She paused, directing her gaze upward. Whether she fought off tears or asked for divine strength, Lucien wasn’t sure.
Finally, she continued. “My husband had no . . . legitimate issue. His nephew, Alastair, the former Earl of Marsden, is his legal heir.”
Lucien vaguely remembered from gossip that Marsden was a slovenly philanderer, a gambler, and a drunk. He had heard whispers that the earl’s creditors were becoming impatient, even physical, in their demands.
“If you know of him at all, you know he is a disgrace to Cyrus’s family,” Serena added.
“I’ve heard something to that effect.”
Serena paused. “I believe Alastair hired these highwaymen to kill my husband for his inheritance.”
Lucien stood unmoving in stunned silence. Did she understand the serious nature of her accusation? Her nervous expression, accompanied by her hand-wringing, told him she did, and believed it, too, with a fear she did not want to admit aloud.
With a deep breath, she forged on. “I also have reason to believe that once Cyrus’s will is read, Alastair will want me dead as well.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Hoping for a few private moments to calm her nerves before the reading of Cyrus’s will, Serena arrived at the solicitor’s office in the City twenty minutes early. But when Mr. Higgins’s clerk escorted Serena into the dim, candlelit office, she found the small, cluttered room already littered by Alastair’s foul presence.
Behind her, the clerk carried in a small wooden chair. “Where would you like this, Your Grace?”
Serena pointed to the corner of the tiny room, the one furthest from Alastair, a scant two feet away.
Afterward, the clerk departed, closing her in with Alastair. She directed her gaze perfectly forward, neither looking at the shelves lined with deed boxes to her left, nor the cur slouching in a spread-legged position on another chair to her right.
At her cut, Alastair laughed, an obnoxious, smug chuckle that ripped through her raw grief and boiling anger. Serena sat stiffly in her appointed seat, refusing to give him the satisfaction of acknowledging his insidious presence. She consoled herself with the thought that somehow, someway, she would see him in Newgate.
“What’s the matter, Your Grace?” Alastair taunted. “Are you offended that people will soon address me as ‘Your Grace’?”
Reluctantly, she turned her frosty gaze in his direction. Keeping a tight rein on her urge to jump from her chair and label him a killer, she lifted her chin. “Nothing that concerns you interests me in the least.”
She returned her stare forward and focused on Mr. Higgins’s bulky desk, nearly swallowed whole by stack after stack of documents. More than anything, she wanted to scratch the victorious, self-satisfied grin off of the face Alastair had for once shaven.
“Everything that concerns me will interest you from now on. You’ll be beholden to me for your upkeep.” He paused. “Would you like to see Warrington Castle again?”
Serena clenched both fists and teeth, refusing to answer. She loved the serenity of Sussex, loved the earthy people, the quaint castle village, the majesty of the keep itself. The sadistic bastard knew it.
“I know you want to go back to that pile of stones, but I won’t let you. I’ll deny you admittance, you holier-than-thou bitch!”
He inched to the edge of his chair, leaning forward across the much too small space separating them, into her line of vision. When she resisted meeting his stare, he grabbed her arm. Though Serena tried to twist away, Alastair’s vise-like grip ensured his hold. “Do you hear me? Warrington’s doors will never be open to you again.”
He jerked her closer. “I know your kind. You’re nothing but a fortune-hunting slut. You prostituted yourself into marriage for his money, didn’t you? Did you do your ‘wifely duty’ at his insistence? I’ll wager you did, and that you hated every minute of bedding down with a man old enough to be your grandfather so he could get a brat on you.” Alastair laughed evilly again. “But it never worked. It’s all mine now.”
He paused, the pale blue of his eyes resembling ice chips. A malicious smile turned up the corners of his thin mouth. “Unless you choose to share my bed. I could be persuaded to give over a couple of pounds for a good tumble from the Queen of Sanctimony herself.” He laughed. “I would love to know just how much of your mother’s hot blood you have. What do you say?”
