Two henchmen stepped around Mr. Knight, grabbed Dickie Driscoll by the arms, and lifted him off his feet.
Eleanor lunged for the groom.
Seizing her around the waist, Mr. Knight held her back and snarled, “Dickie, listen to me now. You’re not to come back here. You’re never to see her. You’re not to try and take her away from me again. If you try, I’ll kill you. Do you understand? I’ll kill you.”
“Ye don’t understand, sir, she’s na for ye!” Before Dickie could say more, one of the thugs punched him hard enough to jerk his head back.
“Get rid of him,” Mr. Knight commanded.
Dickie was leaving. They were taking him away. “No. No! Where are they going with him?” She watched as Dickie twisted around, trying to see her, trying to get free.
“Damn ye, Knight, don’t ye hurt her,” he yelled.
Mr. Knight watched, his pale blue gaze frozen, his hand gripping the tall, old-fashioned cane he held, a cane carved with barbaric elegance and topped with a heavy, gold ball.
Visions of violence and blood filled her mind. Grabbing his lapel, Eleanor jerked so hard she brought his head around. “What are you doing with him?”
He stared down at her as if he’d forgotten that he gripped her.
“Don’t hurt him!”
“We’re throwing him into the street.” Still Mr. Knight stared at her, his gaze ferocious.
She didn’t believe him, and she grasped him tighter, using both hands to command his attention. “He’s in my employ. You can’t dismiss him.”
He laughed unpleasantly. “I just have.”
She desperately glanced at Dickie, then back at Mr. Knight. “Promise me you won’t have him beaten.”
Without inflection, he asked, “Do you think me a thug?”
She did, and more than that—she was vitally aware he hadn’t answered her. “Just promise me.”
“He’ll be fine.”
“That’s not good enough.” Dickie was her friend. He was in trouble because of her. He could be killed…because of her. “Promise me you won’t hurt him. That you won’t have him hurt in any way, by anybody.”
Knight’s eyebrows lifted, as if surprised by her forcefulness. With care, he placed his cane against the wall. Pinching her chin between his fingers, he lifted her face to his and studied it as he might an unexpectedly feisty pet. “On one condition.”
She thought she knew very well what that condition would be. He wanted in her bed.
But whatever the price, she would pay it. She’d seen too much violence in Europe. She’d seen the results of battles: the wounded, the dying, the agony. She hadn’t known any of those men. She knew Dickie, and she couldn’t allow him to be hurt now, after they’d been through so much together. “Anything.”
Mr. Knight’s black brows made his frown more ferocious, and his mouth curled into a sneer. He looked handsome and enraged, like some magnificent dark angel come to bargain for her soul. “Promise me you won’t try to run away from me again.”
Her heart stopped, then started beating too quickly. Didn’t he want…? She looked at him again, trying to see inside his head. But that was impossible. He showed her his wrath, but not his desire, and only her instincts told her that the man was all the more dangerous for his self-discipline.
“Decide now, Madeline.”
The use of her cousin’s name reminded Eleanor; she was playing a part, but she was playing in earnest. Dickie’s well-being, perhaps his life, depended on her. Taking a quivering breath, she said, “I promise.”
“What do you promise?”
Trust Mr. Knight to demand the exact words. “I promise not to run away from you.”
He weighed her words, as he feared he’d been paid in fool’s gold.
He didn’t trust her. Very well. She didn’t blame him, but she had to convince him. “I swear I won’t leave until you tell me to go.”
He slid his fingers around her throat, just lightly, so she could feel his heat and his strength. “I will never tell you to go.”
Of course he would. As soon as he found out she was an imposter. But until that time he had bound her to him. Staring into his cold, pale eyes, she felt the chill of the future.
Slowly, as if irresistibly drawn, he slid his fingers into her hair, loosening the already drooping chignon at the base of her neck. Leaning his face toward her, he spoke, his voice gravelly with desire. “I love your hair. It’s as thick and as rich as sable. I’ll see this spread over my pillow before a fortnight has passed. I’ll bury my face in it and drink in the scent. I’ll use it to hold you in place while you thrash beneath me and moan with pleasure.”
