“You are quick to defend her. Does she know you have taken up the sword on her behalf, my gallant knight?”
Wynne waited until the nurse had placed the infant she was caring for into the crib. “Come, Aideen, give a kiss to your annoying uncle.”
Brock dutifully leaned over and pressed a kiss on the top of his niece’s head. Affectionately, he stroked the child’s head, hoping someday that he and Amara would be blessed with children. He was willing to dedicate day and night to the endeavor.
“You are grinning like a simpleton,” his sister observed disrespectfully. Bestowing a kiss on Aideen’s chubby cheek, Wynne handed her daughter to the nurse.
Rubbing the aches out of her arms, she said, “Why have you come? I had assumed we would see you later at the ball.” Satisfied the girls were settled, she headed back downstairs.
“You will,” he promised, his long legs equalizing her head start. “However, you have something I must claim first. Father told me Mother’s sapphire ring is in your temporary custody.”
“It is.” Hooking her arm around Milroy’s waist, she said, “You should be getting dressed, not playing in the stables.”
“Why would I be playing with my horses, when I could be playing with you in the bath?” Milroy teased her.
Wynne peeked at Brock, clearly embarrassed that her brother was listening to her husband’s ribald suggestion. Straightening with dignity, she ignored her husband and asked, “What do you want with Mother’s ring?”
“It is for Amara.” He took a deep breath. It amazed him that his sister’s approval meant so much. “As soon as I can obtain a special license, I intend to marry her.”
His sister was stunned, her green eyes glittering with moisture. “Oh, Brock!” She threw herself into his arms and hugged him fiercely.
“Does this mean you approve?” Brock asked, looking at Milroy for guidance.
Wynne pulled back, smiling. “Of course. I love Amara. Marrying you will make her my true sister.”
Delighted by her response, he scooped her up and spun her once. “Glad I can be so accommodating, dear sister!”
His brother-in-law pounded him on the back. “Let me be the second to congratulate you on your good fortune. Miss Claeg is an admirable lady.”
“I cannot fathom how you convinced Lord and Lady Keyworth to accept your offer of marriage,” Wynne said, awed and pleased. Some of her pleasure dimmed at his evasive shrug. “You have gained their consent?”
“Amara is old enough to marry without it,” he muttered defiantly.
Wynne folded her arms across her breasts. “What else? There is more that you are not telling us.”
The truth would be known to all in a matter of hours. “Keyworth plans to announce Amara’s betrothal to Conte Prola this evening.”
Milroy’s indigo gaze hardened subtly as he stared over his wife’s head. “How serious is the trouble you are facing?”
Whether or not he asked for it, he had the man’s support. “Keyworth and I exchanged threats. If Amara chooses me, her family will disown her.” Or worse, he added silently.
“Poor Amara must be terrified!” Wynne wailed, concerned for her friend.
“She knows I love her.”
Brock, too, was battling his personal share of fear, but he did not voice his worries aloud. Keyworth’s threats did not bother him half as much as the prospect that his lovely dove might choose family duty over love.
“Where is he?”
Anticipation and irritation had prompted the question, Matteo decided. “Soon, friend, soon.”
He had had someone discreetly watching Bedegrayne’s residence all afternoon. The man’s tardiness was unexpected. Guests were already arriving at the Keyworths’ residence. If Bedegrayne was to attend the ball, he would return home eventually to dress.
“What of the servants?” the gruff voice persisted.
“Burnes observed the old cook and a housemaid departing earlier. I believe there is a manservant, but he will be no match for us if he is foolish enough to interfere.”
“I want to deliver the deathblow.”
“You may have your fun, but later,” the conte assured him. “I cannot be late for the ball.”
Entering the house, Brock thought it odd that one of the servants had left a burning oil lamp on the front hall tile.
“Sellick!”
There was a scuffling sound coming from upstairs. The asinine man had probably locked himself in the linen closet again. Before Brock could take a step forward, the constricting strength of a man’s arm looped under his chin. Brock dug his fingers into that intractable muscle while his attacker dragged him back a few feet. He heard the door close behind him.
