Celeste Bradley - [Heiress Brides 03] (32 page)

She gulped air, hope and despair a warring tempest in her belly. “Wh—what price?”

He held out his hand. “You have to help me up. That climb was painful. I’ve hurt my . . . my petard.”

Laughing shakily, she moved forward to tentatively take his hand. The instant his fingers closed around hers, he gave a mighty tug.

With a faint shriek, she fell into his arms. He pulled her close and rolled the both of them until he lay above her, toe to toe, nose to nose, on the floor. He smiled down at her astonishment. “See? We still fit.” He pulled something from his waistcoat pocket and slipped it onto her finger. “You’re the only one who fits.”

Sadie blinked at the lovely ring. “Where did you get this?”

“It was my mother’s.” When Sadie gasped and made to remove it, he placed his hands over hers, stopping her. “She was the Duchess of Edencourt. So are you. It is your ring now.”

Sadie protested again but her will was weakening. She loved the ring. She
wanted
the ring.

Besides, he’d climbed a tree to give it to her.
A man will do astonishing things for a woman he is ardent about
.

If he pulled away from her now and disdained her forever, if she stepped in front of speeding cart tomorrow, if the world ended this evening—she would always have this moment. Without an instant’s hesitation, she wrapped her arms about his neck and pulled him down for a kiss that might have to last her the rest of her life.

She’d never been a wasteful sort.

A while—quite a while, in fact—later, Graham came
up for air. “Sophie—” He cleared his throat. “Sorry.” He began again. “Miss Westmoreland, would you care to accompany me to the parlor? There’s something there I think you should see.”

Sadly, for the moment was gone and might never come again, Sadie smiled and let him rise. “Miss Westmoreland? Need we be so formal, Graham?”

He held up a restraining hand. “Now, now—we mustn’t speak. We’ve not been properly introduced.”

Giving a small, helpless bark of laughter, she rose as well and let him lead her from the room. At least he wasn’t letting go of her hand.

Downstairs in the parlor, they found quite a crowd. Brookhaven and Deirdre, Marbrook and Phoebe, an excited Meggie, a string-tangled kitten . . . and Mr. Stickley, the solicitor.

Everyone was smiling, except for the kitten.

When Sadie entered, Mr. Stickley moved forward, his prim smile sincere and admiring. “Your Grace, I am so happy to see you again!”

Sadie cleared the surprise from her throat and managed to answer graciously enough. “Thank you, sir. It is nice to see you again as well.”

He made a neat little bow. “And my sincerest congratulations on your excellent match, my dear! I knew that one of you ladies would win!”

Sadie frowned anxiously. “Oh, dear. No one has told you—I’m not really Sophie Blake.”

Mr. Stickley chuckled indulgently and clapped his hands together. “Of course you aren’t! My goodness!” He reached into his coat and pulled out a slip of paper.
“Nonetheless, here you are! May you use it in good health!”

Confused, Sadie took the paper—and then realized that it was a check. A very
large
check. Her fingers went suddenly numb and the check floated to the floor.

Mr. Stickley peered worriedly into her face. “Are you all right, Your Grace?”

The room threatened to tilt. Graham’s arm came about her, strong and warm. She steadied at once. She reached out a hand for the check that Mr. Stickley had retrieved from the floor. “If you don’t mind, sir . . . I should like to read that again.”

The paper was cool and crisp in her hand. The amount was as she’d first thought—nearly thirty thousand pounds. This time, however, it was the name on the check that caught her up short.

Sadie Westmoreland Blake Cavendish, Duchess of Edencourt
.

“Blake?” Her throat tightened. She looked helplessly at Deirdre and Phoebe. “What . . . what is this?”

Deirdre grinned. “Congratulations. You’re not an orphan anymore.”

Phoebe shook her head, smiling. “Actually, you haven’t been for fifteen years. Mrs. Blake legally adopted you when she brought you home to Acton.”

Deirdre’s grin turned fierce. “That’s her account and she’s standing by it, by God.”

“Adopted?” Sadie blinked. “Then . . . we truly are cousins?”
A real family
.

Phoebe gazed at Sadie with gentle understanding in her eyes. “Graham did it.”

His strength and steadiness had never left her. She’d leaned into him as naturally as she’d breathed—without thought or hesitation. Now she turned to him, so many questions bubbling forth that she was mute with them.

