Tempting the Heiress (19 page)

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Authors: Barbara Pierce

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BOOK: Tempting the Heiress
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His antics sounded ludicrous in the retelling. No wonder his family thought him daft. “I was desperate. She was not brimming with courtesy after encountering one of my former—friends.”
“Oh, how prickly,” the man said, a frown scouring the humor in his expression. It was easy to deduce that he was envisioning how Wynne might have handled such an incident. Not liking the ominous conclusion, he winced. “I assume Miss Claeg is upset.”
Brock summoned the memory of his last moments with Amara. When he had told her that she mattered to him, he had doused all that magnificent passion her anger had set off. She had quietly thanked him as if he had
complimented her on the color of her gown. Slashed to the bone by her aloofness, he had not protested when she freed the bolt. Without a parting glance, she had returned to Conte Prola’s side. If the Italian had heard of their indiscretion, he ignored it. Every time their gazes crossed, the man looked triumphant.
“Upset?” Brock banished the persistent image of her almond-shaped eyes. “No. I would not describe her thus.”
Giving up the pretense of their task, Milroy sat down on the stump. “Whatever she told you, she lied,” he said flatly. “Maddy told Wynne that Miss Claeg was devastated to learn of your—your regrettable friendship with this Mrs. LeMaye. I saw Miss Claeg yesterday. If you have any trust in my opinion, I would conclude she is still suffering from a case of sulks.”
“Was Prola with her?”
Milroy sneered. “Mingling with the lesser folk? I think not. His kind requires a whiff of hartshorn if there is a stain on his coat.”
Brock agreed. He glanced down at their clothes. They were streaked with grime and they smelled no better than a dustheap. “Amara seems to enjoy his attentions.”
“Oh, I am certain he makes a fair escort and his lineage keeps her parents from ranting,” his companion said, his blunt reasoning sending Brock’s humor tumbling. “She is also my wife’s dear friend so I doubt I am wrong in thinking she finds Prola useful in tormenting you over past sins.”
“I disagree.” The suggestion outraged him. “Amara is not devious.”
“Perhaps not,” he promptly agreed. “It is interesting you have not likewise denied the existence of your past sins.”
Milroy was too astute. He had purposely hindered their work, forcing Brock to face his troubles.
“Is what stands between you so insurmountable that you will let someone like Prola take the woman you want?”
Amara deserved someone better than Conte Prola. His disreputable past probably made him equally unsuitable in her opinion. Brock’s grip tightened on the handle. She was not the only one who had suffered, and whether he won her by persistence or seduction, he intended to have her.
“Amara is mine.”
“I never doubted it,” Milroy said, standing. He clanged the edge of his shovel against the stump. “If we want this torn from the turf before we lose the light, we will need a horse and some rope.”
He swallowed the reluctant smile he sensed forming. The desire to pit his strength against an inanimate foe had receded with his temper. “A sensible plan,” he conceded.
“Aye, that it is.” He deliberately waited until Brock had started off toward the house for a servant. “And Bedegrayne?”
Brock halted.
“Once we finish our task, we can improve upon your crude wooing style.” Milroy hooted with mirth. “That is, if she will have you after you locked her in a water closet!”
Burdened with a bulky package, Amara opened her bedchamber door with her elbow. One of the footmen had explained that the mysterious gift had been delivered during her absence. Anticipating curiosity she might not want to assuage, she opted for privacy when she unwrapped it.
She kicked the door open with her foot and entered the room. Finding her cousin preening into her dressing table mirror was a revelation. Several japanned boxes that fit in the large drawer beneath had been removed.
Clutching her package in a protective manner, Amara said, “Bored? Skulking about my room provides a meager diversion. I recommend searching my mother’s chamber. She tends to be rather negligent with her jewelry.”
For being caught in a delicate position, Piper was unflustered. Meeting Amara’s quizzical gaze in the mirror, she said, “You hide it so well under all that bookish naïveté.”
“Hide what?” Setting the package on the nearest chair, Amara untied her bonnet.
Dancing her fingers lightly over the marzipan bouquet, her cousin broke off a flower petal and placed the sweet on her tongue. “Why, your accommodating morals, Miss Claeg.”
She silently congratulated herself for not crushing her bonnet. With great care, she placed it beside the package. “A lecture from a trespasser and possible thief?” Her face hardened into a mocking mask. “If my father believes you have taken advantage of his generosity, you will be bundled off on the next stagecoach. Think of your father’s humiliation. Disgraced, he will likely marry you off to some poor farmer who needs a strong back rather than a pretty gewgaw.”