Rage erupted inside Serena. She turned to Alastair and slapped his face with all her might, and couldn’t bring herself to be horrified by her own violence. Instead, she clenched her palm, which tingled with both impact and satisfaction, into a fist. “Does that answer your question?”
Alastair recoiled, slinking back into his chair before turning his hate-filled glare upon her. “You’ll regret that. You will share my bed, and be happy to do it, too, if you want to see Warrington Castle again.”
Serena barely restrained the urge to spit in his face. “Judgment day will come before I let you touch me!”
Before Alastair could reply, Higgins’s clerk opened the door. The bespectacled man cleared his throat and carried yet another chair into the room. Alastair retreated to his seat.
Lucien entered the office. Immediately, his unnerving green gaze found her. He studied her, his eyes narrowing in question, then suspicion. A moment later, he swerved his gaze to Alastair. Serena swallowed, certain Lucien would see the red imprint of her hand on the miscreant’s cheek.
He faced Alastair, quiet menace dominating his stance, filling the air around him. Alastair returned his glare, his narrow face holding insulting dismissal.
Lucien continued to stare. Alastair met him, measure for measure. Tense moments dragged on. Serena fidgeted during their strained silence. She felt as if they were holding a contest of wills to see which could force the other to flinch first.
Serena held her breath, wondering what Lucien would do, praying he would not make a scene. She hardly felt relief when Alastair swore and looked away from the silent battle in apparent indifference. The fury behind his facade hardly fooled her. She made a mental note to inform Lucien about Alastair’s vindictive nature.
Without a word, Lucien yanked his chair from the clerk’s hands and slammed its wooden legs against the hard floor directly between her and Alastair. The resulting thump resounded ominously in the small office.
Biting her lip, she turned her gaze to Lucien’s familiar face and read the animosity in the hard edge of his jaw, in the tense set of his broad shoulders beneath a Devonshire brown coat.
“Who is he and why the hell is he here?” Alastair demanded.
Mr. Higgins entered the room behind them. “Lord Daneridge is here at your uncle’s request.”
Alastair shot Lucien a suspicious, venomous stare, but made no other comment.
“Shall we begin?” Higgins asked, directing his question to no one in particular, making his way to the front of the room.
“Damn it, of course,” Alastair said impatiently.
Serena folded her hands in her lap, trying to ignore Lucien’s unwavering stare at her right, his eyes filled with silent question.
For days, she’d tried not to think about the financial aspects of Cyrus’s death as they related to her. She had no doubt he would have thought to provide for her, but agonized that Warrington Castle, the largest of the entailed estates, was beyond her reach forever. And Alastair thought of it as a pile of stones. Dear God, with that attitude, she knew he would neglect it, never put money into its upkeep. He would clearly run it into the ground, and the thought filled her with impotent rage. Legally, she could do nothing.
She also wondered exactly what Cyrus had left her to warrant sending Lucien such a dire warning regarding her safety.
Mr. Higgins sat behind the cluttered desk and cleared his throat, his small mouth pinched tightly in disapproval. “Before I start, I must tell you I’ve summoned you to my office for this reading because His Grace requested it, despite the fact I told him it was highly irregular. And I apolog
ize, Your Grace,” he said to Serena, “but surely you know how unusual it is to have a woman present at such a time, wife or not.” Serena made no answer, and Higgins continued as if he’d never expected one. “However, I will honor his request and summarize the will’s contents, as it is a very lengthy document. Of course, it will be made available to you upon request.
“First, His Grace bequeaths five hundred pounds to every servant for every five years of their employment.”
Alastair grunted. “Get on with the important details, man.”
Brows raised, Mr. Higgins continued. “And to Waterson, my valet of thirty years, I leave an additional two thousand pounds, plus the aforementioned amount, as well as the cottage in Wales.”
Alastair squirmed in his chair, a whispered curse littering the air.
Mr. Higgins cleared his throat. “To Catherine, Madeline, and Anne, my three natural daughters, I leave each twenty-five thousand pounds in trust with their mother, Maria, until their majority at twenty-one, plus an additional ten thousand pounds each for their dowry, should they choose to wed. If not, they will each receive that sum upon the occasion of their twenty-fifth birthday.”
