CAD'S WISH

by Cheryl Holt

It was a huge lie. He merely wanted her to be happy, to not think he was appalling, to be glad she’d won him for her very own, but she didn’t want any of that.

  He rose and headed out, and Neville said, “Send a messenger after you’ve convinced her, and don’t elope. I should like to attend the ceremony. I expect your brother, Warwick, to stagger home shortly, and he’ll insist on attending too. You can’t finish it without us.”

  “I haven’t agreed that I’ll travel to Parkhurst.”

  Neville snickered with amusement. “Go out to the gaming room and apprise Sybil that you won’t mend this. Let’s hear her opinion as to what you owe Miss Graves.”

  Usually, Hunter assumed Neville was a lazy cur, but occasionally, he could be extremely devious. He’d decreed that Hunter should shackle himself quickly to secure the title, and this seemed to be the ultimate coercion. Would Hunter succumb to it?

  “Are you claiming I should marry Hannah because I seduced her? When have you ever thought a man should step up and behave appropriately? You’re not exactly a role model.”

  “I’m not saying that. It’s just that I know you too well. You’re like me in some ways, but you’re not like me in others. You, at least, try to conduct yourself with a modicum of dignity. I never try.” Neville sipped his whiskey, looking cunning and deceitful. “What if she’s with child? Have you considered that? She could be carrying the next Viscount Marston.”

  “Don’t remind me!”

  He stomped out, his father’s laughter echoing in his ears.

  ****

  Hannah marched up to the door of the Dower House and briskly knocked.

  She had to meet with Winston and Amelia, and numerous topics had to be addressed. Namely, Hannah had to wrest control of Rebecca from Amelia so they could never browbeat or coerce her again.

  While she waited for someone to answer, she checked out the shrubbery and flowerboxes. The residence hadn’t been used for many years, and as with so much at Parkhurst, Hannah should have been a better caretaker. She was embarrassed to have been such a pathetic landlord. Who would permit a perfectly good house to go to waste?

  It was small and cozy, warm in the winter and cool in the summer, with large windows and sturdy chimneys. A normal couple would have been delighted to live in it, but Winston and Amelia weren’t normal, and as a lodging, it was quite a step down from the manor.

  They would never forgive her for finally yanking the property out of their greedy hands. Nor would they ever stop undermining her. So far, there had been many difficult days of vicious arguments, but ultimately, Hannah had won the fight, and they’d moved.

  Next, she had to chase them away from the estate. Permanently. She hadn’t deduced how she’d do it, and she’d likely have to pay for their departure, but she was determined to accomplish it.

  She knocked again, then opened the door on her own.

  Three servants had been ordered to tend them. None of the staff had wanted the job, so she’d drawn straws to see who would be forced to accept the assignment. Even then, she’d had to promise to rotate people in and out before they’d agree. Winston and Amelia were that despised.

  Events had exhausted her. Strife and chores had exhausted her.

  After discussions with the housekeeper, she’d fired half the servants for various transgressions from sloth to petty theft. Then she’d sent a message into the village that any prior staff who’d like their positions back should apply, but Parkhurst had developed such a vile reputation that no one had shown up.

  It was bad enough that she’d been seduced by a cad, but she’d staggered home with a broken heart and was having to deal with issues she’d neglected for too long. She simply wished she could curl into a ball and ponder Hunter Stone. She needed some quiet hours to reflect on what had occurred.

  Had she really almost married him? What had come over her?

  She assumed she was a shrewd judge of character, but clearly, she’d been out of her depth with him. She was trying not to be too hard on herself though. He was so charming, and he was a notorious flirt, so she’d been an easy target.

  Her main problem was that she’d grown so fond, and there were too many emotions swirling inside her. They would gradually fade, but they hadn’t faded yet, so she was lovelorn and morose. Whenever a carriage passed by out on the lane, her pulse would race, as she wondered if it would be Hunter, if he was arriving to mend their rift.

  But why would she hope he’d mend it? What was wrong with her?

