Seductive Scoundrels Series Books 4-6: A Regency Romance

by Collette Cameron

  Surely Maxwell had no knowledge of this…ghastliness. Fighting the nausea swirling in her belly, Gabriella pressed her fingers between her eyes. “But the duke found his grandfather’s journal. It speaks of two other men involved in the card game and how upset the duchess was when her familial home was lost.”

  Grandpapa sat back and folded his hands over his stomach. He nodded gravely but without a hint of remorse. “’Tis true Hartfordshire was the duchess’s ancestral home. I have no compunction about admitting I wanted to inflict as much misery on Pennington as he’d caused your grandmother and me. I do regret the duchess’s sorrow. She was a kind woman deserving of some happiness.”

  “Indeed, she was,” Grandmama’s soft voice intruded, her eyes slightly unfocused as she gazed blindly out the window to the charming, sundrenched flower garden. These memories obviously distressed her greatly. “You see, my darling girls, Harold and I were betrothed. And after Pennington…” She dragged in a juddery breath. “Well, after he defiled me,” she dabbed at her eyes again, “I found myself with child.”

  “Dear God,” Ophelia cried, hurrying to crouch before her grandmother’s knees. “How awful it must’ve been for you all these years as that family is our nearest neighbors.”

  “Yes, indeed,” Grandmama acknowledged. “Which is why we’ve stayed so close to home. After a few years of doing so, it became more comfortable than going out.” She closed her eyes and rested her head against the back of her chair. “I knew it was wrong to allow your grandfather to seek vengeance on my behalf. But how I hated Pennington. I craved revenge.”

  Her eyelashes trembled before her eyelids swept open, and what Gabriella saw there scoured her soul. The deadness in her cherished grandmother’s eyes nearly drew a sob from her.

  “I was glad to do it, Irene. To teach him and those other toffs a lesson,” Grandpapa said. “He deserved everything that happened to him. And more for all of the lives he callously ruined, just because he could.”

  Perhaps so, but did the rest of the sixth duke’s family have to suffer the consequences too? Couldn’t Grandpapa see that now she and her sister and even Grandmama were going to reap the cost, much as the duchess, Maxwell’s father, and even Maxwell himself had?

  Or did vengeance blind one to all else, make a person disregard everything, so keen was the drive to retaliate? That Maxwell and Grandpapa were capable of such behavior grieved her spirit. In the wake of the visceral emotions, the air had become thick and cloying, the simple, involuntary act of drawing air into her constricted lungs, a monumental task.

  “He laughed,” Grandmama murmured, her voice cracking with strain. “After he had his way, and I lay there weeping, he laughed as he tied his robe. I’d told him I was betrothed. Begged him not to…”

  Her throat worked convulsively, and Grandpapa swore foully again.

  “Irene, you don’t have to do this,” he said with tender solicitude.

  “Yes, Harold, I do. The girls need to know the whole of it, most especially before Pennington arrives with his demands. I’d hoped he’d be a better man than his father and grandfather.” She shook her head again. “But it seems the fruit doesn’t fall far from the tree, does it?”

  Precisely what Gabriella had said.

  Grandmama gave her a sympathetic glance, and though Gabriella was quite certain she didn’t want to know the whole of it, she must.

  Her expression grave, but admirably valiant, her grandmother went on. “When I threatened to report the duke to the authorities, he laughed again, vowing no one would believe me. That if I dared to be so foolish as to attempt to blacken his name, he’d destroy Harold too. Neither of us would ever work in England again.” She jutted her chin up in defiance, a gesture so like Gabriella, she couldn’t help but see a degree of her own obstinance in her grandmother’s posture.

  And she admired the stubborn resilience and show of strength.

  “So yes, Gabriella and Ophelia, we plotted and schemed so that when the opportunity arose, we could put the screws to that despicable sod.” That last bit deflated her grandmother, for she too slumped into her chair. “But after all these years, the wretch has finally come back to haunt us, as he swore he would.”

  Another horrific thought intruded upon Gabriella’s already muddled mind. “Oh, my God. If the old duke impregnated you, that means Pennington is my, my…what? Second, third cousin once removed?”