Alastair shot up out of his chair, his face a mottled red. “Over a hundred thousand pounds to his by-blows? That’s bloody ridiculous!”
“My lord,” Mr. Higgins directed to Alastair. “Please be seated so I may continue, and try to refrain from further such outbursts.”
Alastair sat reluctantly, his hands curled up into fists.
“To my wife’s grandmother, Lady Harcourt, I leave my two spaniels and the sum of five thousand pounds to see to their upkeep.”
Suddenly, Mr. Higgins paused. Serena looked up from her lap and scanned the room. Alastair sat perched on the edge of his chair, his round face flushed and tense. Mr. Higgins appeared thoughtful, as if trying to choose his next words. Lucien leaned back in his chair, his casual posture doing little to hide his interest.
After several silent moments, the solicitor ventured, “This next portion of his will, His Grace rewrote just a week before his death. It’s most odd, I must say.”
“What is it?” Alastair demanded to know, his face a bright, unbecoming red, his eyes narrow.
Glaring at Alastair, Mr. Higgins said, “To you, he left the entailed estates of Warrington Castle, Coleshill in Berkshire, and Eltham Lodge in Kent, as well as the entailed family jewels.”
“What else?” Alastair demanded. “How much money?”
Higgins ignored Alastair and turned to Serena. “Your Grace, again, I find this most odd, but your husband left all other family funds, all liquid assets, all five unentailed properties, including the London town house, and everything within each residence, exclusively to you. The value of your portion of the estate is an estimated four hundred thousand pounds.”
Serena gasped and closed her eyes. Cold dread pervaded every muscle, every pore. This was the reason Cyrus had written Lucien asking him to protect her; Cyrus had known exactly how enraged—and deadly—Alastair would be upon hearing this.
As if to prove her and Cyrus correct, Alastair exploded from his chair. “All the money? He left his whole bloody fortune to that whore?” He whirled on Serena. “No doubt you learned from your slut of a mother how to mesmerize a man, how to squeeze his cock with your tight little—”
“That’s enough.” Lucien’s voice sliced through the thick animosity vibrating in the stifling air. Alastair fell silent, his wild eyes blazing hate at Serena.
Alastair turned his malicious gaze to Lucien.
Higgins glared at Alastair. “Please sit. There is more.”
The brute turned his attention to the solicitor. He stormed across the minuscule room to lean nose-to-nose with Mr. Higgins. “I’ll contest the will. The old fool was insane.” His gaze shifted to Serena, stabbed her with a hate-filled glare, then returned to the solicitor. “Or bewitched.”
“Sit down,” Higgins commanded. Once Alastair had reluctantly done so, the solicitor explained, “If you contest, as His Grace assumed you might, you forfeit all rights to the entailed lands. Those would instead to go charity.”
“I bloody well won’t forfeit anything!”
“To contest, you must,” Higgins explained. “The choice is yours, my lord.”
“That’s no bloody choice at all,” Alastair muttered, wearing a dangerous sulk.
Higgins cleared his throat, casting a disdainful glare upon Alastair before turning his attention to Serena. “Now, I must apologize in advance for this indelicacy, Your Grace, but I am required to ask if there is any possibility that you are . . . oh, how shall we say”—he formed a tight smile of embarrassment—“perhaps with child?”
For a moment, Serena didn’t know how to respond. The possibility she was indeed pregnant existed, but she knew, as Lucien would, exactly who had fathered any babe she might be carrying. She was suddenly aware of three sets of eyes riveted on her. The weight of Lucien’s stare pulled her gaze to his. Briefly, she met the hard probe of his green eyes, demanding her answer. She couldn’t respond, not honestly, not here—and not before Alastair.
Knowing a prolonged stare would arouse Alastair’s suspicions, her gaze skittered back to Mr. Higgins. Instantly, Lucien’s casual posture vanished, replaced by an on-the-edge-of-his-chair pose that told her he would exact answers, whether she wanted to give them or not, as soon as he could orchestrate a moment alone with her. And she had no idea what she would say, when, or even if, she would trust him with the truth.