“Signor Bedegrayne,” Prola greeted him, circling around so they stood face to face. “Good, you have not dressed. I would despair over ruining your favorite coat.”
“Keyworth thought you were capable of delivering his message,” Brock sneered, his tone ripe with disbelief. “At mealtime, you probably have one of the footmen carve up the meat on your plate.”
The man threatening to crush his windpipe chuckled.
“Amusing, yes. That is why I have brought my friends. Have you met Burnes, Signor Bedegrayne?” the Italian asked, motioning to the man who stood near the parlor door.
Brock recognized the gentleman. He had been the Italian’s companion the evening he had collected Amara from the Haslakes’ theater box. Counting the immaculately dressed Prola, it was three against one. The odds were not to his liking, but he had endured worse.
“Why do we not continue our introductions in the formal parlor? If you have not murdered poor Sellick, we can summon him for the brandy.”
Prola drove his gloved fist into Brock’s stomach.
“You can do better. Amara has punched me harder than that.”
Paling at the insult, the fop demonstrated how respectable his punch could be when properly inspired. The air in his lungs exploded from his chest as Brock doubled over. The painful spasms rippled all the way down to his balls.
There was more laughter from the towering tree trunk behind him. Finding joy in one’s work had its own rewards.
“Naturally, your absence will dishearten Miss Claeg,” Prola said, adjusting the fit of his glove. “I can do no less than offer her your humble regrets. Burnes, once you have discouraged the signor, bind him.” The conte’s visage gleamed with malevolence. “I have another friend who desires an introduction. Now you must forgive me. I must leave. My lady, she awaits.” The finality of the door shutting filled the house with silence.
The odds had improved, two against one. Encouraged, Brock gripped the arm around his throat and kicked out with both legs. The blow struck Burnes in the chest, sending him crashing into the wall. Twisting for his freedom, he and the laughing assailant turned in circles. Outweighing him by three stones, the man tightened his hold waiting for him to tire or pass out from the lack of breath.
“Hold him!” Burnes ordered. He landed two quick punches into Brock’s ribs. “This is for the bloody kick.” Using his booted foot, he struck the outside of Brock’s right knee.
Brock’s legs collapsed under him. His vision grayed as the full weight of the man behind him pressed him into the marble tile. At least his attacker was no longer laughing. Staggering to his feet, the man pulled Brock upright. Burnes was trying to dislocate his patella, perhaps both of them. Grunting against the pain, he deliberately put his weight on his injured leg and kicked the bastard in the crotch.
Direct hit.
Sucking air, Burnes clutched his wounded cock and fell to his knees. Brock hoped the unyielding tile ground his patellae into powder. Cursing, the other man rammed him into the wall. Dazed, he reached back for his unseen assailant’s eyes. His fingernails scraped deep furrows into his attacker’s cheeks. The man screamed. He forced Brock’s head down, so that his next collision with the wall would be headlong.
The sickening thud made both men flinch. The arm around his throat
loosened and fell away. Brock whirled around in time to see the large man collapse in an unconscious heap.
Smiling, with a fireplace poker in his hands, Sellick stepped over the body. “Am I too late, sir? It took longer than I had anticipated to escape my bindings.”
Bracing his palm against the wall, Brock took the fire poker from his manservant’s hands. “Sellick, remind me tomorrow that I am increasing your wages.” Limping forward, he proceeded to give Burnes a complimentary lesson on discouragement.
Amara stood next to her parents as they greeted the late arrivals. She wore the gown the dressmaker had delivered in the late afternoon. It was a white crêpe train dress. The sleeves and round bottom were scalloped with amethyst satin ribbon. A wide band of black velvet confined the waist with a clasp encrusted with diamonds and amethysts. For the special occasion, Lady Keyworth had loaned her one of the Claeg necklace and earring sets that best complemented her gown.
All she needed was Brock.
