Chapter Twelve

IT BEGAN AS AN UNEASY SENSATION.

He had been jerking his head around to see if he was being followed from the moment Amelia first hurtled into his life. In the nearly two weeks since she had returned with Alex, the habit had become so acute he was developing stiffness in his neck. He stared suspiciously at every man, woman and child, to the point where he was certain his neighbors had decided he was probably touched in the head.

He had never felt welcome on his tidy little street of elegantly restored homes, occupied by respectable families complete with doughy-faced children and haughty servants. He had no doubt they preferred it when he was away, so long as his three odd servants came in once a week to keep the vermin out of his home. When he was absent, he posed no threat to his neighbors’ staid lives. Now that he was in residence with an American widow and a sullen little girl who was rumored to be an urchin and a thief, his neighbors had taken to staring at him with disdain. Although he tried to ignore it, they made him feel the same way he always had whenever he tried to exist in the privileged world Genevieve had brought him into.

Despised and unworthy.

“I think we’re being followed,” he said tersely, staring out the back window of the carriage.

Oliver rolled his eyes. “Ye always think we’re bein’ followed,” he scoffed. “Yesterday I had to stop ye from accostin’ old Mr. Anderson because ye were certain ye’d nae seen him on yer street afore, when the old sod’s been livin’ here thirty-five years.”

“He looked different,” Jack pointed out, defensive. “He shaved off his beard.”

“Aye—three years ago.”

Jack scowled.

“The day afore ye wanted to question that new maid of Mrs. Ingram, because ye were sure ye’d seen her walkin’ near ye in London, and wanted to know what coincidence could have brought her all the way to Inverness—”

“She looked familiar—”

“When ’twas just her new hat ye were recallin’, on another woman’s head.”

“They shouldn’t make them look the same.”

“An’ let’s nae forget the day ye scared that Rafferty lad so bad, his mother had to give him a tonic and put him to bed.”

“That wasn’t my fault,” Jack objected. “He came charging down the street toward Amelia with a rope in his hand—”

“He was chasin’ after his wee puppy.” Oliver snorted in disgust. “Ended up flat on his arse with you standin’ over him, threatenin’ bloody murder.”

“He shouldn’t have let the damn thing escape in the first place. How was I to know that he wasn’t a threat?”

“He’s scarcely twelve years old.”

“He’s very tall for his age.”

“He’s shorter than Doreen.”

“He seemed taller at the time.”

“I dinna know how ye’d ken, given how quick ye had him sprawled on his backside.”

“Just turn left down the next street,” Jack instructed. “Then left again. I want to see what the carriage behind us does.”

“An’ what will ye do if the driver makes the same turns?” asked Oliver. “Will ye accuse him of followin’ ye all the way from London?”

“I don’t know how you can be so relaxed about Amelia’s safety. The newspapers report sightings of her every day. Just this morning, someone said they had seen her in Inverness.”

“Aye—while others have seen her in Paris, Rome, Athens, and New York. Miss Amelia read it to us as she took her tea afore she went to work. She said she didna realize steamships had become so wonderful quick, and maybe this Saturday she’d take a trip to China, as she’s always fancied seein’ it.” He chuckled.

“It isn’t funny, Oliver,” Jack said flatly. “The reward her family has offered is enormous. All of Europe is searching for a woman matching her description in the hopes of making themselves rich.”

“Well, thanks to me, Miss Amelia doesna look like herself anymore,” Oliver pointed out, turning the carriage for the second time. “So ye needn’t be so—”

“He’s turning.”

The old man clacked his tongue in exasperation. “Aye—an’ so did that carriage in front of us. Next thing ye know, they’ll be accusin’ us of followin’ them.”

“Just drive to the end of the street and head west, beyond the edge of the city. If he isn’t following us, it would be strange for him to suddenly decide he had to head toward the countryside as well.”

“If we’re late for dinner, Eunice will be sorely mad.”

“Just do it, Oliver.”

Oliver huffed in frustration and snapped his reins.

The day was fading as the carriage rolled beyond the busy streets of Inverness. Jack refrained from twisting around to look out the back window as Oliver steered the vehicle onto the road that led to and from the city. Give it a few minutes. Just because a carriage was traveling the same routes as his didn’t mean it was following him. There had been numerous times in the past few weeks when instinct had told him he was being watched, but he never could be entirely sure, as the offending vehicle or person always disappeared at the last moment.

“There’s a small road running south after that clump of trees ahead. Speed up and take it, then stop the carriage after we pass the crest of the first hill.”

“When Eunice is blatherin’ about how her roast is ruined, I’m nae takin’ the blame,” Oliver grumbled, cracking his whip.

Jack waited until they had disappeared into the valley beyond the first hill. The moment Oliver brought the vehicle to a stop, he leapt out.

“Wait here—I’m going to the top of the hill to watch.”

“Call me if ye need me to come save ye,” Oliver joked.

Ignoring the old man’s sarcasm, Jack raced back through the deepening darkness to the top of the hill, where he concealed himself amidst the shadowy spires of the pine trees looming at the side of the road.

Long moments passed. Finally Jack caught sight of the same carriage he had seen in Inverness, moving briskly along the deserted country route. It barreled past the turnoff he and Oliver had taken.

Oliver was right. He was becoming completely paranoid. He turned, annoyed. Now he would have to suffer Oliver’s infernal mocking all the way home.

The sound of a horse’s hooves made him stop.

It had turned back, Jack realized, watching as the carriage sped along the narrow ribbon of road. The driver must have realized he had lost his quarry and was now racing to find it. Jack’s jaw tightened as the carriage sped past the turnoff, which was not obvious in the waning light. After a moment the carriage stopped again.

Come on. I’m over here.

The carriage slowly moved forward again, heading toward the pale glow of Inverness.

Shit.

The carriage stopped once more, hesitating in the darkness.

At last it turned and began to move carefully down the westerly road, searching for a place to turn.

“What’s happenin’?” demanded Oliver, who had grown bored waiting and decided to hike up the hill to Jack. “Any sign of it?”

“The driver has found the road,” Jack replied. “Stay here—I’m going to the other side. As soon as he slows on the crest, I’ll grab the horse’s reins while you make a lot of noise and open the carriage door. We don’t know how many are inside, so make it seem like there are more than just two of us.”

“Dinna worry, lad.” Oliver’s aged eyes sparkled with anticipation. “I’ll fill them so full o’ fear, they’ll think they’re about to take their dyin’ breath.”

Jack sprinted across the road and stood in the shadows, waiting.

Finally the carriage rounded the hill.

Jack leapt out and grabbed the horse’s reins, causing the startled animal to rear.

“Jesus Christ—what the hell are ye doin’?” roared the stunned driver.

“Keep still an’ yer mouths shut, an’ maybe we’ll nae slit yer throats,” bellowed Oliver dramatically as he flung open the carriage door, his dirk flashing in his withered fist. Blinking against the darkness, he peered inside. “ ’Tis empty,” he informed Jack, clearly disappointed.

Jack hauled down the driver. Before the astonished man could do more than gasp Jack had jerked his arm painfully behind him.

“I’m going to ask you some questions,” Jack drawled, “and you’re going to answer them truthfully.”

