CHAPTER TWO

ENGLAND, 1760

A duchess! She was going to be a duchess! Their desperate scheme had actually succeeded.

Velvet Moran stood at the tall mullioned windows in the entry, watching the duke of Carlyle’s ornate gilded carriage depart, waiting until it had finally disappeared down the poplar-lined road. Pondering the hour she had spent in company with the elegant blond man who would soon be her husband, she barely heard her grandfather’s footfalls as he crossed the black-and-white marble floor, approaching where she stood beneath the crystal chandelier.

“Well, my girl, you’ve done it, eh?” The earl of Haversham was having a good day today. No memory lapses, no forgetting where he was or what he had been saying. Days like this were infrequent and growing more so, but Velvet cherished every one. “You’ve saved Windmere, just as you said you would. Saved us both from ruin.”

Velvet smiled in spite of the trepidation that still churned inside her. “Only two more weeks and I’ll be married. I feel terribly guilty for deceiving him. I wish there were some other way, but we certainly can’t risk telling him the truth.”

The old man chuckled softly. He was snowy haired where he wasn’t going bald, and lean as a bone, his skin so thin blue veins showed through in his hands and face. “He’ll chafe a bit when he discovers the debts he’ll incur as your husband, but your dowry is a fine one. That should appease him some. And he’ll have you. A man couldn’t want for a finer wife.”

“I’ll make him happy, Grandfather. He won’t regret marrying me—I vow that on my honor.”

The old man cupped her cheeks between his wrinkled hands and stared into her pretty face. With her upturned nose and slightly tilted golden brown eyes, Velvet was the picture of her long-dead mother. She was petite and shapely, with high full breasts and a tiny waist. Her hair was long and wavy, the color of polished mahogany when it was left unpowdered, alive with reddish highlights.

Her grandfather sighed. “I know it can’t be helped, but I was hoping for a love match, not a marriage of convenience. What your grandmother and I once had … that was what I wanted for you. I wish it could have been so, but life is never easy. And one must do what one must.”

A wistful moment stole through her. She, too, had hoped to marry a man she loved, though she hadn’t really believed she would ever be that lucky. “The duke and I will get on well together. He has wealth and position. I’ll be a duchess, live a life of luxury. What more could any woman ask?”

The earl smiled forlornly. “Only love, my girl, only love. Mayhap in time, you will find it with the duke.”

She forced herself to smile. “Yes, Grandfather. I’m sure I will.” But thinking of Avery Sinclair, of his self-righteous ways and pompous, overstarched manner, she didn’t believe it was true. “It’s drafty in here,” she said, taking the old man’s arm. “Why don’t we sit for a while in front of the fire?”

He nodded and she led him toward the rear of the house, passing the formal drawing room with its opulent red flocked walls, barouche painted ceilings, and heavy carved furniture, then another small salon, also lavishly furnished, hung with silk moiré draperies, and centered around a green marble hearth.

As soon as they rounded the corner, the opulence disappeared. The hall no longer glittered with golden sconces and gilt-framed portraits, for the sconces and gilded frames had long been sold. The beautiful Persian carpets that had once warmed the floors had garnered a price that had kept them in coal through the winter. Stained, threadbare versions had been laid down in their stead to stave off the bitter cold.

To the occasional visitor, with its warm redbrick exterior and beautiful parklike grounds, Windmere looked as magnificent as it always had, standing three stories tall and overlooking the river. In her father’s day, its big square towers, gabled roofs and chimney stacks, and hundreds of acres of meadowlands had made the house a showplace.

The last three years had changed all of that. The debts her father had acquired before his death had come as a shock to Velvet and the earl. Even in his misty state of mind, her grandfather realized what a terrible mistake he had made in turning management of his estates over to his son. But the old man’s health was failing. With no one else to rely on, he’d had no other choice.

Now George Moran was dead, as his wife had been for more than ten years. He had been killed in a carriage accident on the Continent while traveling with his mistress, an actress by the name of Sophie Lane.

It was Velvet who’d discovered, to her horror, their decimated funds—and the mountain of debts her father had left them. All but her dowry, the only unselfish thing he had done in the years he had managed the estates. Since the earl’s fortune had been vast, the dowry was quite sizable, in fact one of the largest in England, certainly enough to keep them living well for years.

The only catch was, Velvet had to marry before the funds were released from the iron-clad provisions of her trust fund. Her husband would acquire a small fortune.

He would also acquire Haversham’s vast array of debts.

Her grandfather paused in the hallway. “Where are we going?”

“To the Oak room. Snead will have started a fire.” Snead was one of a half-dozen trusted retainers who were all the staff they could afford to keep at Windmere. “It will be warm and cozy in there.”

“But the duke … I thought he was coming to pay a call?”

Velvet’s heart sank. The lucid day was over. “He already came, Grandfather.”

“What about the wedding?”

“We’ll be traveling to Carlyle Hall at the end of the week. His grace insists we arrive several days early so that everything may be properly in place before the day of the wedding.” She had said all this before, but of course he had forgotten. And what did it matter, if it pleased him to hear it again?

“You’ll be a beautiful bride,” he said with a sentimental smile.

And he’ll be one very surprised duke, Velvet thought. But she would cross that bridge when she reached it. In the meantime, she would keep up the facade that would ensure her marriage to a very wealthy husband. She would ignore the cold that pervaded the house, the smell of musty rooms that had been closed up, the stench of cheap tallow candles.

Thank God she would only have to pretend for another two weeks.

*   *   *

Jason Sinclair paced the floor in front of the slow-burning fire in the marble-manteled hearth, the crisp white lace on the cuffs of his full-sleeved shirt brushing his fingers as he moved. He had always been a tall man, broad-shouldered and lean-hipped. In the past eight years, the leanness of youth had been honed by hours of backbreaking labor into a hard-muscled body as solid as steel.