Her gaze drifted to the front door each time Buckle opened it. Brock had yet to appear. By now, she had welcomed most of the Bedegrayne clan. As late as an hour ago, Wynne and Milroy had arrived. Her friend had embraced her warmly and kissed her on the cheek. She even complimented Lady Keyworth on her gown. The wary viscountess had returned the flattery and directed Miss Novell to escort the couple upstairs.
Where was he?
Her afternoon sojourn in her bedchamber had given her the opportunity to sort through her confusion about Doran. Amara had decided to tell Brock about her brother’s return. He was a gentleman whom she could trust with all her secrets.
“Ladies, it is time we proceed along to the ballroom,” her father said. “Buckle will contend with the laggards.”
Giving the closed door a final glance, Amara followed behind her parents. She halted at the threshold, letting her parents disappear into the silken throng. Standing on her toes, she craned her head searching for anyone related to the Bedegraynes. Undoubtedly, one of them knew of Brock’s whereabouts.
“Signorina Claeg!”
The man glided toward her with a silent swiftness worthy of her father’s peregrine Ellette. She curtsied and extended her hand. “Are you enjoying yourself, my lord?”
He kissed her fingers lightly. “Sí, your presence enchants all.”
The gentleman had a lovely way of speaking. It was a pity she could never love him. “The dancing is about to commence. Would you grant me a small favor and invite Miss Novell to join you in the first set? There are several hostess duties I must attend to before I am allowed to enjoy the festivities.” If she did not want him, there was no reason her cousin might not find him a suitable candidate for a husband.
His expression revealed that he wanted to refuse, but good manners prevailed. “For you, signorina, anything. A small favor for you,” he said, staring eloquently into her eyes. “Later, a grand one for me.”
The reminder of her duty made her stomach roil. She walked away from him trying to keep from retching. Blindly, she ran straight into Tipton. “I beg your pardon, my lord.”
“You seem unwell.” He beckoned to someone in the distance. “Can I get you something?”
“Someone,” she amended. “I need to speak with your wife or Wynne.”
The man wielded mysterious powers, for the two ladies appeared.
Wynne held her hand. “What is wrong?” she asked quietly.
“I will get her something to drink,” Devona volunteered, slipping back into the crowd.
“Where is Brock? He promised to be here.”
Wynne glanced questioningly at Tipton. The surgeon shook his head. “He will come. My brother does not break his promises. Besides …” She trailed off, reluctant to disclose the rest.
Amara squeezed her hand, encouraging her to continue. “You know something more. What?”
The other woman wrinkled her nose. “I will incur Brock’s wrath for telling you this, but he called on us this afternoon.”
“I assume this was more than a family visit?” Tipton mused.
“He wanted Mother’s sapphire ring.” Wynne hugged Amara, barely containing her excitement. “He told us that he intends to marry you. We truly will be sisters!”
The surgeon granted Amara one of his rare smiles. “So Bedegrayne has finally caught his dove,” he said, his usually enigmatic eyes glowing with approval. “Welcome to the family, little sister.”
Dazed by the affection, she accepted the cup of punch Devona pushed into her hand. It took Wynne seconds to whisper the good news in her sister’s ear. Shrieking, the youngest Bedegrayne embraced her. Tipton’s quick reflexes seized the cup before his wife spilled the punch down the front of Amara’s dress.
“Brock’s declaration is a bit premature,” Amara cautioned, dampening everyone’s enthusiasm.
Wynne sobered first. “The conte.”
“Who the devil is he?” Tipton asked.
“My sanctioned betrothed,” she admitted forlornly.
No one wanted to alarm Amara, so the sisters waited until she was distracted by one of the footmen. Devona and Wynne with Tipton’s assistance gathered up the Bedegrayne clan. An impromptu meeting was discreetly held outdoors in the garden.
Perplexed by all the tension she saw on everyone’s faces, Maddy said, “The room is so crowded, I could not reach Irene and Sutton. Where is Sir Thomas?”