“Bugger yourself!”

“Take a moment to think about it,” he advised, pressing the point of his dirk into the driver’s throat. “Because I don’t want there to be any confusion about what I mean by truthfully. What I mean is, if I discover you have lied to me about any detail, no matter how small or insignificant, my men and I will find you and we will smash every bone in your skinny, quivering little body. Is that clear?”

The man regarded him in hostile silence.

“If you need a demonstration to understand what a broken bone feels like, I shall be happy to oblige.” He grabbed hold of the man’s little finger and began to bend it back.

“All right!” shrieked the man. “I’ll tell ye what ye want to know!”

“Your cooperation is appreciated.” Jack released his finger. “What is your name?”

“It’s Neil. Neil Dempsey.”

“And just what are you doing out here, Mr. Dempsey?”

“I was followin’ you.”

“Why?”

Neil’s mind began to race.

“Why?” Jack repeated, sharply twisting his arm.

“Because I’ve been hired to watch ye!” he squealed.

Jack was careful to conceal his surprise. Watch him?Why the hell would anyone be watching him? It had to have something to do with Amelia.

“Who hired you?”

Neil whimpered. “Please—I canna say—”

“You can say,” Jack assured him, wrenching his arm a little further up his back. “But if you would like me to help you remember by tearing your shoulder from its socket, I will be happy to oblige you—”

“Lord Hutton!” he shrieked.

Jack eased his punishing grip. “Who?”

“The Earl of Hutton,” Neil explained, his voice quaking.

“And just what does the Earl of Hutton want with me?”

“I dinna know—I swear it!” he screeched as Jack tightened his hold. “All I know is, he hired me to follow ye while ye’re here, and let him know everythin’ ye do.”

Jesus Christ. “And how long have you been following me?”

“Nearly four weeks, now. Ever since ye come back to Inverness.”

“I imagine that has kept you quite busy, hasn’t it?” Jack didn’t know who the Earl of Hutton was, but if he had hired someone to watch him, it was obvious he also knew about Amelia. Why then hadn’t he taken her to claim his reward? What sort of game was he playing?

“Where does Hutton live?”

“On an estate about twelve miles from here.”

“How convenient. You’ll take us there now.”

“Dinna make me do that,” pleaded Neil. “If I take ye there his lordship will be boilin’ mad—”

“Do you think he will kill you?” enquired Jack blandly.

Neil looked shocked. “Of course not—”

“Then you have less to fear by taking us there than you do by refusing. Is that clear?” He scraped his dirk across the soft flesh of Neil’s wildly pulsing neck.

Neil whimpered and nodded.

 

THERE NOW, YE JUST FILL THAT UP AND I’LL BE BACK in a moment to take it away,” instructed Mrs. Quigley, handing him his chamber pot. “Are ye sure ye dinna need me to help ye?”

“I can still piss by myself,” Edward assured her sourly.

“Well, then, that’s somethin’ ye should be grateful for.” She pulled down his richly embroidered covers so he wouldn’t have to struggle with them.

“I shall try to remember to thank the good Lord for that particular boon when I say my prayers tonight.” His tone was dripping sarcasm.

“Ye might also thank him for grantin’ me the patience to put up with ye,” she suggested, carefully arranging the sheets over his bare, skeletal feet so they wouldn’t get chilled while he relieved himself. “I know that’s somethin’ I pray for every night.”

“Let me know when you think he has given you some.”

Mrs. Quigley fisted her hands on her hips and shook her head. “Ye’d think a man with yer brains and station in life would know better than to insult the woman who’s in charge of his medicine.”

Edward shrugged. “If you don’t give it to me, I’ll die. And if you do give it to me, I’ll die. The only appealing possibility is that you’ll give me too much one day, which might make me die sooner.”

“Dinna be countin’ on that any day soon,” she said breezily, opening the door. “I’ll be workin’ hard at keepin’ ye here as long as I can, because I know the good Lord needs all the rest he can get afore ye show up to make his life a misery.” She banged the door behind her.

His mood foul, Edward pulled up his nightshirt and waited impatiently for his swollen body to cooperate. He hated pissing into a chamber pot while lying in bed. There was something insufferably demeaning about performing one’s bodily functions in such a manner. He closed his eyes and inhaled a deep breath, trying to force himself to relax and forget about how narrow and pathetic his life had become.

There were many days he heartily wished that Mrs. Quigley would give him far more of the laudanum his doctor had prescribed for the pain than his shriveling, faltering body could tolerate. It would be wonderful to just close his eyes, never to waken again. But he could not be sure the medicine would be so kind. There was the possibility that instead it would make him grotesquely ill, with vomiting and shivering and convulsions, and then not kill him after all, but render him more damaged and helpless than he already was.

Such a fate was unthinkable.

“Here now,” Mrs. Quigley shouted suddenly from somewhere down the corridor, “stop at once or I’ll send for the police!”

“Go ahead,” snarled a contemptuous voice.

“You can’t go in there!” Edward’s butler sounded far more frightened than resolute. “Stop!”

His bedroom door burst open as he grabbed his blankets and hastily tried to cover himself. The empty chamber pot rolled off the bed and smashed upon the floor.

“Forgive me, yer lordship,” whined Neil Dempsey, who was being held prisoner with a dirk to his throat by a tall, lean young man with coffee-colored hair and eyes of gray ice. “He’s gone completely mad!”

“Sorry to disturb you so late, Lord Hutton,” bit out Jack sarcastically, “but I thought I would save you the trouble and expense of having Mr. Dempsey follow me and just pay you a visit myself. It seems a far more efficient way of finding out whatever it is you want to know, don’t you think?”

Edward stared at Jack in shock.

“Drop yer dirk or I’ll blast yer bloody head off!”

Edward’s gaze snapped to the doorway, where his stable master stood pointing a rifle at Jack, with Mrs. Quigley, his butler, and a dozen or more vaguely familiar members of his staff huddled in fear behind him.

“Get out,” Edward commanded, glaring at them. “Now!”

The stable master looked at him in stupefaction, wondering if his employer had lost his mind. “Forgive me, yer lordship, but ye’re in grave danger—”

“Get the hell out, I say!” he roared, “before I fire the whole goddamn lot of you!”

The bevy of servants hastily withdrew.

“You go, too, Dempsey. He doesn’t need you any more.” Edward regarded Jack calmly.

Jack’s eyes narrowed as he studied the shriveled old man lying helplessly on the bed before him. It was clear that Lord Hutton did not fear him. If anything, there seemed to be an air of anticipation to him, as if he had long expected this moment would come.

Abruptly, Jack released Neil Dempsey, who yelped with relief and dashed into the corridor.

“Close the door.” Edward steepled his fingers together as he studied Jack. “I don’t want us to be disturbed.”

Jack sheathed his dirk in his boot and crossed the enormous bedchamber to slam the door shut.

“Sit down.” Lord Hutton indicated a gold-and-silk-covered chair beside his bed.

“I’ll stand.”

Edward nodded. Feeling in need of fortification, he groped around behind his pillow to retrieve his silver flask.

“Brandy?” His hand trembled slightly as he held the flask out.

