched in his arms. He’d forgotten his brother, too. He ignored Liza’s attempt to step away, but he loosened his embrace just enough to let her turn toward his brother as he did.
Disgust lent more animation to Alastair’s features than Michael had seen in months. “This is a pathetic display,” Alastair snapped.
“I hope his charm does not run in the family,” Elizabeth said flatly.
Michael was startled by his own snort of laughter. “Come,” he said, and urged Elizabeth toward the door.
“I will have those letters!” came the panicked call behind them.
“Ignore him,” Michael advised. “No time like the present to begin to develop the habit.”
“You can have your money!”
At that, Michael stopped dead. When Elizabeth frowned up at him, he arched a brow.
She shook her head. “I don’t want it. Not like this.”
“Your money, and funding for the hospital to boot.” Alastair sounded truly desperate now. “Enough money to see you both comfortable.”
“Dirty funds,” said Elizabeth, but now she was worrying her lip between her teeth.
“Cleaner than marrying for it,” Michael pointed out. “And you were willing to do that—or briefly consider it,” he added quickly, for she’d begun to scowl.
“God curse you! I’ll pay off your debts as well! And that is my final offer!”
Elizabeth spun back toward his brother. “Accepted!” she said brightly.
And Michael laughed in astonishment. By God, he’d thought she’d had a tell—but she didn’t. She’d been bluffing these last few moments, waiting for the stakes to be raised.
“Very well, then,” Alastair said. “I will have my solicitors draw up a binding contract. And you will deliver the letters. But I have one more condition.”
“No,” said Michael instantly.
Elizabeth touched his arm. “Wait. Let’s hear it first.”
Alastair, bracing himself by one hand against the mantel, took a visible breath. “And . . . as to the matter of your wedding . . .”
“Goodness, how fast he runs,” Elizabeth murmured.
“Only logical,” said Michael. “For I do intend to marry you.”
“Won’t you ask first?”
“In a minute, yes. I’d rather we have some privacy.”
“It must be a public wedding,” Alastair growled. “And I must be included, lest there be talk about my absence.”
Elizabeth looked to Michael. “That must be your decision,” she said softly.
Michael bit his cheek. It seemed possible to him that Alastair’s condition was, in fact, a veiled gesture at an apology. But perhaps that was only wishful thinking. He no longer knew his brother well enough to say.
“Our wedding will not be held in this house,” he said. “So the choice is yours: you will be welcome to come, but only you can say if you’ll be able.”
Alastair’s eyes narrowed. “I’ll be able,” he said. “Dear God—do you think I would miss your wedding?”
And Michael felt something in him relax that, unbeknownst to him, had been constricting his lungs for months.
It was a poor start at recovery on Alastair’s part . . . but it was a start all the same.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
There was no question but that Michael would come home with her tonight. The novelty of a happy ending was too new, and felt too fragile, to risk with a single moment’s separation. As soon as they entered her carriage, her hands were on him, and his mouth was on her, and she somehow got onto his lap, and they were kissing feverishly. But the drive was too short—frustratingly short; they exited the vehicle breathless and disheveled. And then, once in the house, up the stairs, en route to her bedroom, Liza encountered a very unpleasant surprise:
The box in which she’d stored the late duchess’s letters—the box she’d shut away in her wardrobe—stood on her dressing table.
In a panic, she opened the lid. “No,” she said. “The letters are still there.”
No, wait—there weren’t enough of them.
Pulling them out, she counted quickly.
“Half of them are gone,” she cried. “There should be twelve!”
“How can that be?” Michael took them, counting again. “Seven. Are you certain there were twelve?”
“Positively certain! But who would have taken them?” She turned a tight circle, as though the cozy confines of her boudoir might contain a thief. But nobody save Hankins and herself ever ventured here.
A cold finger touched her spine.
“Mather,” she whispered. Mather had entered just as she’d been shutting the wardrobe.
No. It couldn’t be.
“What about Mather?” Michael demanded.
She shook her head and raced into the hallway, where her haste caused two startled maids to stop in their tracks. No, they had not seen Miss Mather this afternoon. Nor, it transpired, had the housekeeper—nor Ronson, who had only just arrived from Bosbrea.
But one of the footmen had spotted her leaving the house an hour ago, with a valise under one arm and a portfolio beneath the other.
“She can’t have done this,” Liza said to him as they climbed back up the stairs. “Why would she have done this? And what will your brother do when I can’t give him all the letters?”
“There are enough there to satisfy him,” Michael said. “You didn’t tell him how many yo
u had left.” They went back into her boudoir, where he rifled through the remaining sheets. “Enough details to satisfy him,” he said. “He’ll never know that some are missing, and perhaps she—”
He went still.
“What is it?” she asked anxiously.
His face grave, he reached over to her dressing table and plucked up a single sheet of paper that she had not noticed in her panic.
Mather’s script unfurled in tidy, angular rows.
Madam,
You are indeed a better woman than I. But perhaps my sins might prove of use to you. I have taken certain of the duke’s letters for safekeeping—a careful selection, to ensure his honorable treatment of you. Should his grace continue to stand in your way, you may tell him that I will ensure his deepest regret.
You will wonder why I have done this. For separate reasons I cannot divulge, I am forced to conclude my tenure with you. But you have been very good to me, and whether or not you agree, I do owe a debt to you. This is how I repay it. I am sorry to do so in such an underhanded manner, but I beg you, if you are able, to consider this not a betrayal, but my parting gift.
Sincerely,
Olivia Mather
P.S. It may interest you to know that I caught Mrs. Hussy Hull closeted with Weston in her boudoir on the morning of our departure, speaking of marriage and . . . other things. I predict that the bride will need to loosen her corset considerably before the wedding.
“Where on earth has she gone?” Liza whispered.
Michael was reading over her shoulder. “Does she have any family?”
She shook her head. “Her mother is dead. She never spoke of anybody else.”
“A former employer?”
“I found her at a typist’s school,” she said. “I’ve not the first idea where to look for her!”
His hands closed on her shoulders, a comforting grip. “It seems she doesn’t mean you any harm,” he said.
“What? No, of course she doesn’t! This is Mather! But why has she run off?” She reread the note very quickly. “I do not like the sound of this. It almost sounds as though she was forced to go. But by what? She showed no sign of any plan to leave me—”