She was shocked by every word. By every threat and every promise. But more than that, she watched his soft, tempting lips move with his words, and she wanted those lips on hers.
He was going to kiss her, here, now, in the alleyway off a busy London street. She felt the heat of his desire. She knew, she feared, that that heat would melt her reservations and give her over to him, at least for the moment. She couldn’t allow that. She daren’t. Before his lips touched hers, she said, “Go now and save Dickie.”
He halted, and for a moment, she thought he would kiss her regardless of her command. But she held his gaze and silently demanded that he do as she wished.
His hands slipped away from her, inch by inch, as if he released her only grudgingly.
And she hated the loss of his warmth and hated more that it mattered to her.
With an abrupt nod, he strode after his henchmen.
The wall between the buildings was grimy with soot, but she leaned her hand against it, light-headed now that the crisis had passed.
She had committed herself to remain with Mr. Knight. It didn’t matter that she had given her word as Madeline; Eleanor’s lips had formed the words, and when she gave her word, she kept it.
That was why she’d come to such grief eight years ago when her stepmother had tried to bend Eleanor to her will. Eleanor had refused to give her word.
“Welcome, Remington, welcome!” As his secretary ushered Remington in, the president of the bank, Mr. Clark Oxnard, rose from his desk. “I’ve been looking forward to your visit. Did our shipment turn a profit?”
Remington didn’t bother to reply as he settled into the high-backed, cushioned chair the secretary dragged out from the corner of Clark’s luxurious office. The place smelled of money and looked like a gentleman of leisure’s study, but Remington knew very well the kind of exacting, conscientious work Clark did here.
“Of course it did,” Clark answered his own question. “You’ve made me a rich man.”
“A richer man,” Remington corrected.
Clark pulled a moue. “Wealth is a relative term. Henry, please bring Mr. Knight and me a pot of tea. Or Remington, would you rather have a brandy?”
“Tea will be best. I need a clear mind. I’ve got a ball to attend tonight.”
Henry exited, shutting the door behind him without a sound.
“Picard’s? Good, I’ll see you there.” With a broad smile, Clark said, “I hope for the day when my bank balance equals yours.”
“And on that day, I plan to have twice what I have now.” The two men were about the same age, but other than that, they had nothing in common. Clark was English-born, the fourth son of an earl, given over to business to help support his aristocratic but impoverished family, and doing so very well.
Yet despite Clark’s aristocratic connections, Remington liked the stout, balding, dignified gentleman. The two had exchanged letters long before Remington had come to England, and they found their thoughts and goals to have much in common. “I’ve come to ask a favor,” Remington said.
Folding his hands over his paunch, Clark leaned back in his leather chair. “Certainly.”
Remington recognized some apprehension in Clark’s manner and hastened to reassure him. “It has nothing to do with money. It’s a personal favor.”
Valiantly, Clark ignored the reference to filthy lucre. “Anything within my power, dear boy.”
“I’d like you to stand as my witness and best man in my marriage to Madeline de Lacy, the future duchess of Magnus.”
Clark beamed. “Good heavens! Yes, of course, what an honor you bestow on me!” Rising to his feet, he extended his hand.
Remington stood also and shook it. “Not necessarily such an honor. The duchess is a prize of unparalleled wealth and beauty, and you know as well as I there are men who would kill to be in my shoes.”
Clark guffawed. “Yes, of course. Kill to be in your shoes.”
Remington didn’t smile back. “As in olden days, I need you to watch my back.”
Clark’s merriment faded, and he sank down into his seat. “You’re serious.”
Remington seated himself also. “Indeed I am.”
Henry arrived with a quiet knock and the tea tray. He poured for the two gentlemen, fixed it as they liked, and disappeared out the door.
Taking a sip, Remington took up the conversation where it had left off. “The de Lacy family, especially, is treacherous.”
“The…de Lacy family?” Clark’s brow knit. “Are you speaking of your bride?”