“No.”

He struggled with the top, unwilling to betray his feebleness by putting the damn thing in his mouth and twisting it off. After a moment of fruitless effort he paused, debating whether he should just shove the recalcitrant vessel back under the pillows, before he humiliated himself even further.

Jack strode over to the bed, removed the cap, and handed the flask back to him.

“Thank you.” Duly fortified after a couple of swallows, Edward lowered his drink and regarded Jack with interest. “So, you finally realized you were being watched, did you? I always knew Dempsey was too much of a fool not to be discovered eventually.”

Jack said nothing. Everything about Lord Hutton, from his sickly-smelling, garishly ornate bedchamber to his wan, brittle body huddled amidst the stifling crimson covers and draperies of his bed, bothered him. He had no desire to be in his company a second longer than necessary. As he dragged Dempsey through Lord Hutton’s ancestral home, he had noted that it seemed opulent enough. Judging by the flock of servants who had scurried to his rescue, it seemed the old man was not wanting for help, either. Even so, Jack knew that somehow Hutton had made the connection between the missing Amelia Belford and the young American widow who had taken up residence in Jack’s home.

Ten thousand pounds was a great deal of money to an impoverished aristocrat, as Percy Baring had made abundantly clear.

“What do you want from me, Hutton?”

The aged earl studied him a long moment. Jack had the distinct feeling that he was analyzing him. It was as if he were trying to see beneath Jack’s clothes and stance and manner, beneath the years of education and polish. Jack glared back at him with naked contempt. He was heartily sick of being scrutinized by the men and women of Lord Hutton’s class. If the old man lying before him thought he was in any way Jack’s superior, if he dared to make even one disparaging comment—

“You’ve got your mother’s eyes.”

“Is that supposed to be a joke?”

“I never make jokes,” Lord Hutton informed him. “I’m too tired and too close to death for such nonsense. I’m telling you that you have your mother’s eyes because I believe you do.”

“You must have me confused with someone else.”

“Actually, I don’t,” Lord Hutton retaliated, unperturbed by the intense hostility emanating from his guest. “You’re Jack Kent, raised from the age of fourteen by the Marquess and Marchioness of Redmond. Lady Redmond discovered you when she was still Miss Genevieve MacPhail, in a squalid little prison cell in the town of Inveraray, where you had been jailed for stealing. While in prison you established a friendship with Lord Redmond, who at the time had been convicted of murder—”

“I don’t have time for this,” Jack snarled, marching toward the door.

“Your mother was Sally Moffat, who worked as a lady’s maid in the home of the Earl of Ramsay.”

He froze.

“Ye’re Jack Moffat, my sweet lad,” his mother would tell him, ruffling her fingers through his hair. “An’ when ye grow up all braw and fine, they’ll be callin’ ye Mr. Jack Moffat, and treatin’ ye with respect, like the gentleman ye are.”

“You do remember her, don’t you?” persisted Lord Hutton. “At least a little?”

Slowly, Jack turned to face him.

“Yes, I can see that you do,” Edward decided. “Perhaps not well, given how infrequent her visits to you were once she placed you with that foul couple after you were born. But well enough, I suspect, to have at least some memory of her before she died of syphilis.”

Outrage jerked him to the brink of violence. If not for Lord Hutton’s frail condition, he would have hauled him up by his shoulders and thrown him across the room.

“Why?” Jack clenched his hands as he fought to control his fury. “Why are you doing this?”

Lord Hutton stared at him a long moment, taking in his anger and his pain. Then he shifted his gaze to stare at his portrait, which hung on the wall behind his enraged young guest.

“There was a time,” he began, his tone almost wistful, “when I was something like you. Young. Strong. Reasonably handsome. I had my whole life ahead of me. Somehow, in the arrogant idiocy of my youth, I thought that all I should do was enjoy myself as much as I possibly could. In the course of my relentless pursuit of pleasure I spent many a fortnight at the country estate of Lord Ramsay. Do you know him?”

“No.”

“A pity,” said Lord Hutton, shaking his head. “Ramsay was almost as much of an idiot as I was, but he did know how to throw the most glorious house parties.”

“How nice for you,” ground out Jack acridly.

“It was, actually,” Edward retaliated, suddenly weary of Jack’s sneering attitude. “For it was at one of those parties, some thirty-seven years ago, that I met your mother.”

A sick sense of foreboding surged through Jack. Jesus Christ, he thought, as a maelstrom of dark emotions began to churn within him.

“She worked as a lady’s maid to Ramsay’s young wife,” Edward continued. “As I recall Miss Moffat was exceptionally pretty, and in spite of, or perhaps because of, her relative lack of education and worldliness, I found her very charming as well.” He regarded Jack steadily, his expression unapologetic, silently letting the import of that statement sink in.

Jack didn’t want to hear any more. He was sure of it. And yet he remained where he was, his legs cemented to the floor, his hands coiled into helpless fists.

Shut up. Shut up before I smash my fist into your goddamn lying mouth.

“A few months later, your mother came to see me at my home,” Lord Hutton continued. “She had been dismissed from her position as Lady Ramsay’s maid, because by then it was evident that Miss Moffat was with child. She claimed that I was the father, and asked me if I would help her. Of course there was no way of knowing whether I was actually the father of her unborn child or not,” he quickly pointed out. “That is both the advantage and the disadvantage we males have when it comes to the business of procreation. What is amazing, really, is how willing we are to indulge in pleasure when it suits us, but how reluctant we are to accept responsibility for the consequences. It is, I regret to say, one of the less admirable qualities of our sex.”

Jack had heard enough. He didn’t know what Lord Hutton’s motive was for making up this fantastic story, and he didn’t care. He had to leave, before the urge to strangle the old bastard for delving into his past and playing these vile games with him was overwhelming.

“I don’t know why you think any of this is of interest to me,” he snarled, desperate to escape the suffocating chamber and Lord Hutton’s insane ramblings. “I don’t give a damn about your sordid little affairs, Hutton. If you ever hire that weasel Dempsey or anyone else to follow me around again, I’ll come back here and make you sorry you ever heard of me—is that clear?”

Without waiting for an answer, he spun toward the door.

And froze.

“As I said,” murmured Lord Hutton with quiet, almost melancholy resignation, “I believe you have your mother’s eyes.”

Jack stared at the portrait in mesmerized horror, unable to speak. But for the eyes and the hair, which the young man in the painting wore in the longer, forward-brushed styling of some decades earlier, he might well have been looking at a picture of himself. The roughly chiseled features of the nose, jaw and chin were virtually identical, as was the fullness of the lips. In his youth Lord Hutton had been heavier-set than Jack, the result of a lifetime of rich food and taking exercise only when he wished it for pleasure. Beyond that, there was a smug self-satisfaction to his smiling expression with which Jack could not identify. In his own way Jack supposed he was arrogant, but it was a superiority born of a lifetime of being treated with disdain, except by the family Genevieve had so lovingly brought him into. Lord Hutton’s conceit was the result of being born an earl, and therefore raised to believe that he was vastly superior to most of the population.