He smiled down at her, then touched the tip of her nose with his finger. “You are Sadie Blake. Mrs. Blake will swear to it in any court in the land.”

Sadie blinked. “But . . . she hates me.”

His smile turned a little sad. “I’m fairly sure she hates everyone. I’m positive she hates me, since I am the one who pointed out that if you received the inheritance then you would be able to pay her back her two hundred pounds.”

Deirdre snorted. “It wasn’t hers to begin with.”

Sadie looked back down at the check in her hand. “Shouldn’t I give her some of this? I mean, she’s the real Pickering, not I.”

“Don’t you dare!” Deirdre plunked both hands on her hips. “Do you know why she sent her housekeeper to that orphanage? She was looking for a girl to pass off as Sophie to win the prize!”

Phoebe nodded. “She finally confessed that she only gave up on the idea when you turned out to be . . .”

“Plain,” Sadie finished without a hint of rancor. “It all makes sense now.” She gazed down at the check in her hand. “Fair enough, then.” She turned to Graham and offered him the check with a smile. “For your Edencourt.”

His hand closed over hers, the check inside. “For our home, Sadie Westmoreland Blake Cavendish, Duchess of Edencourt.” He raised their joined hands
and kissed her knuckles. “It’s very nice to meet you at last.”

A real love
.

She laughed and curtsied. “Likewise, Your Grace.” Then she smiled up at him with all the love she’d never thought to show him again, a smile that brought wonder to his eyes and a gasp of astonishment from Mr. Stickley.

“But you may call me Sadie.”

Squinting against the afternoon light, gray and pearly though it shone through the clouds, Wolfe stumbled from the public house and wiped his foul-tasting mouth on his sleeve. Bracing one shaking hand against the doorway, he leaned to spit on the cobbles. The barmaid had let him sleep off his binge in her bed, though she’d been sorely put out this morning to discover that there was no coin to repay her generosity.

Wolfe’s head rang and pounded and generally felt as if a crew of laborers were erecting a gallows within his skull. The image of a noose swung behind his dazzled vision for an uncomfortable moment. Then he managed to dispel it by dwelling upon the sizable assets of the aforementioned barmaid.

With such uplifting thoughts to bolster him, he managed to straighten his back and stand erect. He ran both hands through his unwashed hair and then smoothed them down his coat front. Still flat, even at his age. Forty-mumble was only the middle of his prime. He had many, many years to enjoy the fruits of his labors. For the time being, however, he needed to hit Stickley up for
an advance on his retainer. There was still the matter of the Marquis of Brookhaven to dispense with. When that bloke lay cold, there would be no more chances for the great-granddaughters of Sir Hamish Pickering to lay hands on a nickel of the old bastard’s gold.

With a somewhat less than upright, shambling motion, Wolfe began to wander his way through the winding streets and alleys of Shoreditch, making his way back to more respectable environs. Too bad. The very smell of the piss-and-soot–coated cobbles put a spring in his step that had never been accomplished by the scent of flowers or perfume of the finer life.

“Back to the office,” he muttered to himself, then snickered. “Tick-tock, old boy, time is money.” Who was it who used to say that until Wolfe wanted to brain him with a cricket bat? Oh, yes. Mr. Wolfe the Elder had been wont to spout that homily to his dear partner, Stickley the First.

Now there was a bracing thought. Imagining parting ways with Stickley forever brought a beatific smile to Wolfe’s face that nearly eradicated the reddened eyes and greenish pallor.

The squalor of Shoreditch behind him at last, Wolfe paused before a Fleet Street shop window to adjust his cravat. Oh hell, where was his cravat? Recalling that he’d used it to bind the hands of the barmaid at some point in the last few days, he shrugged. The wench could burn it, for all he cared. Soon he’d be swimming in luxury, the happy and hard-working recipient of nearly fifteen thousand pounds of interest from the Pickering Trust.

Stickley would no longer be needing his half, of course.

While Wolfe tried to force his fumbling fingers to do something useful with his collar, two ladies passed behind him. He could see their fine bonnets and shawls reflected in the mirror and the bored footman trailing behind with the parcels. Wolfe twitched with irritation. Ladies were parasites, too uppity to pay their own way with honest whoring. Soon he would have enough money to surround himself with eager prostitutes and like-minded friends for the rest of his life.