“No, I don’t think so.” Remington thought of Madeline, of the deal they’d struck that morning. He had known she was not to be trusted, of course, for last night, when he had informed her she was being watched, he had seen the hunted shadows in her eyes. This morning, he hadn’t been surprised when she had proved her deceitfulness by sneaking away with Dickie.
Yet she had surprised Remington with her loyalty to her servant. She had feared for Dickie. She had demanded Remington release him. And when Remington had demanded a boon, she had, without knowing what it might be, agreed to pay the price. “My bride seems to be quite genuine in her emotions.”
Clark rocked back in his seat, and the leather squeaked beneath his weight. “Quite right, quite right. Not that I know her well at all, but she has a reputation for sincerity.”
“Yes, I imagine she does.” Very soon, she would pay her bridegroom the same allegiance she paid to her horsegroom, for he would bind her to him with kisses, with long, slow strokes on her bare skin, with a union that would leave her in no doubt of his possession. And she would live for him. She would die for him. She would be his, and all his plans would be complete.
Yet even today, when he’d vanquished the last of her allies, he still wasn’t sure she wouldn’t somehow escape. She was going to be a duchess; she had resources he might not have identified.
Still, she had given her word, and the de Lacys always kept their word—or so it was said. Not that he would call off his watchdogs, but her promise did give him a measure of security.
“What de Lacy do you think treacherous?” Clark asked curiously.
“Her father, certainly.”
“The duke of Magnus?” Clark’s mustache quivered with astonishment. “I don’t know him, although my father does. But I’ve never heard anything lethal about him.”
“Still waters run deep.” The tea soured in Remington’s mouth, and he put down the cup. “Do you recall hearing about his sister’s murder?”
“His sister’s?…Lord, yes. Brutal, vicious slaying. My parents whispered about it when I was young. They said Lady Pricilla was one of the beauties of the day.”
“Yes, and cut down in the bloom of her youth on the same night her betrothal was to be announced.” Remington had heard the tale many a time, and he could recite it without thinking.
Clark’s bushy eyebrows shot up. “Magnus had nothing to do with that. Someone else was convicted, some commoner.”
“By name, Mr. George Marchant. He was accused, but the testimony of three noblemen who swore they were with him at the time of the murder made it impossible for the magistrates to convict him. Because they had no one else on whom to pin the crime, and because the crime was so heinous, he was deported to Australia.”
“Probably did it,” Clark muttered, but he didn’t meet Remington’s gaze.
“Your father was one of the men who swore that he didn’t.”
Clark’s teacup rattled in his hand, and he hastily placed it on the desk. “ ’Pon rep! You’re joking.”
“Not at all. Does your father make it a habit to lie?” Remington already knew the answer, but he enjoyed watching Clark puff up in indignation.
“Never heard him tell a bouncer for any reason.” Clark rubbed his bulbous nose. “But I still don’t understand why you mistrust Magnus. He was Lady Pricilla’s brother!”
“In crimes like this, my friend, it almost always is a member of the family.”
“No, really. Family members are supposed to care for one another.”
Clark’s ingenuous belief brought a smile to Remington’s face. “Sometimes they do. And sometimes, they hate with all the ferocity that familiarity brings.” When Clark would have disputed with him, Remington said, “Come now. Don’t you have acquaintances where you’re afraid to go to their homes for fear a fight will start?”
Clark conceded, “Yes. I suppose you’re right.”
“Ask a Bow Street Runner. Murder is usually a family affair.” Remington toyed with changing the subject just to relieve Clark’s uneasiness. Yet he admired Clark’s intelligence, and he’d never had the chance to examine the crime with anyone. “Someone killed Lady Pricilla. It wasn’t George Marchant, so the killer hasn’t been caught.”
“Dreadful thought.” Clark looked deeply unhappy. He was a man who liked everything clear-cut and orderly, like the rows of figures in his accounting books.
“Rumor says she was going to elope with someone, a gentleman less suitable than her wealthy lord. Who else would take violent exception, except one of her family?”
“Her fiancé?”
“The earl of Fanthorpe.”
Clark slumped in his chair. “Ohh.”