He turned to the man across from him. “God’s blood, Lucien, we’ve brought the bastard nearly to his knees. We can’t falter now and let him win.”

Lucien Montaine, Marquess of Litchfield, leaned back in his tapestry chair. “I realize this news is not what you wished to hear, my friend, but brooding over the matter will do you no good. It may take some time, but sooner or later, we’ll find another way to reach him. A leopard doesn’t change his spots, and a jackal like Avery will once more fall prey to his vices.”

Jason paced toward his friend, the one man who had stuck by him through the hell he had suffered these past eight years. “I’ve waited long enough, Lucien. The man may wear a facade of wealth, but we both know it for the lie it is. His money is nearly all gone. The time to strike is now.”

“I can’t disagree with your thinking. ’Tis the reason he’s so determined to marry.”

“I want what is rightfully mine, Lucien. Carlyle Hall is the first step in getting it. I want justice for my father. I want my brother to pay for what he’s done. I’ll do whatever it takes to see that he does.”

“You’ve only two weeks before the wedding. The girl is one of the wealthiest heiresses in England. Once Avery acquires her dowry, he’ll be able to pay off his debts—including the mortgage you hold on Carlyle Hall. You won’t be able to foreclose. Unless you can find a way to stop the marriage—”

“That, my dear Litchfield, is exactly what I plan to do.”

A thick black brow arched up above eyes as black as pitch. He was nearly as tall as Jason, but leaner, his features more harsh, his hair an ebony black. “Just how, may I ask, do you plan to accomplish that end?” They had known each other since boyhood, their country estates not far apart. The marquess was the one man Jason would trust with his life.

Which was exactly what he had done by returning to England when he was supposed to be dead.

“You said the girl would be traveling to Carlyle Hall with her grandfather, that they would be arriving the end of the week.”

“That’s correct.”

“Then I shall simply detain my brother’s precious betrothed until after the wedding. The grace period on the note is almost up. When my brother isn’t able to make the payment, we’ll be able to foreclose and the property will belong to me.”

Lucien steepled his long dark fingers. “You actually intend to kidnap the girl?”

“I don’t have any other choice.” He smoothed back a lock of his wavy dark hair, loose from the narrow black ribbon at the nape of his neck. “I’ll need your help, of course. I’ll have to find a place to keep her until the property is mine.”

“You’re serious,” Litchfield said.

Jason sat down in the chair across from him, stretching his long legs out in front of him. “I’m always serious. Any humor I once might have felt was beaten out of me over the last eight years.”

Litchfield eyed him darkly. “She’s only nineteen, an innocent by all accounts. She’ll be frightened out of her wits.”

“I won’t hurt her. I’ll do everything in my power to see that she’s made comfortable.” He toyed with the lace on his cuff then rubbed the scar on the back of his left hand. “I’ll tell her I’m holding her for ransom, that I have no reason to harm her as long as her fiancé is willing to pay.” He smiled coldly. “By the time she figures out it isn’t the money I’m after, the wedding day will be past and the note foreclosed. Carlyle Hall will belong to me—and my brother on his way to ruin.”

Litchfield shifted in his chair, his brows drawn together in thought. “Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t condone your actions, but this time you may well be right. The girl will be saved—at least for a time—from marrying a murderer. If she’s lucky, she never will. That in itself, justifies what you plan to do.”

Jason’s smile came easy this time. “I knew I could count on you. You’ve stood by me through the worst times a man could have. Now you’re risking your reputation by helping me again. I won’t forget this, Lucien. You’re the best friend any man could have.”

“And you, my friend, deserve a chance to regain what bitter fortune—and your murderous half brother—so cruelly stripped away.” Standing, he walked over to the carved wooden sideboard and lifted the lid off a crystal decanter of brandy. “The girl will be coming from Windmere, traveling the road that passes between Winchester and Midhurst. I’ve a hunting lodge in the forest near Ewhurst, not far away. It’s small but neat and well cared for. We’ll stock it with whatever provisions you and the lady might need.”

He poured brandy into his snifter, then carried the decanter over and refilled Jason’s empty glass. “There’s a lad who lives nearby who can help you. He’s loyal to a fault. You can trust him to carry messages and help out wherever he’s needed. Aside from that, you’ll be on your own.”

Jason merely nodded. “Once more I am in your debt.”

The marquess took a sip of his brandy and his lips curved faintly. “I’ve met Lady Velvet. She’s quite a charming little baggage. I trust you’ll keep the lady’s virtue as safe as you do her person.”

Jason grunted in response. “The last thing I want is another so-called lady. Celia was lesson enough, one most bitterly learned.” At the mention of her name, the scar seemed to burn on the back of his hand. Absently he rubbed it. “Give me a romp with a lusty whore. The price of bedding a lady is too steep to pay.”

Lucien made no reply. Jason Sinclair had changed in the last eight years. The youthful man he’d once been had been eaten away by his anger and the pain he had suffered in the Colonies. For four of the past eight years, he had worked like a slave on the swampy Georgia plantation where he had been transported, a turn of fortune at its oddest, since he had been sentenced to hang.

The years had changed him, hardened him into a man Lucien barely recognized as his friend. The cold blue eyes Jason saw through held none of the warmth of the younger man. They were predator’s eyes, distant and as hard as his powerful body. Every movement spoke of the change, from his long, pantherish strides to the keen-edged awareness that came over him whenever he sensed danger.

Four years working as a convict, then finally escape. For the last three years, he had prospered, working his own plantation on a small island off St. Kitts. Only one year was missing. A year Jason never spoke of.

Lucien wondered if it accounted for the darkness that stole over his friend’s features whenever he thought he was alone.