“Even though I couldn’t be sure that I had been the cause of her condition, I decided I would help Miss Moffat,” Lord Hutton finally continued, breaking the strained silence. “I gave her sixty-five pounds, thinking that should keep her well enough for a year or so, and I advised her to go back to her parents’ home and live with them. I was shockingly naive, of course. I imagined that she would return to some quaint and loving mother and father in the countryside, who would welcome her and agree to take on the responsibility of raising the child, should it survive, while Sally went and found work again at some comfortable estate. She was a bonny lass, and I thought she would eventually find some fine young man to marry her, and care for the child as his own. I assured myself that I had done all that could reasonably be expected of me, given that there was no way of knowing if the bairn was actually mine. I believed that it would all turn out well enough. After all, housemaids have been known to start swelling beneath their skirts for hundreds of years. I imagined that somehow they managed to get on.”

Of course they do, thought Jack bitterly. They turn to stealing and end up in prison, the way Jamie’s mother did, or they sell the one thing they have left to sell. Either way, their lives are destroyed.

“So that was it?” He fought hard to keep his voice stripped of emotion. “Sixty-five pounds and you wished her well?”

“Actually, not quite. My wife had heard our voices, so she came to my study to see who had come to visit at such a late hour. When she saw Sally, she instantly recognized her condition.” His expression was appropriately discomfited as he added, “My wife was also expecting at the time.”

Jack did not bother to hide his disgust. “What did she do?”

“In a gesture that was completely in keeping with my wife’s guileless nature, she accepted my explanation that Miss Moffat had been relieved of her position in Lord Ramsay’s household, and had merely come to me for money so she could return home, where the father of her child was anxiously waiting to marry her. My wife was horrified by Ramsay’s poor treatment of Sally, and insisted upon giving her a trunk full of clothes, including numerous outfits and blankets for her baby. All of this was packed up while Sally took tea in the kitchen. When it was ready it was loaded into one of my carriages, whereupon my wife instructed our coachman to take Sally to her parents’ home, which was in the countryside south of here, about twenty-five miles from Inveraray. He returned a few days later, and assured us that she had arrived safely.”

Jack waited.

“I never heard from Sally Moffat again after that. I never knew whether the child she was carrying was born alive or dead, or whether she survived the ordeal of birth.” Lord Hutton’s eyes became distant as he turned to look at the blackness of the summer night beyond his window. “Bringing a child into the world can be unspeakably difficult for some women,” he reflected quietly. “But at the time I didn’t know that. It would be fair to say, upon reflection, that I didn’t know much of anything at all.”

His remorseful attitude surprised Jack. Although he refused to acknowledge that any part of Lord Hutton’s tale had anything to do with him, he asked, out of interest for the one person who evidently had taken pity on his mother, “Did Lady Hutton survive giving birth?”

“She barely survived.” The earl’s expression was grim. “But the ordeal was excruciating. Unfortunately, her labor was brought on early, by an argument we had over her discovery of my infidelities. And when it was all over, I had a wife who despised me beyond measure, and would never be able to carry a bairn again.”

Jack didn’t care about the child who was born. Didn’t care if it was alive or dead. And yet his mouth was strangely dry as he asked, “And the bairn?”

“A girl. Who grew to be as beautiful as her mother, and to hate me with equal passion.”

So that was it. Lord Hutton lay dying, with but one child—a daughter who hated him. This woman was his half sister, but given how much he loathed Hutton, that was hardly a laudable connection. And now the earl was seeking out the progeny of his past affairs, in the hopes of—what, exactly? Jack was well enough versed on the laws governing the aristocracy to know that a bastard son could not inherit a title or an estate. Even so, he wanted to make it clear that he needed nothing from the earl.

“I don’t want anything from you.”

Lord Hutton permitted himself a resigned smile. “Of course you don’t. You despise me, just as you have grown to despise every member of the aristocracy—except for Lord and Lady Redmond, of course. They are the only ones who have never judged you for your unfortunate past. What they have done is commendable. However much you may be angry with Dempsey for his prying, his reports these past few months have made it clear that you are quite a remarkable young man.”

Jack gave him a scathing look. He was utterly uninterested in Lord Hutton’s opinion of him.

“I don’t really give a damn what you think about me or how I have lived my life,” Lord Hutton added, inadvertently mirroring Jack’s sentiments. “I don’t need your friendship at this late stage, and I’m not so much of a fool as to believe that I could ever have your respect. Obviously I failed both you and your mother horribly, and that is something for which I can never make amends. I know that.”

Jack said nothing.

“I also don’t give a damn about the fact that my wife did not provide me with a male heir,” he continued, “in case you’re thinking that is why I went to such lengths to find out about your existence. My title and this estate and its lands will all be passed to my brother’s eldest son—your cousin, if you choose to think of him so. He is a sniveling little cur who has spent most of his life fearing that my late wife might suddenly become pregnant, or worse, that after her death I might actually marry again. I don’t doubt that he will be barely adequate in his role as earl. So be it. None of this,” he said, waving a shrunken hand at the lavish chamber surrounding him, “matters to me anymore.”

Spoken like a true aristocrat, Jack reflected contemptuously. Only someone who had never known what it was like to be filthy and cold and starving could be so cavalier about the obvious benefits of wealth and privilege.

“Then what do you want from me?”

Edward regarded the hostile young man before him with deliberate calm. “At first, all I wanted was to find out if you had survived, and if so, what had become of you. I had thought about your mother and her unborn child for years, and had assured myself that whatever happened, she had likely survived well enough. But after I became ill, I suppose I grew more reflective about how little I actually accomplished in the course of my life. There is nothing to show for my time here.”

“You have this estate,” Jack noted scornfully.

“I cannot take credit for something that existed long before I was born,” Lord Hutton told him. “I added a few things to the art collection and maintained the estate, but that is hardly noteworthy. Our assets are actually worth less today than they were when I was born, given the depreciated value of farmland and my constant battle against falling revenues. My nephew will have a hard time keeping the estate going, and the fight is one I do not envy. All I have been, really, is the keeper of a title and lands that I neither created nor earned. I had a wife who might have loved me, had I not crushed her tender feelings before I understood how precious they were. And I fathered two children. A daughter who absorbed all of her mother’s vitriol, and now refuses to visit me even though I am in the final grotesque stage of my life. And a son who was forced to endure the most appalling of childhoods, and who up until a moment ago was wholly unaware of my existence, because I was too ignorant to take proper responsibility for my actions.” His expression was bitter as he finished, “It is hardly an estimable list of accomplishments.”

Jack regarded him evenly. If the old bastard expected him to argue, he was wrong.

“All I wanted was to find out what happened to you,” Edward continued. “Just to learn if you had survived, and if you had, to know who you had become. It wasn’t easy tracking you down. One of my investigators finally found old Dodds, the scum your mother paid to look after you. He was a nasty piece of work, who had nothing good to say about you—”

“You’re mistaken.” Jack’s voice was cold. “Dodds is dead.”

“No, he isn’t,” Lord Hutton countered, “but if there were any justice in the world, he would be. He lives in a filthy shack just outside of Inveraray, and my investigator said he was a drunken, foul-mouthed pig, who spoke of you as if…”

A deafening roar filled Jack’s ears, making it impossible to hear what Lord Hutton was saying. Dodds was alive. After years of believing that he had killed him on the day he ran away, the knowledge that he had survived was overwhelming. He took a deep breath, releasing the sick, childhood terror that had gripped his chest at the mention of his name.

