Sweet Surrender

by Cheryl Holt

  Had he been warning Grace about Lady Beatrice? Had he wanted to present a united familial front? Was he telling her—in a vague, cold manner—that he didn’t believe her about Michael?

  What was his message? Perhaps he wasn’t bold enough to call her a liar to her face. Should she pack again and leave? The prior night, he hadn’t seemed in any hurry to have her go. Had he changed his mind?

  "Blasted man," she grumbled.

  She’d now spend the rest of the afternoon, struggling to discern his actual purpose. But what person could delve into the devious, convoluted reasoning of Jackson Scott?

  Michael was anticipating a summons from his grandmother. Before Grace jumped into the difficult chat, she needed a few minutes to regroup. He’d quickly assimilated at the estate as if he’d never lived anywhere else.

  People adored him. People accepted him as Edward’s son, and he had such high hopes for a relationship with the Scott family.

  Yet they both had to recognize that it was very possible no bond would ever be allowed. Depending on how Jackson dealt with his mother, they might not even be given coach fare when they were ordered to depart the premises.

  "Oh well," she mused, "we didn’t have anything when we arrived."

  If they left with nothing, they were in the exact same condition as they’d been at the beginning. The only alteration would be that she’d trudge off with a broken heart. Having dallied with Jackson when she shouldn’t have, she was precariously emotional.

  How did a female leap into a sexual inferno, then move on as if it had never occurred? She worried that she might be in love with him and wasn’t that the most inane, ridiculous situation ever?

  "Stupid, stupid, stupid…" she chided herself as she entered her room and closed the door. As she turned, she was startled by the realization that Susan Scott was seated in a chair over by the window.

  Appearing elegant and refined and lazily dangerous, she was dressed to impress. Her gown was made from a ravishing blue color that shimmered with silver highlights. The shade matched her stunning jewelry, her ears, neck, and fingers laden with fat diamonds.

  She was rich and beautiful and sophisticated—all that Grace was not—and she certainly intended that Grace notice the differences.

  Grace noticed.

  The maids had been in to serve her. There was a small table next to her chair, and they’d delivered a tray of food and a decanter of wine. Apparently, she’d been sitting there for some time. She’d poured herself some wine and was sipping it.

  She was comfortable and at ease, as if the room was hers and she had every right to be in it—which she did.

  "Hello, Grace," she said. "May I call you Grace?"

  "We’re not acquainted, so I’d rather you stick with Miss Bennett."

  "Yes, I’m sure you would, but I am countess here and I get to set the rules."

  Grace thought Susan was being extremely presumptuous. When Edward had married her, he’d already been married. He’d never obtained a divorce, so he hadn’t been free to wed Susan. She was simply the illegal second wife of a bigamist and never a countess, at all.

  But this probably wasn’t the moment to mention it.

  "Call me whatever you like," Grace blithely stated. "It doesn’t matter to me."

  Susan downed the remainder of her wine, making Grace wait while she finished it. Then she placed her goblet on the table and pushed herself to her feet. She walked over to Grace, seeming so polished that she practically floated across the floor.

  She was taller than Grace, lithe and willowy and poised in a way that Grace couldn’t have managed in a thousand years of trying. Her disdain clear, she studied Grace, then wrinkled her nose as if Grace smelled.

  "What game are you playing?" Susan hissed the threat in a tone that chilled Grace to the bone.

  "I’m not playing a game," Grace replied.

  "Liar," she fumed. "You want my son’s birthright, and you want all our money and all our property."

  "No, I don’t. Really, I don’t."

  "Do you realize how stupid you were to come here?"

  "Yes. We weren’t aware that Edward had another family and I—"

  "Grace!" she hissed again, and she raised a hand so quickly that Grace stumbled back, frantically thinking the deranged woman was about to strike her.

  Gulping with dismay, Grace straightened herself. "What?"

  "You shouldn’t speak my husband’s name. I should never hear it issue from your very frivolous, very common lips."