Such sybaritic pleasure almost distracted him from the ladies’ conversation—that is, until he heard the name “Edencourt.”

“Oh, no! It’s her money, not Edencourt’s! Nearly thirty thousand pounds they say.”

The other woman sighed enviously. “Can you imagine? A young, handsome duke and all those riches. She’ll be sleeping in Lementeur nightdresses, I expect.”

The other woman snorted, no less enviously. “With that inheritance, she’ll be gowning her
maidservants
in Lementeur!”

“But isn’t it romantic? I heard that he stole her away to his estate and wouldn’t let her leave until she promised to marry him.”

I should have killed that scrawny bitch when I had the chance!

It wasn’t until Wolfe felt the heavy hand of the footman on his shoulder that he realized he’d growled those bitter words out loud.

“Sir, I think you’d best move along now.”

Wolfe found himself turned by force. The footman—damn, he looked more like a bodyguard than an simple manservant—stood firmly between Wolfe and the shocked gazes of the two ladies. The two very wealthy, likely very highly placed ladies. Wolfe fought down the volcanic rage searing his gut long enough to smear an apologetic smile on his features and mouth some banal obsequiousness. The footman released him at last and Wolfe backed away, bowing and smirking and generally making himself sick with his own desperation.

How could it have happened? When he’d left this world only a few days ago, that horse-faced bride of Edencourt’s had been exposed as a fake! Now she had the inheritance? Wolfe strode to the nearest newsboy, who was tying up the last of his unsold sheets for the day.

Wolfe shoved the fellow aside and grabbed up a gossip rag.

“Oy! That’s a farthing!”

Wolfe turned the full force of his rage at the sniveling worm. The fellow paled and backed away from Wolfe’s red, maddened eyes, making a small superstitious motion against evil as he did so.

Wolfe ignored him then, ripping the sheet in his urgency to read it. There it was, in the Voice of Society’s column.

“If the Duke and Duchess of Edencourt weren’t previously the most fortunate couple in England, already having the grace of fine looks and true love, then they surely are now. The Duchess, it seems, is the lucky winner of a charming contest between herself and her lovely
cousins, now both wed to the brothers of Brookhaven, the marquis himself and his brother Lord Raphael Marbrook. Lady Edencourt has inherited a vast fortune for wedding her duke. Your Voice of Society now wonders if this will become the latest vogue in bequest—the legacy goes to the one who makes the best match of all!”

Gone. Evaporated. Sucked away by that prancing duke and his sponging relic of an estate.

Wolfe’s hands began to shake once more. This time the rage was nearly swallowed by the panic and fear. He had people looking for him—people who now knew he had no more expectations of even his paltry retainer.

Oh, damn. His gut went to ice at the memories. He’d held his creditors off for months with stories of the wealth due him from the Pickering Trust. Lies, mostly, but everyone remembered how rich old Hamish had become. Wolfe had flung that name about with comfortable abandon, relishing the respect that had risen in the eyes of everyone who heard that he was executor of such wealth.

Never mind that it was Stickley who—

Stickley
.

Wolfe pressed the heels of both hands to his aching forehead. There was something he needed to remember about Stickley . . .

It’s what my father would have expected of me
.

Ah. Yes.

Wolfe drew in a long, shaken breath. That had been a close call there for a moment. He’d thought he might have to run for the West Indies or, God forbid, the Americas.

But there, as always, as dependable and useful as a boot scraper bolted to the doorway, was Stickley. Reliable, loyal Stickley, who had so thoughtfully arranged for Wolfe to be kept in the style to which he’d become accustomed.

Wolfe smiled, his thoughts resting fondly on Stickley for the first time in his memory.

He really was a fine old stick. Wolfe almost regretted having to kill him.

A FEW HOURS
later, Mr. Wolfe was staring down the barrel of a very large, very black hunting rifle that lay perfectly poised in the arms of his erstwhile partner, Mr. Stickley.

“I should put that silly little pistol down if I were you, Wolfe,” Stickley said with more panache than Wolfe would have credited him with. “You’re outgunned.”

Wolfe rapidly calculated his chances of killing Stickley before he himself was killed. The hell of it was, rifles just worked so much better than pistols! Pistols were forever jamming and if one had to shoot very far, they were distressingly inaccurate.