  She scrutinized the foyer, liking how it had been cleaned and readied, but she couldn’t hear a single sound. The place seemed deserted, and she called, “Hello, is anybody home?”

  She listened, but there was no response. She wandered through the parlors, assessing the conditions, and being satisfied with the work.

  At the end of the hall, there was a tiny den. She peeked in, expecting it to be empty, but Winston was sitting at the desk. It was littered with papers, and he was furiously scribbling. She had no desire to speak to him alone, and she would have snuck out, but he glanced up and saw her.

  “Well, well,” he sneered, “if it isn’t the High-and-Mighty Miss Hannah. Are you pleased with yourself? Would your imperious father, the sainted Sir Edmund, be pleased? Have you inflicted yourself on his poor widow quite enough?”

  He was an expert at histrionics, at making Hannah feel guilty, but she was older and wiser now. He didn’t have as much success as he’d had in the past, and the situation enraged him.

  “I have a question for you,” she said, ignoring his taunts.

  “Ask away, Hannah.” His tone was very snide. “As always, I am completely at your service.”

  Without preamble, she said, “Are you Rebecca’s father?”

  A flame of ire ignited in his eyes, but he tamped it down. “Yes, I’m her father. Isn’t that the rumor that’s circulated among these provincial idiots who are your neighbors?”

  She couldn’t decide if he was telling the truth or not. “Are you scoffing at the gossip or verifying it?”

  “Why must you embarrass both of us?”

  She noticed that he hadn’t specifically denied it. “Rebecca eavesdropped when you were talking about it to Amelia. Just once in your pitiful life, I’d like you to be honest with me.”

  “Maybe Rebecca should shut her mouth and mind her own business.”

  “She looks like you.”

  A muscle ticked in his cheek, his hatred oozing out as he admitted, “Yes, she’s mine, and I am ready to announce it so Parkhurst will belong to me.”

  “You’re such a liar. Should I believe you or not?”

  “I’m her father and why wouldn’t I be?” His expression was all innocence. “Amelia has been obsessed with me since she was a child, and she loathed Sir Edmund.”

  “She definitely deserves you,” Hannah mockingly said.

  “Yes, she does,” he replied, not noting her sarcasm, “and with how devoted I’ve been, I should have control over Rebecca. Not that fusspot lawyer who hoards her money. I will wrest it away from him. I swear I will.”

  Hannah was slowly sidling over to the desk, anxious to catch a glimpse of what he was writing. When she got close enough, she was shocked to realize he was penning her name—Miss Hannah Graves—over and over, as if he was practicing it.

  To her great consternation, he was copying her handwriting exactly.

  “What are you doing?” she asked. “You’re so devious that I’m almost afraid to inquire.”

  “How is your pathetic little shop? So sad about your fire.”

  “Why would you know about it?”

  “I started it, of course.”

  “You started it?” Again, she wasn’t certain what to believe. He was such a wily fiend, and he might be boasting of arson simply to incense her. “Why would you have bestirred yourself?”

  “For the insurance money. Why would you suppose?”

  “I had no insurance policy on the building.”

  “Oh, but I did.
I collected a fortune too, so thank you.”

  A shiver ran down her spine. She remembered an odd letter she’d received when she’d still been at Marston about an insurance man who’d been overheard saying her claim would be paid in full. Since she’d had no policy, she’d assumed it must have been a different owner.

  But Winston had taken out a policy? Winston had burned down her shop to collect on it?

  “Why are you writing my name over and over?” she asked.

  “I’ve learned to forge your signature.”

  “Have you gone stark raving mad?”

  “No, my mind is clearer than it’s ever been. I can put it on deeds, contracts, and other documents, without having to debate with you.”

  The hair stood up on the back of her neck. Over the years, she’d had many contentious meetings with him. The past few days had been particularly combative, and he had to have recognized that—if she kept stripping him of his position and authority—he’d have nothing left.

  He was like a trapped animal, and a trapped animal could be very dangerous. She hadn’t expected the house to be empty, but it was, so they were alone. She didn’t like to think she was in any genuine peril, but alarm bells were ringing in her head that she should flee. Immediately.