  Grace sighed with irritation. First Beatrice Scott. Now Susan Scott.

  Honestly! How many insults was she required to endure in one day?

  "I believe you entered the wrong room by mistake," Grace said. "Let me show you out."

  She stepped around Susan, and Susan clasped Grace’s forearm, her nails digging deep.

  "Are you mad?" Grace snapped as she jerked away.

  "Our discussion is over when I say it is over."

  "No, our discussion is over when you start acting like a lunatic."

  Grace stomped to the door and yanked it open. She gestured to the hall, indicating that Susan should leave. Susan hesitated just long enough for Grace to know she didn’t consider herself to have been thrown out.

  She sauntered by Grace, murmuring, "You will never accomplish what you’re trying to do to us."

  "I’m not trying to do anything."

  "I will never permit my son to relinquish what is his. I don’t care how many birth certificates you produce, your preposterous lies will never gain credence in this house."

  "They’re not lies."

  Susan leaned in, hoping to intimidate Grace with her size and position, but Grace stood her ground.

  "Jackson let you stay," Susan raged, "and with him in residence, I can’t make you pay as you ought to pay."

  "You don’t need to worry about my being here. The minute matters are resolved for my ward, I’ll go away."

  "Yes, you will. I’ll see to it."

  Susan pushed past Grace and marched out. At the last second, she whipped around.

  "And Grace?"

  "What?"

  "The servants tell me that Jackson is quite fond of you."

  Rattled by the sly comment, Grace held herself very still. The servants knew about her indiscretion? They’d told this viper? How many people had been apprised of their affair? What stories were spreading?

  "Mr. Scott and I are friends," Grace cautiously said, "and he’s been kind to me."

  Susan smirked. "You understand, don’t you, that I am the love of Jackson’s life?"

  "Well, I guess you were," Grace impertinently retorted, "until you tossed him over to marry his brother."

  "You have a smart mouth Grace Bennett. I wonder where it will take you in the end?"

  "Nowhere good I’m sure."

  "He won’t always be around to protect you." Susan grinned a malevolent grin. "You’d better watch your back."

  Then she kept on.

  Grace shut the door and spun the key in the lock.

  DC

  "That witch! That shrew!"

  "I warned you to stay away from her."

  Percival loitered in the corner of the library, listening as his mother ranted, as his grandmother fumed. Beatrice was seated at the desk and his mother paced in front of it. As usual, they’d forgotten he was present.

  They were talking about Michael and Grace Bennett, and Percival was being very quiet so he could eavesdrop.

  He hadn’t mentioned that he’d met Michael and knew he shouldn’t. They wouldn’t like his opinion. He thought Michael was magnificent, just as Percival’s father had been. Michael was clever and tough and brave, and he liked Percival. He said they would be best friends forever, that they could live together, go to school together, and share a room and everything.

  Percival was so proud to have been singled out by Michael, so amazed at this sudden and splendid turn of events that he could barely eat or sleep.

  "What am I
supposed to do?" his mother complained about Miss Bennett. "Should I remain silent and allow her to waltz away with all we own? She’s no different than a thief in the night, carting off the silver."

  "You can’t let her distress you. Jackson and I will deal with her."

  "As if I would trust Jackson to handle it."

  "They won’t get a farthing," his grandmother insisted, "and they’ll never have a chance to spread their lies."

  His mother was so angry, she was trembling. "If you don’t realize the danger that woman poses, then you’re a fool."

  "She’s not dangerous," his grandmother scoffed. "She’s out for a few pounds."

  "We will not give her a penny!" his mother exploded. "I won’t agree to any settlement!"

  "How else are we to be shed of them? She’s a confidence artist and blackmailer. Money will make her vanish."

  "But you’ll be admitting her nonsense is true! You’ll be admitting I was never married, that I was never a countess, that Percival was never an earl. We’d be conceding that Percival is a bastard. Are you mad?"

  "We’ll admit nothing," Beatrice firmly stated.