His reaction surprised Remington. Clark so seldom openly expressed aversion. “You don’t like him.”
In exasperation, Clark said, “He’s such an old school aristocrat. He banks here, and he won’t speak directly to me. I have muddied my hands with commerce.”
Remington’s lips twitched with amusement.
“He comes into my office, he sits in that chair”—Clark pointed at Remington’s seat—“he tells his secretary what he wants done with his account, and his secretary tells me. I, of course, do exactly the same thing in reverse.”
“You speak to the secretary, and—”
“Exactly.”
“Would he have killed Lady Pricilla?”
“Only if he could have had his secretary kill her.” Clark laughed, then looked guilty. “Pardon me, that is an insensitive jest. Was he not a suspect?”
“He was, but he, also, had an alibi.” Remington toyed with his spoon. “I used to think it was the old duke of Magnus.”
“I never met him. He died before I was out of Oxford, but he is a possibility.” Clark seemed fascinated by the unsolved mystery. “He had a reputation for temper, rages that rampaged out of control.”
“He was famous for them, and after Lady Pricilla’s betrothal he was heard shouting at her on several occasions. He could have killed her, but witnesses said there was no blood on him.” Although he could have hired the job done, the attack apparently had been one of impulse and rage. “The violence was so malicious, he should have been covered with blood.”
“All right. It wasn’t her father.” Clark sounded almost regretful. “And I stick by my contention it wasn’t the current duke of Magnus. But I would say it could easily be his brother, and hers, Lord Shapster. Have you met him?”
Remington shook his head. “I’ve not had the pleasure.”
“No pleasure at all. The bastard’s a cold fish. Married that dreadful Lady Shapster.” As if unpleasant memories were connected with her name, Clark pulled out his handkerchief and wiped his forehead. “When she tried to force Eleanor, as fine a girl as ever I met, to marry, Lord Shapster paid no attention. Let Lady Shapster brutalize his own daughter. So long as he’s not forced to cease hunting, he cares nothing for anything or anybody.”
Clark had piqued Remington’s interest. “I had no idea you knew the family.”
“I come from Blinkingshire, just a few miles down the road from their home. I knew Eleanor from the time she was a bit of a girl. She’s a good deal younger than me, of course, but she sits an excellent seat on a horse. Never makes a scene, never says a peep unless she’s forced to, and that’s Lady Shapster’s fault.” Clark passed his hand over his balding head. “So Lord Shapster is a good suspect.”
Regretfully, Remington said, “He hasn’t enough money.”
“He doesn’t need money to stab a woman to death.”
“He needed money to wreak vengeance on George Marchant from afar.”
Aghast, Clark said, “He wouldn’t do that. Send somebody to Australia to kill the man who he knows perfectly well didn’t kill his sister? Doesn’t make sense.”
“George Marchant had a genius for making money, a genius he passed on to his son, by the way.” Remington kept his expression bland, taking care not to show the anger unfurling in his gut. “After George served his term, he made his way from Australia to America, where he married a shipping heiress, had two children, was widowed, and built a fortune, all with the idea of coming back to England and wreaking vengeance on the man who had killed Lady Pricilla.”
Uneasily, Clark asked, “Why would George care so much? If he had money, family and reputation in America, why come back here?”
“Haven’t you discerned the truth?” Remington rose and paced over to the desk. Leaning over, he looked Clark in the eyes. “He loved Lady Pricilla, she loved him, and they were going to elope that night.”
“Dear God.” Clark stared at Remington intently. He was starting to figure out the connection.
“Yes. About the time George, in America, was ready to act against the nobleman who had killed Lady Pricilla, his home and business were set afire, his daughter was brutally murdered, and he was beaten almost to death. When his son returned from school, grieving and horrified, George was clinging to life. George told his son who had done the horrible deed.”
The two men stared at each other across the glossy expanse of Clark’s desk. Finally, Clark asked, “Why do you know this?”
Remington walked to the door, and before he opened it, said, “Because I am George’s son. Magnus will never rest until all the Marchants are dead—and I will never rest until I have vengeance.”