  She’d never been able to keep distant relations straight, but while others might think it perfectly acceptable, the very idea of marrying a cousin appalled her. That alone ought to be sufficient to dissuade Maxwell.

  “No, you’re not.” Grandpapa’s harsh voice broke through the anxious silence. “Irene miscarried that child. It nearly killed her, and it took over five years for her to conceive your father.”

  Grandmama reached for her husband’s boney, age-spotted hand, and he promptly clasped her fingers. “After Henry was born,” she said, “We came to realize we couldn’t permit our hatred to taint our son. After all, we had Hartfordshire Court, and we determined then to put the ugliness behind us. Not to forgive, because I’m not certain either of us was capable of it, but to forge a new, happier future for ourselves.”

  This changed everything. Maxwell must be made aware. He must capitulate when these sordid facts were made known to him, surely. Except… “But what about the taxes, Grandpapa? The duke said you haven’t paid the taxes these many years. The duchy has continued to pay them.”

  “As it well should. That was part of the terms of the agreement. I possessed the estate, and the duchy would continue to pay the taxes. I knew bloody well I could never afford to maintain Hartfordshire and pay the taxes too.” He thumped his chair arm again. Poor tormented piece of furniture. “I have the documentation to prove what I say is true. I even made old Pennington put up the blunt for the starter herd of cattle.”

  Grandpapa had truly manipulated the duke. Gabriella wasn’t sure whether she was appalled or grudgingly proud.

  A rather wicked chuckle rattled his frail chest. “By God, how he swore at me. Called every curse known to God down upon me, and a few I’d never heard before. And yet, so desperate was he for an heir at his age, he acquiesced to my every demand.”

  Instinctively, Gabriella knew Maxwell would never be manipulated like that, but he also wouldn’t defile women. He’d force you to marry him and your grandfather to relinquish Hartfordshire Court. Ironic how her grandfather and Maxwell both used the excuse they were righting a wrong. “But the ownership of Hartfordshire was never transferred or recorded at the register’s office. How can that be?” she asked.

  “I’ll wager the nasty old duke bribed someone. A clerk or some official to forget to make the change,” Ophelia put in.

  Grandpapa nodded slowly. “Sounds like something that hell’s spawn would do. I’d have had no reason to check the recording after my initial visit, and I was assured everything was in order. It’s most unfortunate the current duke happened upon the journal and this sordidness came to light.”

  “The tax issue would’ve eventually alerted the duke.” Honestly, it was surprising Maxwell hadn’t discovered that piece of the puzzle before this. Gabriella shook her head. “What a positively monstrous mess. A monstrous, monstrous tangle. I fear we may have to hire a solicitor.” She searched her grandfather’s lined faced. “I don’t suppose there are funds for that?”

  He shifted uncomfortably, his focus sinking to his lap. “I cannot even replace the coach and team at this juncture,” he mumbled, his papery cheeks flushed with humiliation.

  “I thought not,” she acknowledged with a resigned nod. “That makes me think. I forgot to tell you the duke arranged for the repair of the coach, and he also sent word to the auction houses to be on the alert for the team.”

  Her grandfather’s regard sliced to Grandmother. “That was decent of him, but also beyond the mark.” He opened his mouth as if to declare something else, but the quelling glance his wife leveled him, silenced whatever
he was about to say.

  How could they possibly hope to fight a wealthy duke in court?

  “I cannot see that it would do any good, even if we could afford a solicitor,” Ophelia ventured. “Grandpapa is correct. In circumstances like this, aristocrats always win. Justice is only for the rich and powerful.”

  What about the court of public opinion? The elitist circles Maxwell traveled in? What would the haut ton make of these juicy tidbits? Could Gabriella spin the facts and make the Dukes of Penningtons the villains and the Breckensoles the victims?

  Probably, but the disgrace would ruin her family. What was more, le beau monde, didn’t give a fig about commoners being rode roughshod over by some pompous duke. Peers were exonerated of crimes all the time with no more than a bored blink from their aristocratic compatriots.

  “But if the duke thinks we’ll make a public scandal of it, a reeking royal stink, that may well do the trick,” Ophelia offered hopefully.