  "Even if you pay her, how can you be sure she’ll really go away? How can you be sure she won’t throw that wretched…boy at us every blasted month into infinity?"

  "Jackson is already drawing up the contract that will preclude any mischief by her. She’ll sign it, and we’ll never see her—or the boy—ever again."

  His grandmother’s comment yanked Percival out of his spot. Michael was like a comet, like a shooting star that had crashed into Percival’s world, and now, everything was perfect.

  "Grandmother." He stepped over to her.

  "What?"

  "I don’t want Michael to leave."

  "Michael?" His grandmother scowled as if she didn’t know to whom he referred. "Who is Michael?"

  "The boy you’re discussing. I don’t want him to leave."

  His mother gasped. "You’ve met him? You’ve spoken to him?"

  Instantly, Percival recoiled. His first instinct was self-preservation, and he nearly denied any acquaintance and slinked away, but the matter was too important to let them boss him.

  "Yes, I’ve met him. He’s very grand, and I don’t think you should—"

  His mother shrieked with outrage. "Do you hear him, Beatrice? Do you hear?"

  "Yes, I hear, Susan."

  "I don’t need to be the earl," Percival quietly said, "and Michael would be so much better at it."

  His mother bent down so she was directly in his face.

  "What did you say?"

  "I don’t mind if Michael is the earl. In fact, I would like that to happen."

  His mother slapped him as hard as she could. She had in the past, not often, but occasionally when she was in a temper. He stoically accepted the blow, showing no sign that he’d felt it.

  "You will never repeat what you just said to me," she seethed. "Are you listening, Percival?"

  "Yes, I’m listening, Mother."

  "You are never to behave so ridiculously. Do you understand?"

  "Yes, I understand, and I apologize for upsetting you."

  His grandmother leaned across the desk. "You are not to talk to that boy, Percival."

  "But I like him very much."

  "I don’t care. I’m ordering you to stay away."

  Percival stared at his mother, at his grandmother. They were so unhappy and so cruel, and they’d never liked him when he couldn’t figure out why. He’d always tried to be good, to obey them, but he didn’t dare press them on the issue of Michael.

  They might send Percival to London or make Michael disappear. He’d never see his brother again.

  He couldn’t let that occur. He’d fight them or…he’d…run away to someplace better. Michael would travel with him, to protect him and keep him safe. It would be just the two of them, and no one who’d ever been awful to Percival could butt in or tag along.

  He nodded to his grandmother and told the only lie he’d ever told in his entire life.

  "As you wish, Grandmother. I won’t speak to him anymore." He peered up at his mother. "May I be excused?"

  "Yes, you may, but you’ll go straight to your room and remain there until I can bear to look at you again."

  "All right."

  Percival walked away, his head high, so they’d think he was meekly complying, but as soon as he was out of their sight, he raced for the rear door, dashed through the garden and into the woods.

  Michael was in his fort, waiting for Percival, and there was nowhere in the world he would rather be.

  DC

  "Is she telling the truth?"

  "Who cares if she is or not? Her veracity means nothing to me, and it shouldn’t concern you, either."

  "I was merely curious."

  Beatrice was in her carriage, stopped on the road several miles from the estate.

  Mr. Rafferty sat across from her.

  He was a violent ruffian, and over the years, she’d hired him to carry out any number of unpleasant tasks.

  In her managing Edward’s business affairs, there had always been troublemakers who vexed her. Shirkers, embezzlers, thieves, and other assorted fools tried to steal or take advantage.

  She’d quickly found that—as a female—her options were limited. Even though she was particularly fierce, men weren’t afraid of her. When she turned to the law, legal remedies were unsatisfactory.

  Rafferty had a suitable style for handling miscreants. He could make people vanish, could make people be sorry or repent their transgressions.

  He was smart as a whip, coolly dangerous, and able to deliver surprising results. He was also incredibly devious, and he’d probably cheated her on occasion, but she’d never caught him at it.