But the announcement of an impending heir would buy her and the Bow Street Runner time to prove Alastair’s involvement in his uncle’s death. It would also save Warrington and the other entailed estates from Alastair’s cruel ruin and the dukedom from scandal and disgrace. It wouldn’t be a lie . . . exactly; she wasn’t certain of the truth herself yet. She would worry later about the consequences if she proved barren. She sighed. Cyrus would have wanted her to do this.
Judiciously avoiding any eye contact with Lucien, she prayed his shock wouldn’t give away her ploy or reveal her sin.
Taking a calming breath, Serena announced, “I am with child.”
****
With child? Yes, his child. Lucien curled his fingers around the arms of the wooden chair, using every ounce of his strength to restrain the turmoil within him.
Alastair’s voice ripped the momentary quiet. “That’s a lie!”
Was it? Mr. Higgins didn’t seem to put any stock into Alastair’s doubt.
“Splendid news,” he vaguely heard Higgins say to Serena. “Might I ask when the babe is due?”
Serena paused, then whispered, “The middle of March.”
Quickly, Lucien subtracted nine months, and swallowed a lump of incredulity. The child’s conception would have been roughly eight weeks ago, in June—exactly when he had taken the duchess to his bed.
He fixed his intent gaze on Serena’s delicate profile, willing her to look his way, to either confirm or deny his suspicions. She did nothing.
“And you’re certain, Your Grace?” Higgins asked.
Lucien watched Serena’s shoulders and chin lift regally. “I am quite certain, sir.”
Mr. Higgins mouth lifted in a small smile. “His Grace would have been pleased by such news.”
Serena swallowed. “Indeed. I was not sure myself until last week. I regret I could not tell him before his death.”
“In light of your news, Your Grace,” Higgins began, “all entailed estates and jewels will be kept under my executorship until the birth of the child and the determination of its gender.”
“I will not have this!” Alastair yelled. “This . . . this fortune-hunting slut and her brat cannot steal what is mine!”
“I’m afraid that until we learn the child’s gender, you have no other recourse. It is the law, my lord,” Higgins responded, barely hiding smug satisfaction.
“Lord Daneridge,” Higgins directed his speculative gaze to Lucien. “This is where you are mentioned in the
duke’s will.”
Lucien’s entire body tensed, excruciatingly suspended from an invisible string that the solicitor’s next words could snap in two. Good God! He’d just learned Serena carried his child. What now?
“Indeed?” He forced a casual note into his voice.
“Yes, this is the oddest portion of the will. His Grace indicated that, should his wife be breeding and the child is male, he wished you to act as the new heir’s trustee until the child’s eighteenth birthday.”
For long moments, no one spoke. Lucien himself was too stunned. What kind of muddled thinking had led Warrington to this provision? An instant later, Lucien realized that brilliant thinking was his answer. Warrington hadn’t trusted his nephew to protect the child’s interest in the family fortune, but he could trust the child’s biological father. And Lucien knew he could never legally prove he had sired the child. Because Serena had been the duke’s wife at the time of conception, the law assumed the babe was Warrington’s spawn and heir.
Damn! Warrington had him well trapped, and from the wide-eyed expression bursting across Serena’s shocked face, Lucien could see she realized it, too. He would be shut out of his own child’s life except in the most impersonal ways, unless . . .
No. It was an unacceptable solution. Hell, it bordered on unthinkable. So why was he thinking it?
Alastair rose. The man’s silent fury and threatening gaze first fell upon Lucien, then Serena. “This isn’t over yet, you whore. I won’t let you take what is mine!” he vowed before storming out of Higgins’s office with a slam of the door.
Mr. Higgins cleared his throat, and Lucien was vaguely aware of the little man speaking to Serena. She responded softly, and the sound of her sensual, husky voice permeated the shell of Lucien’s shock.
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