  Gabriella could well imagine how her twin would affect that. Hadn’t she suggested poisoning the duke in jest?

  Maxwell had been most adamant he wanted to avoid any on dit. But such a scandal would reveal Grandmama’s humiliation and likely settle Ophelia and Gabriella firmly on the shelf.

  Besides, this was becoming a vicious cycle of extortion and retribution, and it didn’t sit well with her. When would it end? She’d like to believe she and her family were above such ugliness. Maxwell too. In truth she objected more to the means by which she would be compelled to marry him than any personal objection to him.

  “There is a way…” Grandmama hesitated, her mouth pressed into a tight line. “I possess something that may well do the trick.”

  A sick feeling cramped Gabriella’s stomach, and she closed her eyes for a blink.

  “What’s this?” Grandpapa asked, wrinkling his forehead and probing her with his gaze. “You’ve kept a secret from me, Irene?”

  “I have. Because the duchess was a sweet, gentle woman, forced into a marriage with a man old enough to be her grandfather. I always pitied her.” She dropped her focus to her hands where she tormented the poor handkerchief. “The sixth duke,” she continued softly, “beat and violated the poor woman. I cannot tell you how many times I cared for a split lip and helped her to dress to cover the bruises he inflicted upon her. The brute carried on with whores in the chamber adjoining hers. Even made her watch sometimes.”

  Gabriella put her palms to her churning stomach and swallowed, so sickened, she truly feared she’d cast up her accounts. Maxwell’s grandfather had truly been evil, but to blackmail him in turn? It wasn’t right.

  “That’s why she loved Hartfordshire Court so much.” As Grandmama relived the events that had transpired so many years ago, her gaze went vacant again. “It was where she escaped from him and his string of strumpets. When she learned he attacked me, she’d had enough. She planned to leave him.”

  Grandpapa and Ophelia regarded her with expectation, and Gabriella wished herself anywhere else. As furious as she was with Maxwell, she didn’t want to be a part of any scheme that inflicted harm upon him.

  “You see, the duchess despised her husband, and she had a lover. I helped her arrange meetings with him.” A defiant glint entered Grandmama’s eyes. “I don’t regret it. That poor woman deserved some small measure of happiness. I swore I’d never breathe a word, but her lover was the seventh duke’s father.”

  Max turned on his heel, a cheroot gripped between his thumb and forefinger, and circled the flagstone terrace at the rear of Chartworth Hall once more. In the hours since he’d watched Gabriella—proud and magnificent as any Amazonian warrior—run away from him, taking his heart and his self-respect with her, he’d been deep in soul-searching contemplation.

  Not a particularly religious man, he’d nonetheless sent several prayers skyward asking for guidance. For the ability to forgive. To know what course to take.

  What had seemed just and fair a few months ago, even a few days ago, had faded into ambiguity with the knowledge he’d wounded her. Unforgivably.

  You’ve taken up someone else’s offense as your own.

  I shall grow to hate you.

  I could have loved you, Maxwell.

  He took a long draw of the cheroot, then with a grimace tossed it to the pavers, crushing it rather viciously beneath his boot heel. He’d all but given up smoking straight out of university. He rarely indulged anymore, but this hellish day had sent him in search of a smoke, only to have him realize after two brief puffs he really couldn’t abide the smell and taste. Another example of the many idiotic things men did just because someone, somewhere, at some time, thought it a splendid idea.

  A bloody, disgusting idea.

  Scraping a hand through his hair, not caring the least the disheveled strands would likely send his valet, Filby, into an apoplexy, Max brought his gaze up to survey the manicured lawns. Topiary hedges enclosed immaculately groomed gardens. Blossoms had begun to form on the early blooming flowers and trees, and soon their fragrance would perfume the air.

  He rarely stayed at Chartworth, the memories of a lonely childhood, austere and frightened servants, a mean-spirited and perpetually soused grandfather, and a neglectful father were enough to keep him away. He’d often considered letting the estate, so he’d not be obligated to oversee it any longer.

