CHAPTER FIFTEEN

“Where is she?” Francis’s voice was filled with rage as he flew up the steps of his home at Dunhurst Park. He had ridden without pause after receiving the urgent message, finally arriving three hours later.

“In the drawing room, sir,” the housekeeper told him in a fluster as she rushed to keep up with him. “She’s been shouting all manner of abuse at the servants. A number of them won’t have it any more—they’ve threatened to leave—and I . . . well, I’m inclined to follow their lead, though I do beg your pardon, sir.”

“For the love of God, Mrs. Reynolds, how long has she been here?”

“Since yesterday afternoon, sir—she slept in the library,” Mrs. Reynolds told him, looking thoroughly perplexed. “We tried sending her away, but she wouldn’t have it—insisted we contact you immediately, or else. I didn’t know what else to do, what with Parker being away and all.”

“One day and half of my staff is already threatening to resign? I never took her for anything less than a cankerous shrew, but . . .” His words trailed off. “She must have been trouble, indeed, if even you have become eager to leave.”

“I do apologize, sir. I surely hope it will not come to that.”

“As do I, Mrs. Reynolds, as do I,” Francis bit out as he strode down the hall and into the drawing room.

“What do you want?” Francis’s voice sliced through the air as he regarded the woman who sat so elegantly on the silk brocade chaise. Her auburn hair was knotted at the nape of her neck, while fashionable ringlets framed a face that was, indeed, quite pretty. She wore a white dress with wildflowers embroidered along the hem and a hat on her head, adorned with a green satin ribbon.

Francis’s eyes were cold as ice, his mouth drawn tight over gritting teeth. Oh, how he longed to be rid of her.

If she detected his wrath, she pretended not to notice as she smiled at him sweetly. “Ah, Francis—at last. I have so been looking forward to seeing you again. Please, won’t you come and join me?”

He walked toward her, the hatred fierce in his dark eyes. Yet she held his gaze, unflinching—that pleasant smile still pasted on her lips—such an image of kindness. But to him she represented anything but. In his eyes, she stood for everything that he had lost. This creature that sat before him was by no means a lady. On the contrary, she was a cold and calculating bitch, and he must not allow himself to be ensnared by her pretenses.

“How have you been, Francis?” she asked, her eyes gleaming with curiosity.

“I don’t believe you came here to ask about my well-being, Charlotte,” Francis sneered. “In fact, I very much doubt that you give a damn.”

Charlotte’s eyes narrowed slightly at the comment. She puckered her lips, then rose to her feet in a stately fashion. “You’re quite right, my dear.” Her voice was silky soft as it drifted through the air. Francis flinched slightly at the endearment, his eyes darting instinctively across the room to where they settled on a painting on the wall. He loved that painting, and he looked at it now, imploring it to help him get through this horrid affair.

A beautiful woman stared down at him, her big round eyes filled with happiness. Her hair was dark blonde, falling in loose tresses about her heart-shaped face, and her eyes were the brightest blue. Elisabeth Riley—the beloved woman who had raised him—looked truly enchanting in her portrait.

He had never seen her cry—not once—though she certainly would have had ample reason to. But no, she had smiled and laughed and played with him throughout his childhood. She had raised him well, implementing in him a joy for all the little wonders of the world around him . . . the sound of leaves rustling in the treetops, the way a heartbeat could convey emotion. It tore at his heart and his soul to know how unhappy she must have been beneath that façade.

“She was so weak in character, you know.” Charlotte’s words slashed at his heart.

He whipped his head around in her direction. “Watch your mouth, Charlotte,” he warned.

“Or what?” she asked as she tilted her head. “Come, Francis. We both know you can’t touch me. I have the upper hand—remember?” Her voice was taunting to his ears as she leered at him from behind those fluttering lashes of hers. “I’ll never forget how she begged for her husband to come to her at night instead of to me . . . the look of despair in her eyes when she saw that I was far more tempting. Pathetic, really!”

“This is still my house, Charlotte, and as such, I will ask you as nicely as I can to refrain from mentioning my mother.” His voice was so sharp it would have felled an army, yet Charlotte remained seemingly unperturbed. Her words, however, had set his blood boiling. His hatred for her ran deep. In time he would find something . . . some way in which to make her pay.