What Amara had described seemed coldhearted, but was close enough to the truth to crack the foundation of the woman’s complacency. They both were aware her beautiful cousin’s fate hinged on her success in London. Hatred glinted in Piper’s dark green eyes. “Who do you think Lord Keyworth will believe? This house is not so
large. The servants whisper about their lord’s displeasure with his rebellious daughter.”
They had reached a stalemate. It rankled her that their positions were not so different. “Even so, you will acquire no favor with Papa for spouting malicious lies about me. Do not pry into something that is not your concern.”
Plucking another petal, Piper sucked on the sugary delicacy. She popped up from her chair. Hands behind her back, she strolled up to Amara. “I understand more than you think.” She held out a sealed missive. When Amara reached for it, her cousin purposely allowed it to slip from her fingers.
Exasperated, she retrieved the note from the floor. “You may leave.”
“You should be grateful I delivered your lover’s amorous tidings to you and not your father.”
Amara raised her brows at her cousin’s absurdity. “Such imaginative musings should be applied to pen and paper. Consider this. If your work becomes wildly popular, you could abandon your pressing quest for a husband.” She walked over to the table and picked up the confectionary bouquet. “Here. With my compliments.” Amara thrust the flowers at her cousin. “I was never one for sweets.”
“You are undeserving of a gentleman like Conte Prola. Why he would prefer you above me is baffling.”
Amara pretended the observation was not a pitiful attempt to wound her and gave her an honest response. “Prola is enamored by Lord Keyworth’s wealth. For all your beauty, you are one household away from being some child’s governess.”
The warning was not only for Piper. It was not prudent
to misjudge the conte’s beguiling sincerity. He sought more than a bride. It was on the tip of her tongue to speak her thoughts aloud, but her barb had already sunk deep.
“Wretched harpy!” Piper seethed with so much fury her body trembled. Clasping the bouquet to her bosom, she still managed to slam the door.
“Good riddance,” she said, even though she regretted the animosity between them. It was upsetting to be disliked. Whenever she considered mending their relationship, her cousin usually said something impertinent and their conflict resumed. At least Piper had been too absorbed in her resentment and had forgotten about the mysterious letter.
Turning the missive over, Amara broke the seal. Out of habit she moved to the window for the favorable light. She sat in her favorite chair and read the few lines aloud.
“‘One o’clock tomorrow in Finsbury Square.’ Finsbury?” She wrinkled her nose. “Why there of all places?” Merchants inhabited the square; the most notable was a bookseller.
Going to her dressing table mirror, she pushed aside the small boxes her cousin had removed. Pulling out the narrow drawer beneath the mirror, she reached her hand deep into the slot. The first note, the one she had wrongly assumed had come from Brock, was jammed into one of the cracks. She grasped the edge with two fingers and withdrew it. Pressing down the folds, she compared them. The handwriting was identical. She was such a fool. Doran had been trying to contact her all along.
By evening, Amara had devised a plan. She was not optimistic of its success. The flutter plaguing her stomach
had diminished her appetite, which had won her mother’s interest. If the feeling did not cease soon, she would disgrace herself at the nearest commode.
Her father had departed for a meeting, while she, her mother, and Piper had remained home. Lady Keyworth’s desire for an evening of solitude had fitted nicely with her own aspirations. After an early supper, the women had retired to the formal parlor. Piper sat at a small writing desk, composing letters to her sisters. Lady Keyworth was seated near the fireplace. With her spectacles perched on her nose, she was working on some embroidery she had neglected. Amara had also decided to embroider. After stabbing her thumb five times with the needle, she set her work aside. She was too clumsy for the delicate work. Instead, she picked up Thomas Moore’s translation of
Odes of Anacreon.
The words ran together like wet ink on the page. The book, nevertheless, kept her hands occupied and provided an excuse for her lapses in conversation.
After half an hour had passed, Amara placed the open book on her lap. “Mama, I received a note this afternoon.”
The endless scratching from her cousin’s pen halted at her bold confession. If Piper had contemplated blackmail, Amara had effectively foiled any future attempt.
“Anyone I know?” her mother asked, her attention focused on her stitches.
She fidgeted a little at using the name of a dear friend. However, she believed Brook would understand the necessity. “Yes. Lady A’Court.”
Lady Keyworth paused. “She is residing in London?”
She understood her mother’s surprise. Brook had fled London after her husband’s death. The tragic circumstances surrounding his death and the loss of the child she
carried had been too much for her friend. While most of the
ton
thought the countess was simply in mourning, Amara knew her absence was more complicated.