  He grinned a tad evilly and said, “We’ve been quarreling, so I shouldn’t pester you, but I need a favor.”

  “What is it?”

  “Would you give me your share of Parkhurst?”

  Hannah smirked. “No, and you’re deranged to suggest it.”

  “That’s the answer I anticipated, but you should consider a bit more carefully. You hate Parkhurst and I crave it.”

  “You’re scaring me, Winston, and I’m not sure you’re well, so I’m returning to the manor. We can discuss this later, when you’re feeling better.”

  “No, no, wait! I have a curiosity to show you. You’ll like it; I promise.”

  He went to a shelf on the wall, and when he came back toward her, he was holding some papers, as if he’d like her to read them. But before she grasped his intent, she saw that he was clutching some sort of metal rod too. He whacked her alongside the head with it, and the blow knocked her off balance, so she collapsed into the desk.

  As she tried to steady herself, he hit her again even harder, and she fell to the floor in a stunned heap. She commanded her body to jump up and rush out, but she was totally disoriented, and she couldn’t move a muscle.

  Winston leaned down and murmured, “Sorry, Hannah, but we can’t continue on like this.”

  Footsteps sounded, and Amelia strolled in. “Winston! What have you done?”

  “Help me tie her up,” he said. “Then we’ll throw her down in the wine cellar until after dark. We have to figure out how to get rid of her without being observed.”

  “Is she…she… dead?” Amelia nervously asked.

  “Not yet,” Winston responded.

  He swung his fist down again, and after that, Hannah didn’t remember anything at all.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Hunter trotted down the lane toward Parkhurst. His brother, Warwick, was with him for a change. Warwick had gone to a party in Scotland, and he’d enjoyed himself so much that he’d tarried for three months. He’d strolled in the door at Hunter’s London house, just as Hunter was preparing to depart for the country.

  When Hunter had explained his mission, Warwick had insisted on joining in. He was vastly amused by Neville’s demand that Hunter wed quickly, and he was dying to meet the woman who was about to become Mrs. Hunter Stone. Hunter couldn’t convince him to stay in town or that there would probably be no convincing Hannah of anything.

  He liked having Warwick as company. They shared the same opinions and attitudes, and they viewed every situation exactly the same. Their minds moved in tandem, and they often finished each other’s sentences.

  They were a year apart in age, so Warwick was twenty-nine to Hunter’s thirty. They looked enough alike to be twins—brawny stature, blond hair, blue eyes—and people usually assumed they were.

  They were alike in other ways too: temperament, upbringing, and army service. They’d grown up at Neville’s country estate, with their brother, Sheridan, a trio of rowdy, unsupervised terrors who’d carried on like street orphans, even though they’d had a parent. Neville had been such a negligent father that it had seemed as if they were raised without one.

  “What if I don’t like her?” Warwick asked, referring to Hannah.

  “You’ll like her,” Hunter said.

  “That’s not an answer, so would you please focus? If I don’t like her, should I jump in and dissuade you?”

  “You can’t dissuade me. I ruined her, remember?”

  “Yes, and you’re being so gallant about it. I’m completely flummoxed by witnessing such honorable conduct. It’s making me dizzy.”

  Hunter shrugged off Warwick’s remark. “I will admit, just to you, that I might be totally besotted too, but that’s the one and only time I’ll confess it.”

  “Now we’ve arrived at the heart of the matter. If you’re besotted, well…”

  “I feel as if I should try to persuade her, but I can’t fathom how I will. I’ve never been particularly eloquent.”

  “I could vouch for your character.”

  Hunter sputtered with amusement. “She’s heard the rumors—and believes them—so she’d never accept a testimonial from you.”

  “I could tell some really good lies. I’m ready to pitch in however I can.”

  “It wouldn’t help.” Hunter peered over at him and said, “Neville is about to start nagging at you too. He’s eager to have all three of us married.”

  Warwick scoffed with derision. “That’s hilarious news, and somehow, I can’t picture Neville mustering the energy to badger anyone.”

