Kincaid stood on the steps of his uncle's townhouse, fighting the constriction in his chest. He took a deep, cleansing breath, trying to slow his pounding heart. He felt like a boy again, summoned by his father. He was bitterly angry and at the same time, somewhere deep inside, frightened. He detested feeling like this. He detested his father and uncle for making him feel this way.
Taking another deep breath, Kincaid hit the door with his fist. He remembered this house from when he was a child. He had hated it as much as he hated Rutledge Castle.
The door swung open and there was Higgins. Kincaid thought it absurd that the man would drop him off at the front door, then run around to the back door so that he could let him in. But his actions were no odder than anyone else's in his uncle's household.
Higgins's thin lips tugged back in a patronizing smile. "Come in, sir. Your uncle awaits you in the withdrawing room."
Kincaid handed over his hat, striding down the hall directly toward the room. The sooner he got in there, the sooner he could get out.
He entered the room without knocking. His uncle was standing near one of the windows gazing out into the garden, his back to the door.
"James."
That eerie voice. It would follow Kincaid to his grave. "My lord." He did not bow as was proper. He was no boy to be rapped across the palms with a rod for disrespect.
Rutledge turned slowly to face him. "Good to see you, dear nephew." He lifted a demi-glass to his lips, sipping an amber-colored liquor. "I have often wondered through the years how you were faring."
Kincaid reached behind him, closing the recessed, paneled door to give them some privacy. He wondered, though, why he bothered. No doubt the eel, Higgins, would be listening through the door, a glass cupped to his ear.
Kincaid cleared his throat. "That must be why you've contacted me so often, uh, Lord Rutledge." He stared into his uncle's ugly face, his distaste plain in his voice.
The earl sighed with agitated boredom. "Dear boy, after all these years, I cannot believe you are still so tight-fisted with your grudges. I thought you would have matured."
Kincaid stood stiffly, his hand aching to reach out and strike the man who had caused such terror in a young boy's life. "You and my father put me out of your house with good riddance and not a shilling to my name. You did not expect me to be angry?"
"I didn't expect you to still be so stubborn after so much time has passed," the earl snapped. "I expected you to return with at least some semblance of respect."
Kincaid tightened his hands at his sides into fists. "You sent word for me for a reason, I assume?"
"I've been looking for you for months." Rutledge set down his glass, pacing behind an overstuffed chair. "I couldn't find you. My manservant tells me it's because you have dropped your family name. And I must tell you, I was both hurt and shocked."
"Where is Father? Is he ill? Have his evil ways finally caught up with him?"
"Will you never learn to hold your tongue?" Rutledge drew back his disfigured lip in a half smile. "My brother, your father, is dead."
Kincaid knew he blanched. He had assumed his father was ill, perhaps even dying. He assumed that he had called him to reconcile their relationship before he passed. Naive as it might have been, it had not occurred to Kincaid that his father might be dead. Dead . . .
It took Kincaid a moment to recover. He looked up at his uncle, wishing he could wipe the delight off his face. He had always been a man who took pleasure in another person's pain. "How . . . how did he die? What illness?"
"Oh, there was no illness." Rutledge gave a laugh that lacked amusement. "Philip was quite healthy." His brown-eyed gaze met Kincaid's.
Kincaid recognized those eyes as the same ones he looked into each morning as he shaved. "Not ill? An accident, then?"
"Not an accident at all," the earl responded acidly. "It was quite cold and calculated."
"Sweet heaven, will you just come out with it and let me be gone from here?" Kincaid burst in anger. "How did my father die, damn you!"
"Oh, that temper of yours, nephew. Never could control it, could you?" Rutledge toyed with the keyboard of a spinet in the corner of the room, striking idle keys. "Murdered. Your dear father was murdered."
"Murdered?" Kincaid felt the breath rush out of him. Still he kept his place at the door. "By whom? Someone he cheated out of their property? Or perhaps one of the cottars? One of those that he charged such an exorbitant rent that their children had starved?"
Rutledge's head snapped up. "How dare you speak of your deceased father in that manner!"
Kincaid's gaze met his uncle's, cold and unyielding. "How did he die?"