  He had an odd moral code. If offered enough money, he would commit any foul deed, and he claimed loyalty to the person paying the bills. Yet she suspected he’d betray her if someone agreed to pay him more.

  "Her name is Grace Bennett?" he asked.

  "Yes."

  "Where is she now?"

  "She’s at the Abbey, but you can’t move against her at the moment."

  "Why not?"

  "My son, Jackson, is in residence, and he’s fond of her."

  "How fond?"

  "He’d be extremely upset if she was harmed."

  "That could be problematic."

  "He won’t be at Milton Abbey forever. We’ll bide our time and hope he leaves in the not too distant future."

  "Or we could manufacture an incident to draw him off."

  Beatrice nodded. "Yes, I imagine we could."

  "And when he’s away, you want me to take her?"

  "Yes, and you must deliver her somewhere permanent so she can’t ever return."

  "How about the boy?"

  "He most especially can’t ever return."

  Beatrice supposed she should feel badly about the plan she was putting in motion, but she didn’t.

  In her view, Edward had had a paltry romance with Georgina, but that didn’t make it a valid, aristocratic marriage. It had been a fling, perpetrated by Georgina who had been common and poor. To Beatrice, ancestry and bloodlines were everything. The Scott family traced their linage to the Conqueror, and she wouldn’t permit their pedigree to be sullied.

  Every nobleman in the kingdom had bastard children running around, declaring paternity. Edward’s by-blow had come begging, but Beatrice wasn’t about to fork over money or property or status.

  Grace Bennett could contend whatever facts she liked, but the two people who knew the truth—Georgina and Edward—were deceased. Beatrice wasn’t about to upend the entire world simply because Miss Bennett was waving a few old documents.

  Beatrice was determined that Miss Bennett not darken her door again. Miss Bennett might have captivated Jackson, might have convinced him to be gullible and generous, but Jackson would provide for her over Beatrice’s dead body.

  "Once I’m shed of her," Beatrice told Raffe
rty, "you’ll have to deal with Jackson. Are you tough enough to go toe to toe with him?"

  Rafferty snorted. "Over what topic?"

  "You and I will concoct a story about Miss Bennett. We’ll tell him you investigated her and uncovered a blackmail scheme."

  "I can do that."

  "You’ll have to seem honest and believable."

  "I will."

  "Jackson is perceptive and shrewd. If he thought he’d been deceived, I can’t predict how he might react."

  "Don’t worry about me and your son. I’ve spent my life rolling in the gutter with criminals. I can handle a coddled, aristocratic nob."

  "You haven’t met him. Are you sure?"

  "It will be a piece of cake, Lady Beatrice. A bloody piece of cake."

  "There’s no need for crude language, Mr. Rafferty."

  "No, there isn’t." He dipped his head. "My apologies."

  Beatrice studied him, scrutinizing his features, his countenance. He was a stout, muscular fellow who could have been a criminal himself. With his curly blond hair and bright green eyes, he was very handsome, but he exuded malice and menace. The scar on his brow was positively frightening, and she wouldn’t ever want him as an enemy.

  She sighed with aggravation. How had she descended to such a low precipice? Why was she forced to consort with such a disreputable rogue? Her rank and station should have insulated her from such a seedy acquaintance, but she couldn’t reject his type of assistance.

  "I’ll send for you when I’m ready," she said. "Stay in the area so you can attend me at a moment’s notice."

  "As always, Lady Beatrice, I am at your service."

  He tipped his hat and slipped away.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  "Pssst! Uncle Jack!"

  Jackson halted and peered around as the whispered summons came again.

  "Uncle Jack!"

  After watching his mother and Grace spar over Michael, he’d needed to clear his head. He’d taken a long ride and had just returned. He was in the barn and leaving for the house to find Grace and speak with her.

  "Michael, is that you?" he inquired.

  "Yes, but please keep your voice down."

  Michael popped up from behind a pile of hay, but to Jackson’s surprise, Percival popped up with him.