After twenty-seven years, he had finally learned he was not a murderer.

“…so I hired Dempsey to watch you when you returned, not certain if you truly were the son of Sally Moffat or not,” Lord Hutton finished. “I took great interest in everything you did, including all of your business affairs. I believe the North Star Shipping Company has the potential to be a great enterprise one day, if you can rise above the disasters that have been plaguing your ships and get your finances in order.” He paused a moment. “That is an area in which I believe I can be of some assistance, if you will permit me,” he offered hesitantly. “Although I cannot grant you a title or any part of this estate, I can give you some financial assistance, which I would very much like to do.”

“No.”

“Pride and anger are keeping you from being reasonable,” observed Lord Hutton. “You need help with your business, which I am in a position to provide. Moreover, it is my duty as your father to help you, and beyond that, I want to help you. Surely those factors must bear some weight in your decision.”

“They don’t,” Jack informed him brusquely. “If you are trying to ease your guilt over what you did to my mother and to me, don’t bother. She came to you desperate for assistance, and you gave her exactly what you thought she was due for whatever pleasure you got from her—sixty-five pounds. You felt with that she should be able to survive, and she did. She survived long enough to give birth to me and find a place to put me. Long enough to look for some kind of decent work that might support a young unmarried woman and her child, and quickly discover that there wasn’t any. Long enough to turn to whoring, out of what I can only assume was the most hideous desperation, because if she couldn’t come up with the funds to pay Dodds and his wife, they would have thrown me out. Long enough for me to watch her become defeated and drunk and old, even though she couldn’t have been more than in her early twenties. Long enough for her to have all that you found so pretty and charming when you first met her beaten out of her, by the ugliness of her life and the violent, disease-ridden bastards who paid to use her. So keep your goddamn money, Hutton. I don’t need it and I don’t need you.”

“I’m your father,” Lord Hutton objected, torn between anger and an agonizing need to make amends.

“No,” Jack informed him flatly, “you’re not. You’re the man who impregnated my mother and abandoned her. My father is Haydon Kent, Marquess of Redmond, who was nearly beaten to death one day as he tried to save me from being lashed in jail. And my mother is Genevieve MacPhail Kent, who pulled me from my miserable existence on the streets and gave me my family.”

“I have no wish to come between you and any member of your new family,” Lord Hutton quickly assured him. “I just want to—”

“They are not my new family, Lord Hutton,” Jack interrupted. “They are my only family.”

Edward glowered at his son, hiding his pain beneath a mask of fury. The angry young man before him may have shared the same handsome features he had enjoyed in his own youth, but beyond that, it seemed, the similarities ended. Had Edward been in the same position, he would have readily accepted his offer of money. He might have despised his sire, but money was money, and he would have felt that whatever he received was his rightful due. But Jack Kent had been molded by forces unlike anything Edward had ever known. His son had suffered the most appalling abuse and deprivation as a lad, never knowing when he would eat, or what he would have to risk in order to find a place to sleep. Edward could not imagine how horrific those early years had been. But it seemed that having known what it was to have absolutely nothing, Jack had gained incredible strength and determination.

Which would keep Edward out of his life, without any hope of forgiveness.

“I’m sorry,” he managed tautly, knowing that Jack would never understand how much that simple admission cost him. Suddenly fearing that the stinging in his eyes might actually turn to tears, he coughed and looked away.

Jack shifted uncomfortably on his feet.

It was too much to absorb at once. Everything had changed in the split second in which he had seen his features so clearly rendered in the portrait of Lord Hutton. Suddenly he had an identity he didn’t want, and information about a past he had fought his entire life to bury. None of this had anything to do with the life Genevieve had given him—the life he had fought so hard to make worthy and successful. Lord Hutton wanted forgiveness, he realized helplessly.

Only Sally Moffat could have granted him that, and she was dead.

“I don’t want your money, Hutton.” Jack paused, unsure how to make him understand. “Not because I want to punish you, but because I don’t take money I haven’t earned. Do you understand?”

Edward turned to look at him. “Not completely,” he admitted. “But I’m not so much of a fool that I don’t realize that there is a great deal about the world that I still don’t know. Unfortunately, I no longer have the luxury of time that I once had.” He studied Jack a long moment, considering. “If you won’t accept my offer of money, perhaps you will permit me to give you something else. A gift.”

“That depends on what it is.”

“Information regarding the attempts to sabotage your shipping business.”

Jack’s expression hardened. “How would you know about that?”

“I have spent the last six months trying to learn everything about you,” Edward explained. “When mysterious accidents suddenly started happening to your ships, I took great interest.”

“Not even the police have been able to determine who is responsible for the attacks on my ships.”

“The police suffer from the delusion of being more righteous than most of the population, which leaves them indifferent to helping someone with your criminal background,” Edward summarized with a dismissive flutter of his hand. “And the men you hired to guard your ships were hopeless. They watched your ships less than half the time they were supposed to, and when they did deign to actually work, they countered their boredom and discomfort with vast amounts of alcohol, rendering them virtually oblivious to everything around them.”

“I thought you were only having me followed.”

“The investigators I hired were paid to report on everything that concerned you. It was my desire to learn as much as I could.”

Which included Amelia, Jack reflected uneasily. Although Lord Hutton had not yet mentioned her, it was obvious he had to be aware of her presence in Jack’s house.

What remained to be seen was whether or not he knew who she really was.

“Will you accept this one thing from me, then?” Lord Hutton’s expression was guardedly hopeful. “Will you let me at least help you to save your business from destruction?”

Jack hesitated.

Pride and anger kept him from wanting to accept anything from the dying old man before him. But he was acutely aware that his company was swiftly bleeding to death. If he couldn’t stanch the flow soon, he would be forced to declare bankruptcy. His failure would effectively destroy any hope of his ever creating his own wealth. He would be labeled a business pariah, and the associates whom Haydon had so enthusiastically convinced to invest in North Star Shipping would refuse to ever touch anything with Jack’s name on it again. He would be failing everyone, from the sailors who depended upon him for their livelihoods, to the clients whose contracts he could no longer honor, to his investors and his family.

Finally, he would be failing Amelia, who depended upon him for a safe place to live as she worked to build a new life for herself and Alex.

“Very well,” he relented finally. “I am interested in any information you have regarding the attacks on my ships.”

Edward nodded, immensely pleased to be able to offer him something. “No doubt you have heard of the Great Atlantic Steamship Company?”

Jack regarded him incredulously. “You’re not suggesting that they are responsible?”

“Why do you find the possibility so remote?”

“Great Atlantic is one of the most highly regarded shipping companies in England,” Jack told him. “They have been in business for over a hundred years, and they have contracts for shipping all over the world. They can’t possibly be so threatened by my company that they would actually try to destroy my ships. The amount of business I do relative to theirs is inconsequential.”

