Taming Rafe (30 page)

“Out with it, Gibbs.”

“Yes, ah. Very well.” John glanced about the room. “May I sit down?”

“By all means.”

“You’ve, ah, stirred things up a bit in Pelford, Mr. Bancroft.”

Rafe lifted an eyebrow. “I should hope so. What does Mrs. Denwortle say?”

The solicitor cleared his throat. “I’d prefer not to answer that at the moment, sir.”

“And I didn’t even get a chance to tell her about the Duke of Wellington and King Georgie.”

“Rafe, let him talk,” Felicity murmured, surreptitiously twining her fingers through his.

“Tell us your news, Gibbs,” Rafe said obligingly, feeling oddly like singing at the top of his lungs.

“Since the events of last night, I have managed to put several facts I recently discovered into better order. It seems that some fifteen years ago, the Earl of Deerhurst amassed some rather excessive gambling debts. Enough that he would have lost his estate.” The solicitor glanced at Felicity. “To shorten a very long tale, Mr. Harrington purchased Deerhurst for twice the amount of the debt in order to provide the earl with enough money to repay his losses and keep the estate solvent.”

“So it’s true?” Felicity gasped. “All this time, Nigel owned Deerhurst?”

“Yes. It was supposed to be repaid, and the whole thing kept secret to prevent any embarrassment, but unfortunately your father died, Miss Harrington. From there things become rather…hazy.”

She shook her head. “I appreciate your discretion, Mr. Gibbs, but it’s not necessary. Once my father died, his own debts came to light. Obviously the old earl and James both feared that we would sacrifice Deerhurst to put Forton back on its feet.”

Rafe closed his eyes for a moment, a thousand possibilities running through his head. “So I own Deerhurst.”

“Yes, Mr. Bancroft.”

“And how much is it worth?”

“Approximately one hundred and fifty thousand pounds.”

“Good God. And where is James Burlough?”

“In custody. Given the gravity of his crimes, the constable has sent for Bow Street Runners to take him to London.”

“They’ll try him before the House, then,” Rafe murmured. “My father should enjoy that. For once, I’m grateful he’s a vindictive son of a bitch.”

“Pleasant thing to say about your own sire.”

Rafe looked toward the doorway, and abruptly hoped that he was dreaming. “Your Grace?” he managed. “What in damnation are you doing here?”

The Duke of Highbarrow stood there taking in the shabby room, the young solicitor, Rafe with his shoulder swathed in bandages, and Felicity, white-faced, seated on the bed beside him.

“It’s my fault, I’m afraid,” a second voice said, and Quin brushed past his father. “If you’ll excuse us, sir,” he said to Gibbs.

“Of…of course, my lord. Your Grace.” Fumbling with his satchel, the solicitor fled the room.

“Are you all right, Rafe?” Quin stepped forward to examine the bandages. “Beeks told us what happened.”

“I’ll live,” Rafe said, tightening his grip around Felicity’s hand. She was not going to escape now. “What are you doing here?”

Finally the duke stirred, taking the seat Gibbs had vacated. “Quinlan wrote me as we were leaving for Spain. Said you were in another damned tangle and mooning after some chit.” Highbarrow returned his gaze to Lis. “You, I presume?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” she answered calmly. “I
am Felicity Harrington. Rafe has often spoken of you.”

Rafe glanced at her face. She was more diplomatic than he would have been. “We’re to be married Sunday,” he declared, and took a breath to prepare for the thundercloud to burst.

“You will not.”

“Yes we will, by God!”

“Your mother and Maddie won’t be here until Sunday.”

Rafe blinked. “Beg pardon?”

The duke gestured at Quin. “Your brother says you designed that stable. And the new wing. Is that true?”

“Yes.”

“Fine work.”

How long he might have sat there, staring at his father, he would never know, because Felicity nudged him in the shoulder. “Say thank you, Rafe.”

“Thank you.”

“Hm. She’s got common sense. You can damned well use that.”