She gave a small, bubbling laugh as she clasped her hands in front of her in rapt amusement. Then she shook her head. “Oh, Francis,” she mused. “Dear, dear Francis.” She paused for a moment as something within her shifted. He had seen it happen before and knew that her act had finally come to an end. Coldness descended upon her like frost on a winter’s morning. The warmth was gone from her eyes, replaced by an icy glare. “I am your mother. Don’t think for a minute that I intend to let you forget that.”

“You are mistaken, madam,” he told her coolly as he pointed toward the painting of Elisabeth Riley. “She was my mother—my true mother. You are nothing but a bit o’ muslin, a Cyprian, a demimondaine—I’ll let you pick the term you find most fitting, shall I?” His eyes mocked her relentlessly.

“And you, sir, are nothing but a by-blow,” she scoffed.

The words were like a slap across his face, though he did not show it.

How he longed to wring the vile woman’s neck, but by some miracle he managed to restrain himself. He would not see himself incarcerated on her account.

He would never understand how his father could have kept her as his mistress for all those years, but then again, she was a fabulous actress who had no doubt captivated him with a wonderful performance.

He strolled over to the window and looked out over the garden. The sunny day with cloudless skies was in stark contrast to his mood. Finding no solace in it, he turned away. “I would be much obliged if you would please get to the point,” he told her. “I assume you’ve come to get more money. Am I correct?”

Her countenance was once again as sweet as a five-year-old girl in pigtails. “Why, Francis, that’s just the thing. How clever of you to have figured it out,” she drawled.

“How much?”

“Oh . . . shall we say . . . five thousand pounds for now? I think that sounds fair.” She nodded affirmatively.

“Fair?” Francis’s voice reverberated through the room. His eyes were knit close together in apparent outrage. “It’s not fair by any means, Charlotte. It’s madness! Do you have any concept of money whatsoever, or did you just throw a random number out there in hopes that I wouldn’t question it?”

The insult struck her unawares. She took a sharp breath as heat rushed to her cheeks. Few things rattled her, but clearly his implication that she was intellectually handicapped was definitely one of them. Francis saw her push her uncertainty aside, determined instead to focus on his weakness.

“I believe you have forgotten the letter that I have in my possession, Francis,” she declared. All emotion had vanished from her face as her unfeeling eyes met his. “Five thousand pounds, Francis—that is the price that you must pay if you wish for that letter to remain a secret. If you don’t pay it,” she smirked, “then you shall be as ruined as I, for I will indeed publish it for the entire world to see. Don’t doubt for a minute that I won’t.”

He let out a ragged sigh as he bent his head in contemplation.

There must be a way out of this mess, he thought.

How can I get rid of her? I’ll be paying her off for years to come as long as she’s holding that damn letter over my head.

But for now, he would have to give her the money, he reckoned, and then he would sit down and try to think of a more permanent solution.

His face was grim as he looked back up at her. “Very well,” he nodded. “You may come and collect it tomorrow. Now get out of my house before I have you thrown out.”

“That’s better, my dear,” she purred as she strolled toward him. She clasped his chin in her hand, then, leaned toward his cheek for a farewell kiss.

He pushed her away so vehemently that she twirled about, stumbling over her own feet, yet she managed to retain her balance. “Why, Francis, darling,” she said as her hand rose to her cheek in a look of surprise that was fairly overdone, even for her. “Don’t tell me you do not love your own mother. I’m not sure if I could bear it.”

Her tone was so sarcastic that it gave Francis the urge to beat her over the head with a mallet. “Madam, if it were up to me, I would have you drawn and quartered. Now, I bid you good day.” Turning on his heel, fully intent on leaving her presence if she would not leave his, he headed for the door.

“Not to worry, my dear,” she called after him. “I will always love you, Francis—even if it is only for your money!”

A wild cackle spread through the air, following him like wildfire as he rushed to get away from her. Seeing her again after so long . . . speaking with her . . . the touch of her hand on his chin . . . Francis shuddered. He felt much the same as he would have, had he just been covered in fecal matter. He needed a bath, immediately, and then he would go for a ride to clear his head.