"Stabbed." The earl went back to striking the keys on the spinet, the single notes as disturbing as his voice. "Bled to death," ting, "on his own bedchamber floor," ting. "Murdered," ting, "by his beloved bride." Ting.
Kincaid looked away, his stomach ill. "His wife murdered him? Anne?" He shook his head in disbelief, remembering his father's second wife. Anne had been painfully shy. She had been frightened of the Rutledge men, even of him.
"Not Anne," the earl spat, sending droplets of spittle falling onto the ivory keys. "That simpering bitch's been dead for years. Margaret. The little strumpet, Margaret."
Kincaid's brow furrowed. The name sounded familiar, but he'd tried so damned hard to wipe the past from his memory that the recollection was hazy. "Father remarried again?"
"Of course he did. After Anne died . . . in childbirth." Rutledge struck two keys at once, "he married Margaret Hannibal."
Suddenly the image of a thin blond-haired girl with a sad face came to mind. "Little Margaret? The orphaned child Father took in?"
"Not a child any longer." Bored with the spinet, the earl wandered away, dropping into a chair. He crossed his legs. "I can tell you from firsthand experience, she had rounded out nicely."
Kincaid looked away in disgust. His uncle had always lusted after his father's wives. One would have to have been blind not to notice it. Eventually Kincaid had come to the conclusion that his father simply hadn't cared.
Kincaid stared at the polished hardwood floor at his feet. He couldn't believe it. His father was dead . . . "How long ago? When did he die?"
"January."
January? All these months Kincaid had thought he was alive, alive to still hate, and here the bastard had been dead. It was just like his father to rob him of that little pleasure. "Why, why did she do it?" He stared at his uncle's face not really seeing the deformity.
"Gone mad, I suppose. She gave birth to a dead, deformed child and she simply snapped. It was a bloody, brutal mess," he finished, seeming to take pleasure in the gruesome description. "Philip was hacked to death."
Kincaid turned on his heels. "Thank you for bothering to find me." Suddenly he couldn't breathe. The withdrawing room smelled of dust and old furniture and faintly of peppermint. It was making him physically ill. He had to get out before he embarrassed himself by vomiting. He reached for the door.
"James, there will business to attend to. Papers to sign."
Kincaid glanced over his shoulder at his uncle, his hand on the open door. "Papers?"
"Your inheritance."
Again Kincaid was jarred. He turned back around. "Inheritance?"
"Of course. You are his only living heir. There's money. The title. You are now quite wealthy, nephew, no thanks to your own doing."
"But I thought . . . I thought that when he put me out, he disinherited me. He said he was going to disinherit me."
The earl rose and came toward Kincaid, putting out an arm to comfort him. "He was angry, yes, but he didn't disinherit you. You were his son."
Kincaid stepped back out of his uncle's reach, the brush of his fingertips burning like acid on his shoulder. His uncle's awkward attempt at being kind was as distasteful as his outright hostility, perhaps more so.
"So he never disinherited me?"
"You are his legal heir, the new Viscount of Surrey." Rutledge let
his hand fall, staring into Kincaid's face. "Of course it was one of our father's lesser titles, but—"
"He left me as his heir?"
"There was no one else. And now you're mine, as well I'm afraid, nephew."
Kincaid began to back out of the room. This was all too much to think about. Too much to consider. The bastard, he had gone and died on him! He'd left his money and futtering title to him and then got himself murdered?
Kincaid stumbled backwards, then whirled around, heading for the door. His anger was choking him, sucking him into some black void. If he didn't get some air . . .
"James, come back," the earl called after him. "We've matters to discuss."
Kincaid barreled down the hallway, concentrating on the front door. "Go to hell," he shouted, throwing open the door.
"Sir, your hat," came Higgin's voice from behind.
Kincaid stepped out into the late afternoon sunshine, slamming the door behind him. Though his uncle's coach still waited to return him to his apartment, he passed the vehicle, crossed the street, and headed for the nearest ordinary.
He needed a drink.
Percival reclined on the bolster, tucking his arm behind his head. Mary lay panting beside him, her lips still wet from his seed. "You were late again, tonight." He reached for a glass of rich burgundy on the table beside the bed. "I don't like it when you're late, Mary."