  Thank God he’d been sent to boarding school before his eighth birthday. It—and the life-long friends he’d made there, had been his saving grace. Visits home had been infrequent, dreaded, and in later years avoided. But Max had often enjoyed school breaks with other young scamps, mainly because his sire, quite frankly, didn’t give a damn where he spent the holidays or summers.

  He rested a hip on the elaborate balustrade while squinting into the cloudless azure sky. An unusually brilliant day for early spring in the English countryside. Beyond the hedgerow, a classic white marble garden arbor’s domed roof peeked above the lavender, purple and cream lilacs and the crimson, fuchsia, and white camellias planted by his mother.

  Another severely unhappy duchess.

  Had any Duchess of Pennington ever been happy and content? Truly, wholly happy? Had a duke ever been? Not even he, renowned for his droll humor and teasing witticisms?

  Gabriella deserved happiness.

  Who was he to rob her of any chance of it?

  A selfish, bastard. That was who. He’d known that all along, so why did he suddenly care?

  A pair of accusing hazel eyes framed by lush lashes, momentarily blinded him.

  It all came down to Gabriella Breckensole. She’d handily taken his well-thought out plans, and pitched them arse over noggin. What’s more, he didn’t mind nearly as much as he ought.

  A slight smile quirked his mouth, and a peculiar urge to run and conceal himself in the arbor as he had as a youth gripped him. Within the stately columns, elaborate marble benches had provided the perfect backdrop for an errant boy to read his favorite books, pretend he slayed dragons and other mythical creatures, or simply hide from his latest starchy tutor or sot of a father when he’d been in his cups.

  Which was most of the time.

  Max’s focus gravitated over the greens. He owned this. These thousands of acres. As had his father before him and his grandfather before him, and the previous generations of Pennington dukes too. Money and position and power accompanied the title, as did expectations and obligations. Max claimed all of this as his, and yet, he begrudged a simple man a few acres and the house it stood upon.

  No, it is the means by which Breckensole acquired the estate I object to.

  Over the decades, had his forebearers committed equally unjust crimes? One ancestor—his two times great-grandfather?—married five, increasingly younger heiresses with the sole purpose of expanding his holdings. It was rumored that not all of his duchesses had met with natural deaths.

  Max roved his gaze over his lands again. Everything within his sight bespoke wealth and quality. Yet, never had Chartworth Hall felt less li
ke a home. Never had the opulent halls and rooms rung more emptily. Never, ever, had he felt this lonely and hollow aching for what he’d unlikely ever have. Love. The love of a woman like Gabriella.

  Who did he think he fooled? Certainly not himself. Not a woman like her. Her. Gabriella Fern Miriam Breckensole. He yearned for her love. Freely and willingly and wholeheartedly given.

  His attention shifted to the east, toward Hartfordshire Court. He’d dine there in less than two hours. Afterward, he’d present Breckensole with the evidence that ensured the older man’s ruination and thereby, guaranteed his cooperation. Only then would he explain his terms. Conditions which, he hadn’t a doubt for a moment, she’d already informed her grandfather of.

  The old curmudgeon would agree; after a bit of posturing and grumbling for his pride’s sake.

  Victory was within Max’s grasp. He’d all but won. So why didn’t exultation thrum through his veins? Instead, his mouth tasted acrid and bitter, and a peculiar sense of having failed in some vital way beat relentlessly against his self-respect.

  Men at some time are masters of their fates.

  Another damnable quote from Shakespeare. Of all the incongruous thoughts to invade his musings. For God’s sake. He didn’t even particularly like Shakespeare and for certain hadn’t made an effort to memorize the bard’s poems. He’d found the plays and sonnets tedious at best and when compelled to watch a theatrical performance of one or the other, often could barely keep his eyes open or suppress his bored yawns.

  Men at some time are masters of their fates.

  Was he? Could he be? Must he follow the less than praiseworthy footsteps of his ancestors? Did what had come before truly have to mold him into a callous, cold-hearted blackguard no better than the previous dukes of Pennington?

  Or…could he be the one who initiated change?

  If he forgave Breckensole his offense and debt, the duchy wouldn’t suffer one way or the other from his decision. The dukedom, unlike many others, had plodded along quite nicely these past decades, despite the despicable dukes born into its prestigious lineage.