“You are thinking only in terms of the present,” Edward countered. “Most of the great shipping lines of this decade began with equally modest origins. In 1815, Brodie McGhee Wilcox started business as a mere ship broker in London. Within thirty years he and his former office boy had formed the Peninsula and Oriental Steam Navigation Company, and were sailing to India, Ceylon, Singapore, and Hong Kong at barely half the rates of the great East India Company, which made them the superior choice for government contracts. Anyone can see the remarkable speed with which your company has grown. Until these unfortunate incidents began, you were building an estimable reputation for yourself for providing fast, reliable service at far more competitive rates than the industry average. A number of your contracts had previously been awarded to Great Atlantic, and given their precarious financial situation, they cannot afford to lose any more—particularly since their stock has fallen so dramatically. If you continue to expand and undermine their rates, within a few years you will be a formidable rival for much of the business Great Atlantic now enjoys. They are not so shortsighted that they cannot see that, and their investors are starting to panic. Many have put their entire fortunes into the company in the hopes of salvaging their dwindling wealth. Lord Philmore is widely known to be hopelessly in debt despite his upcoming marriage to some American heiress, while Lord Spalding is—”

“Viscount Philmore is one of the investors?”

“Do you know him?”

Jack’s mouth tightened as he thought of Percy cradling his hand on the floor of the Wilkinsons’ ball. “We’ve met.”

“Then you know what an idiot he is.” Edward scowled. “They’re all idiots, really. Which is why you have the advantage.”

“How can you be certain Great Atlantic is responsible for the damage to my ships?”

“Take the key from this drawer beside my bed, and unlock the door to that cabinet,” Edward directed. “In it you will find the reports from my investigators who were hired to watch your ships while they were docked in London and Edinburgh during the past few months. It’s all in there.”

Jack retrieved the key and opened the cabinet. A quick perusal of the first of four leather-bound books within confirmed that they contained a wealth of information. Page after page of carefully written notes described the status of Jack’s ships during their time docked, including arrival and departure times and dates, details concerning the movements of the crew members, itemized lists of the cargo loaded and unloaded, maintenance work performed, and special entries when Jack went aboard. There were also notes detailing any unusual or suspicious activities regarding the ships.

It was obvious the men Lord Hutton had hired to report on Jack’s vessels had taken their jobs seriously.

“On the night of the damage to the Shooting Star my man reported that three men who were not part of the crew boarded the ship unnoticed at approximately two o’clock in the morning,” Edward told him. “He did not follow them when they disembarked, because it was his job to report on the ship. After that incident I doubled the watch on the ships. That way if there were any further mysterious visitors, one man could track them while the other remained with the ship. That was how we were finally able to make the connection to Great Atlantic. They were careful, but not quite careful enough.”

Anger surged through Jack as he flipped through the second journal.

“On the lower shelf of the cabinet you will find another report that you may also find interesting,” continued Edward. “It details Great Atlantic’s extremely tenuous financial situation—which they have gone to great lengths to conceal. I had to pay a rather substantial sum to secure it.” He regarded Jack meaningfully. “I have no doubt you will be able to make good use of the information.”

Intrigued, Jack picked up the dark ledger on the lower shelf and began to scan the pages within. The initial section of the ledger detailed Great Atlantic’s fleet and its assets, which at first glance appeared significant. But Jack quickly realized that many of the company’s ships were well over twenty years old, which meant they were slower and in constant need of repair. At least a dozen of them were ready to be scrapped, but the company could not afford the cost of replacing them.

“The company has tried to strengthen itself by focusing on luxury passenger services, which has necessitated the acquisition of a series of larger, faster, more elegantly appointed ships,” Edward continued. “Unfortunately, they have done this by mortgaging their assets, becoming dangerously in debt to both national and private banks and to private investors. Last year one of those banks failed, resulting in their loans to Great Atlantic being called. Another is on the brink of failure, which will prove disastrous for Great Atlantic. They are about to take delivery of a magnificent new passenger ship commissioned over two years ago, but they haven’t the funds to pay for it. Which creates a unique opportunity for you.”

Jack began to rifle through the pages faster, swiftly analyzing the chaos of Great Atlantic’s finances. Lord Hutton was right, he realized. Given the staggering debt the company had amassed, it had no hope of securing the funds needed to pay for its latest ship. It would have to either forfeit its delivery, or sell it immediately.

“Of course it would take time for you to raise the money, assuming you could get the ship for an exceptional price,” Edward mused, watching as Jack flipped through the ledger. “However, if you will permit me to help…”

“I’m not interested in buying their ship,” Jack interrupted, slamming the ledger shut. “I’m going to buy the whole goddamn company.”

Edward stared at him, astonished.

“If your information is correct and that second bank failure is imminent, Great Atlantic will be faced with bankruptcy.” Guarded excitement began to build within him. “If I can secure enough investors, I can negotiate a deal to buy the company at a fraction of its value, merge it with my own, sell off or scrap its money-losing ships, and create a smaller, leaner company that provides fast, secure shipping services at half the standard industry rates. That’s what I believe the industry is going to demand over the next two decades,” he continued. “And to ensure they give my offer serious consideration, I’ll inform them I have evidence proving they are responsible for the sabotage of my ships. If word of that gets out, not only will they face public censure, but I’ll make it my personal crusade to see that every goddamn last one of them faces a criminal investigation. Somehow I doubt board members like Philmore and Spalding have the stomach to risk going to prison.”

Pleasure coursed through Edward, making him feel more exhilarated than he had in months. “If there is anything else I can do for you—perhaps I could be one of your investors—”

Jack shook his head. “This is enough. Thank you.”

Edward tried to conceal his disappointment. It was not enough, and they both knew it. Nothing would ever make amends for the way he had failed his son and Sally Moffat.

“Will I see you again?” Edward tried to sound as if he didn’t particularly care one way or the other.

“Somehow I doubt you want people gossiping about how I suddenly started to visit you. I’m sure I created enough of a disturbance by forcing my way in here this evening with a dirk to a man’s throat.”

“I don’t give a damn about people,” Edward growled. “They can talk all they like. If you would consider visiting me again, I would be honored.”

“We’ll see.”

Edward nodded. He understood that he would receive no firmer commitment than that. “Tell me something.” He regarded Jack intently. “Is she really that missing heiress?”

Jack kept his expression neutral. “Who?”

“Don’t play games with me. I’m old and sick and I probably won’t last the night. I give you my word that your secret is safe with me. Is she Amelia Belford?”

Jack hesitated. He did not know Hutton well enough to trust him. Even if he did, he couldn’t be sure that some curious servant wasn’t listening with an ear pressed against the door. Yet somehow he could not bring himself to lie to him, either.

“Never mind.” Edward settled back against his pillows and wearily closed his eyes. “Tell my servants not to kill you on your way out, or I’ll be most displeased.”

He was being dismissed. Realizing there was nothing more to say, Jack collected the journals Lord Hutton had given to him and moved to the door. He grasped the latch, then paused. “Good night, Lord Hutton.”

Edward nodded curtly, pretending to be too tired to watch as Jack left the room.

Only when he heard the door shut and he was certain that he was alone did he finally open his eyes, releasing the painful fall of tears that had kept him from bidding his son good-bye.