She rolled onto her side, propping herself up on one elbow. She was still deliciously naked, the sheet draped over the curve of her hips. She stroked her own breast casually. "I told you, I come when I can. I made no promises, Percy."
He reached out and pinched one nipple just the way she liked. "You come when I say you come. To this house . . . to my bed."
She rolled her kohl-lined eyes, slapping his hand away. "You can't tell me what to do. I started this. I come when I please." She stroked her dainty fingers between her damp thighs. "Without need of your permission."
Percival sipped his burgundy. He was not in the mood for Mary's impertinence. Not tonight. Not after his visit with that turd of a nephew of his. Christ, he'd forgotten how handsome his brother's child was. How tall and muscular. How well he carried himself.
He'd forgotten how much he hated him.
"Don't push me tonight, Mary." Percival finished the glass and reached for the bottle to pour himself another. "I'm not in the mood to be gracious."
"Well, screw you." She got up from the bed, licking her fingers that had just rested between her thighs. "I don't have to put up with this!"
"Get back in bed." He pointed. "I'm not finished with you. You know the punishment for disrespect."
She dropped her shift over her head, covering her pert breasts with their dark nipples still long and hard. "I'm not afraid of you! This was my game. Not yours."
He smiled, wondering if she realized how dangerous her words were. But then his smile drew back into a threatening frown. "Get into bed, Mary. I'll not tell you again."
She yanked her busk off a chair and slipped it on, lacing the ribbons with jerky movements. "I'm tired of this and I'm tired of you!"
Percival sighed. "You're treading in dangerous waters, my love. Get back into bed and hush that pretty mouth of yours before I lose my temper."
She stepped into her petticoat and fastened it at the waistband behind her. "You want to know why I was late?" She dropped her pink and yellow organza gown over her head. "I was late because I took another lover. Couldn't you smell him on me?"
Percival felt his heart flutter. He wouldn't give her up. It was too good, having a partner who volunteered her services. One that wasn't forced or paid. And their likes were so similar. They were perfect together. He wouldn't let her go. It was out of the question. His anger flared. "Shut up, shut up, you stupid little bitch." He got up, slipping into his silk robe.
"Bitch, am I?" She slipped her tiny feet into her yellow silk slippers, foregoing the stockings. Her gown was still unbuttoned down the back. "Bitch? Maybe so," she spat, her dark curls bouncing as she spoke. "But at least I'm not ugly. Not a freak! Freak!"
Percival reached out and slapped her hard across the face, so hard that she stumbled, catching herself on a chair before she went down. "Get back into my bed, now," he ordered.
"You disgust me, do you know that?" She was backing up toward the bedchamber door, her stockings in her hand. "You've always disgusted me. I just did this," she indicated the bed, "because I wanted to defy my father. Because I was bored." Her hand rested on the doorknob. "Well, now I'm bored with you, you sick bastard!"
"Don't leave!" Percival shouted, sending his spittle flying in the air. "Don't you leave me or you'll be sorry, you little cunt!"
Mary made an obscene gesture and walked out the door.
Kincaid tipped back the leather jack of ale and downed half of it in one long drink. Dropping the jack onto the table, he wiped the foam from his mouth with the back of his hand. His fingers were numb. He was drunk. But not drunk enough to forget.
"Another," he shouted to anyone who would listen.
He was in a seedy tavern down by the river. He wasn't quite clear on how he'd gotten there. He could smell the Thames's stench through the window where the glass had been broken and never replaced. The floor of the tavern was dirt, the crude tables rough-hewn slabs of wood thrown over barrels. The food was maggot-ridden, the ale watered down. He didn't know why the hell he'd come here except to escape.
"Ye called for another?" The barmaid, with her bleached hair and smeared lip pomade, sauntered toward him. Her smock was streaked with dirt and stained yellow at the armpits. Her face and the full breasts that hung over her bodice were marred with deep smallpox scars. She might have been pretty once, but a hard life and the disease had taken its toll.
He eyed her impatiently. "That's what I said, didn't I?"