“I noticed a short fairy with silver hair had him cornered,” Milroy said with a lilt of amusement. “For once, he seemed merry in his predicament.”
“Then we shall not interrupt them,” Tipton decided. “We can turn Sir Thomas and his blustery temper loose on the Keyworths once we know all the details.”
Milroy idly massaged his fingers on his left hand. “Is this about Brock?”
“What about Brock?” Maddy chimed in, anxious.
Devona comforted her younger sister-in-law. “We will tell you everything later.” She addressed the men. “Perhaps both of you should check his house?”
They would raise questions leaving en masse. “He will not thank us for overreacting,” Wynne said.
Tipton agreed. “I will go.”
“No,” Milroy contradicted. “Stay and watch over the family. I’ll check Bedegrayne’s house. I’ve more experience with this kind of trouble.”
Amara did not recognize the footman who had summoned her. This was not particularly strange since extra staff had been hired for the ball. “Repeat the message.”
“Just one word, Miss Claeg,” the servant dutifully repeated for the third time. “I was to say the word tonight, and tell you to slip out unnoticed. He is waiting for you on the street.”
“Tell no one,” she ordered, dismissing the footman.
“Yes, miss.”
She bridled at the servant’s sly grin. The man most likely thought she was running off to a clandestine meeting with her lover. Avoiding her parents and Buckle, Amara was on the stairs when Prola called out to her.
“My lady!” He rushed forward and clasped her hand. “We must speak.”
“It will have to be later, my lord. I—” How could she think of a plausible lie when Doran was waiting for her just beyond the door!
“No, signorina, now,” he imperiously commanded. “I must know your heart. You accept my offer, yes?” His grip was fierce as they stood on the stairs. He was attempting to tug her up and she desired the opposite direction. If she remained at his side, they would spend the rest of their days at cross-purposes.
Her answer was unequivocal.
Amara used her other hand to gently free herself from his grip. “I must refuse you, my lord. You offer me everything but the one thing I need—love.”
“It is this Bedegrayne!” Prola seethed, muttering oaths in his native tongue. “Your papa, he will not permit this refusal!”
“No. Anything precious is costly.” She was forfeiting her family. After this night, she was as lost as her brother Doran.
Amara hurried down the stairs.
&nbs
p; “You are nothing but Bedegrayne’s whore!” he shouted. “You are not worthy of my spittle!”
Carriages congested the street. Leaving the protection of the house, she headed east. Doran did not reveal himself. Turning around, she followed the street past her house, her frantic gaze searching the shadows between the carriages.
“Amara.”
The soft masculine whisper floated on the evening air. She paused, almost afraid she had imagined it.
“Amara.”
Slipping behind one of the parked carriages, she followed the voice. Horses nickered greetings as she moved down the street, losing sight of her house.
“Amara.”
This time the pitch had gained strength. “Doran?”
“Here,” the voice invited.
She stepped closer. A hand was clapped over her mouth, cutting off her cry of surprise. Another hand held her arm. She struggled vainly in her captor’s embrace. A man emerged from the shadows. The lamp he grasped was positioned low to the ground, keeping his face in shadow. Only when he reached her did he raise it to his scarred face.
“Remember me?” the man rasped.
Not even the hand over her mouth stopped her screams.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Brock and Milroy entered the Keyworth ballroom together. Cleaned up and attired in black breeches and matching stylish silk coat, Brock looked no different from any other gentleman. Until one noticed his bleeding lower lip—and the limp.
Sir Thomas ambled over to the men. “Brock, my boy, you have moved beyond fashionable into rudeness. What—” His feathery brows furrowed as he noted his son’s numerous injuries. “Were you ambushed by a footpad?”
“No. Where is Amara?” He turned to Milroy. “Do you see her?”
His companion shook his head. “Here comes Tipton.”
The viscount’s pale eyes gravely studied him. More surgeon than aristocrat, Tipton grabbed Brock’s jaw with one hand. Ignoring his brother-in-law’s impatience, he silently evaluated the bruise blooming on Brock’s throat.
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