 

AMELIA SAT UPRIGHT, HER CHEST POUNDING.

She was lying on top of Jack’s bed, fully clothed. A soft glow radiated from the oil lamp beside her, thinly illuminating the confines of the chamber. Sadness clutched her in a suffocating grip as her gaze fell upon the pile of trunks stacked in the corner.

The soft click of the front door closing told her that Jack was finally home. A quick glance at the clock on the mantel revealed that it was nearly three o’clock in the morning. The lateness of the hour surprised her. Since Jack had invited her and Alex to stay with him, he had made every effort to come home at a reasonable time each evening. This enabled him to eat dinner with everyone and then spend some time with Alex and Amelia before they retired for the night.

True to his word, Jack had tried to make the little thief Amelia had brought into his home feel welcome and safe. He had even volunteered to help teach Alex her numbers. The poor girl had sullenly endured Amelia’s attempts to teach her to script the letters of the alphabet, and her progress was slow. But when it came to her numbers, Jack actually managed to keep Alex amused. He and Oliver would put on loose overcoats, the pockets of which were stuffed with various treasures. Then they would stroll up and down the drawing room, whistling and pretending to be distracted while Alex deftly picked their pockets. At the end Alex had to count the articles she had collected, which were then placed back into the coats’ pockets. Then Alex wore the garment while Jack and Oliver worked together to steal the items back, each time asking her how many things she had left as they showed her what they had managed to lift.

Although Amelia was not entirely convinced that a game of pickpocket was the most appropriate way to teach a child the rudiments of addition and subtraction, it was clear that Alex enjoyed the game immensely. There was no question she was mastering her arithmetic skills at a much swifter rate than she was reading and writing.

She was also becoming better at picking pockets, which Oliver seemed to think was wonderful.

Smoothing her hands over her gown Amelia hurried to the door, anxious to speak to Jack before he disappeared into the small bedchamber at the end of the corridor. With Alex occupying the guest room and Amelia still in Jack’s chamber, Eunice and Doreen had insisted that another bedroom be prepared so that Jack would stop sleeping on the sofa in the drawing room. A chamber that had previously been used for storage was subsequently cleaned out and a modest bed and wardrobe were purchased. While Amelia felt guilty that she had put Jack out of his handsomely furnished room, Jack assured her that he didn’t care in the least about his surroundings.

She peered into the corridor.

“What’s wrong?” Jack demanded the moment he saw her.

His gaze was steady and his demeanor serious, suggesting that he had not consumed a drop of alcohol. He stood just inches away from her, his powerful presence filling the shifting shadows around them with heat and strength. Suddenly feeling small and lost, tears welled in her eyes as the façade of calm that she had somehow managed to maintain throughout the day began to crumble.

The silvery fall of Amelia’s tears tore into Jack’s heart. Forgetting his vow never to touch her again, he opened his arms and pulled her against him, forming a protective shield around her as dread tightened his belly. “Tell me, Amelia.”

“My mother is dying,” she wept, her face buried against his chest. “She’s dying, and it’s all my fault.”

“How do you know she is dying?” he asked quietly. “And how could it possibly be your fault?”

She reluctantly broke free from his embrace to retrieve the newspaper that lay strewn across the bed. “I was reading the newspaper with Eunice and Doreen, because they like to hear about all the places where I have recently been seen, and even Alex finds it funny now that we’ve told her who I really am. Suddenly I noticed this headline: ‘American Railway Magnate’s Wife Critically Ill.’” She lifted the paper closer to the lamp and read: “‘Mrs. John Henry Belford is gravely ill after suffering a heart attack, reputedly caused by the trauma of her only daughter’s recent disappearance. A statement released by Mr. John Henry Belford late last night said that while Mrs. Belford’s condition is serious, the family remains hopeful that she may survive. Mr. Belford is pleading with the kidnappers of his daughter to demonstrate compassion in light of his wife’s illness and release his child, so that she may see her mother for what may be a final time. Miss Amelia Belford was mysteriously abducted from her wedding to the Duke of Whitcliffe in late August, and has yet to be released. Mr. Belford has offered a reward for any information leading to the whereabouts of his daughter, which he recently increased to twenty-five thousand pounds…’”

“You’re not thinking of going back to London?” Jack demanded, suddenly noticing the trunks in the corner.

“Of course I am. I’m leaving on the first train tomorrow morning. I only hope I won’t be too late.”

“Amelia, listen to me,” he urged, his unease growing. “We don’t know anything about your mother’s condition except what has been written here, and newspapers are not the most reliable source of information. Just look at all the reports of people who have claimed to have seen you in the past few weeks in every major city from Paris to Cape Town.”

“This article refers to a statement made by my father. Are you suggesting that he is lying in order to trick me into coming home?”

“I’m just saying we should take a day or two to determine what the facts are.”

“My mother may not have a day or two,” she countered vehemently. “I cannot believe you hold my family in such low regard that you think they would resort to such a cruel ploy in order to bring me home.”

“I’m not suggesting your mother isn’t ill.” Jack realized he was treading a fragile path. “But your family has been desperate to find you for weeks now. This may be a trick to bring you to them. If you give me a couple of days, I can have someone in London investigate—”

“Don’t trouble yourself.” Her voice was cold. “My mother needs me and I’m going to her. There is nothing more to discuss.”

Anger reared within him. “If you return to London, your family will never let you go,” he said with absolute certainty. “They will force you to marry Whitcliffe or whatever other pompous little prick they have bought for you, so that the scandal of your disappearance and the shame you have brought them these past weeks will be neatly swept beneath the sanctity of marriage.”

“I have no intention of marrying anyone,” Amelia assured him flatly. “All I want to do is see my mother and relieve the unbearable anxiety she must be suffering, not knowing what has become of me. I want her and my father to know I am well, and that I have managed to take care of myself. I want them to see that I actually have some talent which has enabled me to earn a living, modest though it may be.”

“Do you really think once they have heard about how you have been working in a third-rate hotel and living in a small, badly furnished house in Inverness with a collection of former thieves and pickpockets, they will simply wish you well and let you return? That you will just get on a train and come back?” His voice was harsh as he finished, “Do you honestly believe you will even want to come back?”

The chiseled line of his jaw was set and his brow was furrowed with anger. But it was his eyes that captured Amelia’s attention. For in their steely gray depths she saw a flash of something she had not seen since the night she had so willingly given herself to him.

The night he had thought she was leaving him.

“What are you afraid of, Jack?” she enquired softly.

What could he tell her? Jack wondered helplessly. That he was afraid she would leave him and never return? That even if her parents didn’t try to force her to marry Whitcliffe, Amelia would probably decide on her own that her little dalliance with what she must have considered virtual poverty was over? The allure of London, with its brilliant balls and parties, would seem glorious compared to the drudgery of her life in Inverness. Once she returned to her parents’ home and started wearing three Parisian gowns a day while servants dashed about bringing her everything she could possibly desire, the novelty of rising at six o’clock each morning to don her plain outfits so she could toil long hours as a lowly employee at the Royal Hotel would swiftly fade. She would become the beautiful, pampered Amelia Belford once again.

And he would lose her forever.