“A week at most. She is being very discreet. No one is aware she has returned and she insists that her presence not be revealed.” Lowering her voice in a confidential inflection, she said, “There is still talk about the earl. I doubt she is prepared for all the speculation.”
“Who is Lady A’Court?” her cousin interjected.
“A good friend,” Amara replied, not offering Piper further explanation. She switched her attention to her mother. “Brook only has a few days left before her departure. She has invited me to visit her.”
“If she has opened the family town house, no amount of discretion will keep her presence a secret,” Lady Keyworth predicted.
Would her mother not be shocked if she learned the son she thought dead was prowling about town? She needed Doran’s advice on how this could be accomplished without giving their mother heart failure. Or perhaps, due to their hostile parting, Doran was not yearning to see their parents at all. The depressing insight explained her brother’s secretiveness.
“No, the house remains closed. I assume there were too many memories. Since her stay is short, she took some rooms.” Amara hesitated. “With your permission, I would like to accept her hospitality. I had almost given up hope. She never answered any of my letters.” That much was true. Neither she, Wynne, nor Devona had heard from their friend.
Her mother pushed her slipping spectacles higher and studied her efforts. “Lady A’Court will need her friends when she returns to polite society. You are fortunate the
family considers you part of their intimate circle. I see no reason to deny your request.”
Amara resisted the urge to wrap her mother in a zealous embrace. She was being offered more than she had hoped. Still, she could not resist pressing, “If the hour is late?”
Lady Keyworth frowned at her obtuseness. “Naturally, you will remain through the night if necessary.”
The flutters in her stomach soared into her heart. They burst from her chest. Tomorrow she would be reunited with her brother. She had hours, no a day, to convince him that his family longed for his return.
Subterfuge rarely went unpunished. Curled around a pillow on her bed, Amara endured a restless night expecting to hear her father’s fist pounding on the door. Their few conversations had been terse and weighted with commands. Needless to say, if she replied with something other than, “Yes, Papa,” Lord Keyworth stared her down into silence. He viewed anything that distracted her from his private objectives as trivial, and sadly, even Doran’s miraculous resurrection would not save her. Their father had disowned Doran when he had been imprisoned for his coining misdeeds. His return, if she managed to convince him to reveal his presence, might not be heralded with the enthusiasm worthy of a prodigal son. But she felt compelled to at least make the attempt.
Amara had slept later than she wanted; however, when she descended the stairs several hours later, their butler, Buckle, had told her that she was the first to awaken. She declined breakfast, not caring to linger in case her good fortune faltered. Since she had sent her maid down earlier, a carriage was already waiting. Accepting a straw-colored
parasol from Buckle, she bid him adieu. One of the footmen helped her ascend the narrow steps into the carriage. She plucked at the fabric of her skirt, satisfied with her choice. She wanted to look her best for Doran without being conspicuous.
Corry had suggested a high-necked short dress of jaconet muslin. A stone-colored round mantle lined with a delicate pink covered her shoulders and flowed down to the back of her knees. Her hair had been parted down the middle and tucked under a bonnet of white-willow shavings that was adorned with pink rosebuds. Wisps of curls at her temples softened the severity of the look.
She ordered the coachman to take her to Lackington’s. Once they had reached the bookseller’s shop, she intended to send the carriage home. Amara required no witnesses to her perfidy. She assumed Doran had his own equipage. If not, a hackney would suffice. The details mattered little when she was minutes away from seeing the brother she had thought she would never see again.
Her trepidation increased when the multistory brick frontage of the shop came into view. High above a dome, a large flag flapped languidly from its flagpole, signaling the owner was in residence. The original proprietor, James Lackington, had retired years earlier. One of the gentleman’s cousins and his partner, a Mr. Allen, ran the immense shop with its huge circular counter. Their inventory surpassed any private library. The rare and the illicit were found there.
The coachman climbed down from his perch and helped her out of the carriage. “Shall I wait out front or drive around the square until I see you?”
“You are spared from doing both, Jem,” she said,
slightly distracted while she confirmed the items in her reticule. “My friend will see me home.”
Jem had been in the family’s employ for years. Glancing up, she could tell he was not pleased by her answer. The coachman was not watching her, but the pedestrians. It was too early in the day for the fashionable
ton
to be about; on the other hand neither was he abandoning her to roaming gangs of ruffians. She was quite safe.