Perhaps he was still asleep, after all. Rafe looked from his brother, watching with hooded amusement in his eyes, to his father, sitting straight in the chair and looking for all the world like some medieval judge. “So you approve of the match.”

“What the hell do you care whether I approve it or not?”

“I don’t. Just curious.”

“Ah.” Highbarrow stood. “Who’s marrying you?”

“Reverend Laskey,” Felicity replied, the slightest bafflement touching her own voice. “The local vicar.”

“I’ll go look him up.”

Rafe straightened. This, he was ready for. “You will not do any such—”

“You’ll be married on Tuesday, after your mother has a chance to arrive and settle herself.” With that, the duke turned on his heel and left the room.

“Quin, I believe His Grace has suffered an apoplexy,” Rafe announced.

His brother chuckled and walked over to pull the curtains open. “When your groom arrived last night, Mother questioned him about you and Forton for half an hour before we left. She informed His Grace that if he said one negative word to you about Forton or about Miss Harrington, she would be
very
unhappy.” He leaned back against the windowsill. “Though in truth, I don’t think he needed the warning. It scared him when you left London the last time. I believe he finally realized that you weren’t coming back.”

“This is all quite a bit too much for me this morning,” Rafe finally muttered, and lay back again.

“We’re not supposed to tire you out, so I’ll leave you alone. One more question, though. What are you going to do with Deerhurst?”

“Sell it,” Rafe murmured, closing his eyes.

“Congratulations then, Rafael. You’re a wealthy man.”

Rafe opened one eye to watch Quin leave the room, then he struggled upright again.

Felicity looked over at him, her eyes serious. “He’s right. You’re rich.”

“
We’re
rich,” he corrected, sliding his arm around her waist.

“Rafe—”

“Will you be quiet for a damned minute?”

Lis stared at him. “All right.”

He took a breath. “I want you to know something. I love you. More than anything. Whatever I thought I would find in China or Peru, I found here. I realized that last night. I think I’ve known it for a while, though.”

“Rafe—”

“I want to wake up beside you every morning like this, in my bed, and in my home,” he pressed on. “With you. Here—at Forton Hall. Can you live with that?”

She began crying. “When James said he killed you last night, I thought I would die, too. I’ll be happy with you anywhere, Rafe.” Felicity smiled and wiped her eyes. “If it happens to be here, then so be it.”

“Oh. So you can tolerate staying at Forton.”

“I think so, yes.”

Chuckling, Rafe tilted her chin up with his fingers and kissed her. “Good. I rather like the place.”

Felicity slipped her arms around him to lean against his good shoulder. This was precisely what he wanted. He could have saved them a great deal of grief and confusion if he’d only realized it before. Rafe brushed his lips against her disheveled hair. Only one thing was missing now.

The door rattled and opened again. “Felicity?” May whispered, peering around the door. “Oh, you’re awake. There’s a duke downstairs. Ronald spilled tea on him.”

“Oh, dear,” Felicity muttered. “Poor Ronald.”

With a grin, May strolled into the room and climbed up onto the bed. “Did you tell Rafe?”

“Tell me what, midget?” he asked, wiggling his toes at her.
Now
he had everything—except perhaps for one or two of his own, just like the sparkling-eyed sprite gazing at him.

“I did number twenty-eight again. With a book, this time.”

“You did?”

Felicity chuckled, nodding. “She did. For a great war hero, Rafael Michelangelo Bancroft, you’ve been bested and rescued quite a few times by an eight-year-old girl.”

Rafe searched her dark eyes, seeing only weariness, humor, and a reflection of his own love for her. “I am completely and utterly humiliated. I’ll never be able to go to any of the Coldstream Guards’ reunions.”

“
Nulle secundis!
” May crowed, giggling. “That’s our motto, now.”

“Hm.” Rafe grinned. “Better than ‘number twenty-eight!’”

Felicity laughed and kissed him on the ear. “I love you,” she whispered.

“And I love you, my practical one.”