She grabbed a pewter pitcher off the tray she balanced in one hand and poured a portion of ale into his jack, running it over the side. As she poured, she drew close enough for him to smell the perspiration of another man's body on hers.
"Anything else, sweet lips?" She lifted a thick eyebrow suggestively. "We've a room for sportin' above, if ye be wantin' my services."
"Just the ale." He flipped her a coin. "Keep your clap to yourself."
"Well, ain't you Mr. High and Mighty." She dropped the coin between her breasts and moved on to the next table.
Kincaid lifted the jack to his lips. They were numb, too. He knew he should go home. Home to Meg. But he didn't want her to see him like this. Maybe he wouldn't ever go home.
"Bastard," he muttered under his breath. "How could you die on me?" He ran his hands through his disheveled hair. He'd lost his hat somewhere.
How could his father have up and died without him knowing it? Murdered no less. Kincaid had never gotten a chance to say good-bye. To say he was sorry . . . Hell, who was he kidding? Sorry for nothing.
His father had always been a rotten bastard. Never once in his life had he had a kind word or gesture for his only son. All Kincaid recalled of his childhood was fear . . . fear and an intense desire to please his father. As a child he had always thought it was his fault his father didn't care about him. Bad boy. Stupid child. Clumsy oaf.
His mother had told him it wasn't his fault. He remembered her cuddling him, kissing his bruises, results of his father's heavy hand. He closed his eyes, vaguely remembering her face. His mother had smelled so good.
Then she had died. Died giving birth to another one of his father's freaks. It was the Rutledge curse.
Kincaid took another drink of the ale, welcoming the spinning sensation that was settling in his head. He didn't want to think about this. Not any of it. Seeing his uncle and his deformity dredged up questions he'd long ago suppressed. What if he carried the curse? What if his father had passed that along in his blood? Would he sire no children but those with deformities? Not that he feared he couldn't love a child who was in some way imperfect. The question was, could he do that to Meg?
Sweet God in heaven, had his father given him nothing good?
Kincaid rested his forehead on the heel of his hand. His uncle said Kincaid's father had left him his portion of the Rutledge fortune. So he had cared for him, in his own way . . . hadn't he?
"So why didn't you find me while you were still alive?" he questioned aloud, taking another drink. "Futtering bastard."
"You talkin' to me, boy?"
Kincaid looked up to see a burly seaman with a tarred pigtail staring into his face. He was a big man, no taller than Kincaid, but he had to outweigh him by two stones.
"I said, you talkin' to me?" The sailor struck his fist on the table, tipping it slightly.
Kincaid's eyes narrowed dangerously. He could feel his blood rushing. "Could be, sister."
The sailor suddenly swung his fist at Kincaid, but Kincaid saw it coming. With one swift movement, Kincaid knocked the tabletop upward, sending the jack of ale and the whole board sliding onto the refuse-covered dirt floor.
Kincaid's first swing caught the sailor square in the jaw, sending him reeling backward. Before the man had picked himself up off the floor, Kincaid was on top of him, pummeling his face.
The sailor caught Kincaid by the back of his coat, tearing the dove-gray damask as he lifted him up with one beefy arm, his biceps bulging.
Kincaid fell backwards onto the dirt floor, striking his head on the edge of a table as he went down.
"Son of a whoring bitch!" the sailor accused, hurling himself through the air, landing on Kincaid's chest. "You talk to me thata way? I'll crush you, pretty boy! I'll crush you, grind your bones, and serve you in meat pudding!"
The sailor's fist hit Kincaid's nose so hard that his head snapped back. Blood spewed down his white linen shirt and on the sailor's striped red and white shirt, as well.
"Shit-eating cur," Kincaid shouted, grabbing the sailor's sticky, tarred pigtail. "You got my shirt dirty. My fiancé's gonna kill me, so I'm gonna kill you first!"
"Fiance, hah!" The sailor threw back his head in laughter. "Whore, you mean. Prick-sucking whore!"
"Don't you call my woman a whore!" Kincaid flew into a rage, charging him. "Now I am going to kill you!"
The Highwayman and The Lady (Hidden Identity) Page 19