“My friend is meeting me here.” The instructions were a bit vague, but the bookseller’s shop seemed to be a logical place. Doran probably recalled her fondness for books. “Stop scowling, Jem. I have Mama’s approval. Besides, I am certain Mr. Lackington and Mr. Allen do not approve of their patrons being assaulted. Poor for business, you know.”
“You will keep to the shop.” He wiggled his brows in a manner that always made her smile. Since he was wearing his stern face, she doubted he was trying to be humorous so she bit down on her lower lip.
“Yes, Jem.” She rushed back to the carriage. “Oh, my parasol!” Amara snatched it up and gave the man a rueful smile. “Too forgetful.” She started for the shop’s door.
“Miss Claeg. This friend of yours wouldn’t be a gent by chance?” the coachman called out.
Amara gulped some air. “With Mama’s approval? How absurd.”
Climbing back onto his perch, Jem removed his tricorne and slapped the dust from it. “Lord Keyworth would sever my cods if harm came to you. Or if I let you run off to Gretna Green with some rake.”
She was not positive what the man meant by his “cods,” but she had tasted her father’s displeasure. Summoning a
smile this time was more difficult. “Jem, let us leave the fiction
inside
the shop.”
The teasing comment earned a chuckle. Waving her off, the servant stayed until she had entered the shop. Once inside, Amara stood in front of one of the huge Palladian windows. She lifted a hand in farewell and watched his departure.
It was almost one o’clock. Still believing the shop was the likely choice for their meeting, Amara made a casual perusal of her surroundings. Despite the hour, the shop was filled with customers. She effortlessly picked out five women who were without an escort so any apprehension that she might call attention to herself vanished.
The shop attracted hordes of women because it carried those wildly popular novels most gentlemen detested. Lady Keyworth had discouraged her from reading them too. She feared such implausibly romantic tales might persuade her young daughter toward folly. For her, as for most young ladies with a good measure of curiosity, the forbidden was an irresistible temptation.
In secret, Amara had read those novels her mother had disparaged. The stories had been wickedly adventurous and romantic, not to mention highly improbable. She had closed each book, satisfied with the happy conclusions. What surprised her was that after the adventure had faded from her thoughts, a lingering sadness remained. Older, she now understood her mother’s concern. Real life palled when compared to the excessive misery and ardent obsession printed out on those splendid pages. An ordinary husband might be viewed as a cruel substitute.
She thought of Conte Prola and sighed.
Following the walls, she roamed the shop. Thousands
of books beckoned, yet she resisted. She climbed the stairs and searched the upper floor. No Doran. The note had stated Finsbury Square. Perhaps she had gotten it wrong.
She stepped outside and opened her parasol. Strolling down the walkway, she peered into several other shops. One of the approaching gentlemen turned his head as they passed. Amara returned his admiring leer with a fixed cold stare. Contrite, he lowered his gaze and continued his ramble in the opposite direction.
Her throat worked as she swallowed her growing anger. It was just like her brother to muddle the simplest plan. Not all of her family’s frustration with Doran was unfounded. Amara halted her promenade, studying the passengers in the carriages and riders on horseback. None of the faces was familiar.
Discouraged, she let her gaze travel to the grounds in the center. The contour was circular. Along the perimeter an iron railing and shrubbery enclosed the commons. She noted the gate had been left open. Two wagons were stationary near the entrance. One was stacked with water casks. The other was heaped with potted plants and garden tools. Obviously, some jobbing gardeners were tending to the maintenance of the square.
Inspired, Amara closed her parasol and stepped into the street. Pausing for a speeding carriage, she rushed forward, barely evading a man on horseback. The frightened horse shied to the left. The words the man shouted at her were hardly complimentary and disqualified him as a gentleman. She fought the urge to cover her eyes when another carriage passed close enough to ruffle her skirt. Not caring if her ankles were visible, she dashed the remaining distance.
Laying a hand across her heart, she was panting from
fear and the exertion. When she caught her breath again, she would search the common for her errant sibling. Rough hands seized her from behind and whirled her around. The shock altered her scream into a pathetic yelp.
Dimly, she recognized the stark face. It was Brock who held her in a painful grip. He hauled her up on her toes and shook her. “Of all the—” His voice gave out as his fury strangled him. “What were you doing? Do you know how many times you nearly died? I swear, you have more hair than wit.” Cursing, he crushed her to his chest.
Neither the fright nor Brock’s proximity was able to calm her pounding heart. Pressed tightly against him, she returned his embrace. There was nothing she could do until he was inclined to release her.
“You watched me cross the street?”