Amelia watched as he struggled with his answer. Jack Kent was not the kind of man who would admit to being afraid of anything. A childhood spent on the streets fighting to survive, coupled with years of enduring the scorn of others, made it impossible for him to show weakness—even to her. And what did she expect? That he would profess his undying love and beg her to stay? His world was the sea and his ships, and building the wealth he believed he needed in order to secure his place in society and earn the respect of others, however grudging it may be. He had helped her escape a life she despised, and had generously opened his home to both her and Alex. But he had never promised to make her his wife, despite the incredible passion that had flared between them.

She swallowed and looked away.

Jack clenched his fists in frustration. “I’m asking you to trust me, Amelia. If in two days I can confirm that your mother is indeed ill, I will take you to London myself.”

“In two days my mother could be dead. If you truly feel you must protect me, then come with me to London tomorrow.”

He thought of Great Atlantic and their plan to destroy his company. The Shooting Star was due to set sail in four days, which meant its cargo was currently being loaded. Any sabotage to the ship now would result in staggering losses and the cancellation of his contract, which he simply could not afford. He had to spend the next few days arranging for the security of his ships, before Great Atlantic struck again. At the same time he needed to start implementing his strategies to knock the company off its brittle financial pedestal and send it scurrying to stay viable.

“I cannot leave right now,” he told her. “I have some important business matters to attend to.”

“Then we have nothing more to discuss. Good night.” She turned away, not wanting him to see how much he had wounded her.

Jack stood frozen, staring at the proud, straight line of Amelia’s back. The back that had been forced to grow ramrod straight through the use of some torturous device she had been strapped into as a child. He was losing her, he realized. It did not seem to matter that he didn’t deserve her, and couldn’t possibly give her the life to which she had been born. Didn’t matter that he was the bastard of a poor maid turned whore and an irresponsible earl who could never publicly acknowledge him. Didn’t matter that he had lived a life of such filth and violence and desperation that if Amelia ever learned the truth of it, she would shrink from him in horror and disgust. Nothing mattered except for the fact that she was leaving him.

She was leaving him, and he didn’t think he could bear it.

A terrible desperation gripped him, stripping away the flimsy mantle of control he had maintained since she had returned. He grabbed her by her shoulders and spun her around, forcing her to look at him.

And then he crushed his lips to hers, driving his tongue into the dark heat of her startled mouth.

A cry of outrage escaped her throat as she lurched against him, beating him with her small fists as she struggled to free herself from his savage grip. But he only kissed her more deeply as he hauled her up and carried her to the bed. His hands tore at the buttons of her simply tailored outfit, which was so unlike the sumptuous gowns she had worn as Amelia Belford. She was better than he, there was no question of that, yet the realization only made him more determined to have her. Away came the mountainous layers of her gown, petticoats and corset, until finally she lay naked beneath him, her wrists pinned into the softness of the plaid beneath her and her breasts heaving with fury against his chest. She said nothing, but only looked at him with those magnificent eyes that reminded him of a summer storm, now glittering with fire and challenge.

I will make you mine, Jack vowed feverishly as he lowered his head to suck hard upon the wine-stained peak of her breast. A moan of reluctant pleasure spilled from her lips and she closed her eyes. He growled and moved lower, roughly kissing the creamy flat of her belly before flicking his tongue deep into the hot rosy petals between her thighs. She gasped and went still, her body hovering between outrage and swiftly blooming need. He tasted her again, tormenting her with pleasure as he slowly dragged his tongue across the apricot-sweet folds of her in a long, hungry caress. He would touch her and taste her and fill her until she was lost, he vowed darkly. He would bring her to the brink of the most exquisite ecstasy she had ever known, until she was quivering and pleading with him for release. And then he would carry her over it, irretrievably binding her to him, and utterly ruining her for any other man.

Amelia held her breath, frozen, the last vestiges of her control snapping like taut silken threads. Her body was melting beneath Jack’s erotic assault like a wisp of snow upon fire. Blood surged hotly through her flesh, pooling in her lips and breasts and into the slick wetness between her thighs, making her restless with need. She wanted Jack with a desperation that stunned her, obliterating the ragged traces of whatever virginal propriety she might once have had. And so she surrendered herself to his tender assault, enjoying the rough feel of his cheeks grazing the insides of her thighs while his tongue delved and probed and his hands roamed with rough determination across the hills and valleys of her body. Her flesh grew hotter and more liquid, until finally she could bear no more. She grabbed Jack by his shoulders and pulled him up, then began to claw in frustration at the fastenings of his trousers. He rose above her and wrenched off his clothes, hurling them to the floor. Finally he stretched naked over her, a sleek hard wall of bronzed muscle, covering her with his strength and heat.

Jack cradled his hands against Amelia’s cheeks, studying her. She returned his gaze steadily, the magnificent turquoise of her eyes shimmering with desire and an emotion he did not recognize. There was so much he wanted to tell her, yet he feared that whatever he said would be wrong, for he had never been adept at articulating his feelings. Only bitterness and anger flowed easily from him. But in that moment his heart was filled with a tenderness and fear so excruciating he felt as if he were being torn apart.

“Do not leave me,” he ventured, his voice caught somewhere between a command and a plea. And then, because he knew in the pit of his soul that she would, he added with almost shattered desperation, “Please.”

Amelia wrapped her arms around his neck and covered his lips with hers. She felt him hesitate, as if he were unsure of her answer. Her hands slid down the muscled expanse of his back to grip the tightly molded contours of his hips. Then she pulled down upon him as she raised herself, sheathing him deep within.

Jack kissed her hard as he began to move inside her. I love you, he confessed silently, trying to bind her to him with every aching thrust. I will take care of you, he pledged, hoping that she could feel the enormity of his feelings for her in the hunger of his kiss, the yearning of his caress, the relentless rhythm of his body moving inside her. I will try to make you happy, he promised, even though he did not believe he had ever made anyone happy in his entire life. In and out he moved, faster and farther and deeper, filling her and stretching her and reaching within her, until their flesh and bone and skin were melded and it was impossible to know where his life ended and hers began. He wanted to stay like that forever, buried deep within the strength and sweetness and light that was Amelia. He tried to slow himself, to fight the rising crest of passion, but her breath was coming in shallow gasps and her body was tightening as she writhed against him. Again and again he drove himself into her, feeling as if he were losing part of his soul to her that he could never reclaim.

Suddenly she cried out and wrapped herself around him, kissing him feverishly as pleasure stripped away the last shreds of her restraint. Fighting the sob rising from his chest he drove himself into her, filling her with every fragment of his strength and need and fear. He gave himself wholly to her as he tried to take some small part of her for himself, so that when she finally left him, he just might be able to endure it.

When their breathing had slowed and their bodies began to cool, he raised himself onto his elbows and brushed a soft strand of hair off her forehead. He was acutely aware that she had not answered his plea. It did not matter.

Whatever promises she made, she would never be able to keep.

He lowered his head and captured her lips with his, kissing her with aching tenderness as his hands began to rouse her once more. When she was shifting and flexing beneath him he joined himself to her once again.

And for one brief moment he felt as if she actually loved him, and his soul was filled with glorious light.