  “It worked on me. I guess I’m too British because I was riveted by words like secure the title and protect our line.”

  “You can protect whatever you like. There’s no need for me to copy your insanity.”

  “The men in our family don’t have much luck living past thirty. What if I suddenly cock up my toes? You’d have to take my place.”

  Warwick gave a mock shudder. “If that’s the case, I will do my utmost to guard your back so you’re always hale and healthy.”

  They rode out of the trees, and the manor rose up before them. It was a fine residence. Not anywhere near as grand as Marston Manor, and there were definite signs of neglect: ivy that hadn’t been trimmed, flowerbeds that hadn’t been raked, grass that hadn’t been swathed.

  “It’s not a bad property,” Warwick said, after some silent scrutiny. “It could use a bit of maintenance though.”

  “Marston is nicer.”

  “This will be yours after you’re wed?”

  “Half-mine. Her younger sister owns the other half.”

  “Oh, that’s right. What father would arrange such a peculiar bequest? What lawyer would structure it like that? Will you sell your share?”

  “Hannah is attached to it, so I have no idea what she’ll want.”

  He was chatting as if he and Hannah were still engaged, as if they hadn’t quarreled, as if she hadn’t left him in a tempestuous fury.

  “Are you sure she’s here?” Warwick asked.

  “No, I’m not sure.”

  “If she didn’t travel to Parkhurst, what’s your plan to locate her?”

  “I’d like to hope her relatives will know where she is, but I won’t count on it. Wait until you meet them. I’ve never crossed paths with a sorrier bunch.”

  They continued on up the driveway and, without much of a delay, a stable boy loped up and took their horses. Just as Hunter surrendered his animal, the front doors burst open, and Jackson rushed out. He was gripping a metal fireplace poker as if he was about to swing it and hit somebody.

  “Lord Marston!” he called. “Am I glad to see you!”

  “It’s nice to see you too. With you being at Parkhurst, I assume Hannah
is with you.” Hunter gestured to his brother. “This is my brother, Warwick. Warwick, this is Hannah’s brother, Jackson Graves, and he’s a sly little fiend. Watch out for him and keep track of your purse. He’s precisely the sort of petty criminal who might pick your pocket.”

  Hunter had voiced the comment in jest, thinking it would make Jackson smile, but it didn’t, and he barely glanced at Warwick.

  “Come inside,” he said, “and I’ll explain what’s occurred.”

  “Uh-oh,” Warwick muttered. “That doesn’t sound good.”

  They went into the foyer, and Jackson had a housemaid and two footmen sitting on the bottom step of the staircase. They were obviously terrified, as if he’d threatened them with the poker and they were certain he’d proceed with a thrashing. Rebecca was looming over them, as if she might join in any melee Jackson commenced.

  Jackson provided an abbreviated update of Hannah’s difficult arrival at Parkhurst, how they’d found Rebecca locked in her room, how Hannah had kicked Winston and Amelia Webster out of the manor and had forced them to move to the old Dower House.

  Then Jackson said, “She seems to have vanished.”

  Hunter scowled. “What do you mean?”

  “I spoke to her at breakfast, but she disappeared after we ate. It was afternoon before I noticed she was missing.”

  “What could have happened to her?”

  “I can’t guess, but I’ve been questioning the servants, and this lot”—he nodded derisively—“is the last of them. The entire staff is naught but a group of sluggards, so I’m not sure if any of them are being truthful.” He waved the poker, and the trio blanched with alarm. “I’m happy to pound it out of them if I have to.”

  Hunter spun to the servants, positive he could be much more intimidating than a fourteen-year-old boy, even if he was brandishing a weapon.

  “Who would like to start?” Hunter asked.

  One of the footmen said, “I saw her this morning shortly after eleven. She was walking toward the Dower House.”

  Jackson bristled. “Why didn’t you tell us? We’ve been frantic for hours!”

  “I was on my way to the village to run errands for the butler, then I popped in to visit my mother, so I was delayed in returning. I didn’t realize there was a problem until just now.”