Reluctantly, he pulled back. Her bonnet was askew from his forceful handling. Brock lowered her to her feet. While he kept a hand on her, he used the other to straighten her bonnet. “I noticed a foolish woman stepping out into the street. When I realized it was you, I almost had heart failure. Can you imagine how I felt, wanting to call out and yet afraid the distraction would likely kill you?”
“I never anticipated how dangerous the street—”
Renewed anger had him yelling, “Damn it, Amara! You were not thinking at all. It is nothing short of a miracle you survived.”
She was trembling. Oh, not as the result of his anger, she knew she deserved it. Her body trembled because she knew he spoke the truth. The crossing must have seemed to him wholly suicidal. “An apology for surviving seems a trifle peculiar. I offer it just the same.”
He muttered something unintelligible under his breath
and hugged her again. She felt the subtle quaking of his body. “So I am being irrational. It complements your lunacy. See what a fine pair we make?”
She let him hold her, longer than was proper. He felt like the sun, and she was so cold. Remembering where they were, she was the first to pull back. “Why are you here?” An awful suspicion diminished the joy of being in his presence again. “Were you following me?”
He gave her an infuriated glare. “I thought we had already established you were the one who was touched.”
Amara ignored the barb. Brock was too offended at her charge to be lying. Unless, she thought, she had been searching for the wrong man. “It is merely coincidence that brings us together on the same day, the same time.”
He looked abashed by her sarcasm. The light breeze surged and played with the strands of blond hair that had escaped his queue. “Not precisely,” he hedged.
She had been associating with the Bedegraynes too long not to have witnessed some of the males’ underhanded practices. “Good heavens, you have had me watched. It all makes sense,” she said to herself. “Brock Bedegrayne, you had no right! Who did you employ? One of the footmen, or was this task worthy of a runner?” She recalled the strange gentleman who had stared at her beyond decorum and could not prevent a shudder of repugnance.
“I have employed no one, but if anyone needs a keeper it is you!” he said, losing his temper, again. “Tipton’s man was headed for the vinegar manufactory near Old Street when he caught sight of your carriage. He was not pleased that you were alone, and thought I might feel the same. Once he learned your destination, he sought me out.” He scowled down at her. “So I rushed here only to
see you weaving your way through a gauntlet of horses and equipages. Do you know what? Speck was correct. I am not pleased.”
“That gargoyle,” she seethed. Loyal to Lord Tipton, the servant had an unearthly gift for discerning trouble and took his guardian duties too seriously, much to the chagrin of the female Bedegraynes. “Are there not enough Bedegraynes in town to occupy his time?”
His lips curled into a parody of a smile. “Speck thinks fondly of you, also, for which I shall be eternally thankful. Now tell me, where are your people so I can strangle them for their incompetence?”
“I sent my coachman home.”
“What?” he queried so quietly, she felt the need to rub the prickling sensation from her arms.
A thump from behind distracted her. She glanced back in time to see the wagon behind her quiver. The owner was nowhere in sight. The wheels strained forward a few inches. The horses were restless.
Brock cuffed her wrist. She forgot all about the animals when he pulled her closer. His expression frightened her. Although he leaned toward officious, he was never intentionally cruel.
“Are you meeting someone?” he demanded.
A rumble diverted her attention. She turned her head and watched in horror as the wooden pyramid of water casks shifted, straining against the rope restraints. The sickening clunk terrified the horses. The team kicked at the wagon.
Everything seemed to slow down around her. Brock shouted a warning in her ear and hoisted her off her feet as she saw several ropes snap free. The struggling horses jolted the wagon. She opened her mouth to scream. It
never emerged. A final jolt and the pyramid collapsed. The first two casks rolled off the wagon and burst when they struck the ground. Amara had the sensation of flying backward. The back of her head connected with Brock’s chin as they hit the ground. The rumble was deafening. He rolled them toward the gate. His body pressed her into the iron railings while the remaining casks thundered by them into the street.
The stale water seeping into her half-boots and stockings revived her. The world around her resumed its harried pace. Grasping one of the iron bars, she pulled herself up. The rolling casks had struck one carriage, overturning it. The horses had bolted, dragging the battered equipage and the occupants into a landau. She could not tell the difference between the human and animal shrieks. One horse was down and struggling to get up. She assumed its legs were broken. Ten yards away, a body was sprawled facedown in the dirt. Nearby, two gentlemen scooped up a sobbing woman and carried her off the street. The front of her gown was stained with blood. Amara looked away and gagged.

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