Heart's Debt (Lost Lords Book 5)

by Cheryl Holt

  The most humiliating part of the entire episode was that Miles had gotten the best of him. Incompetent, bungling Miles had managed to assault and subdue Damian, and his shameless defeat was galling.

  If he’d learned naught else during his incarceration, it was that he had to always be prepared for an attack, but he’d forgotten that lesson because of Georgina, and if that wasn’t evidence of how she’d ensnared him, he didn’t know what was.

  In the grueling miles where they’d bounced over the rutted highway, his injuries screaming with each impact, he’d had plenty of time to ponder her and what sort of future he wanted. Why couldn’t he be happy? Why couldn’t he bind himself to someone who cherished him?

  He was so jaded, and his life had been filled with brutality and betrayal. He didn’t think he could attach himself, that he could promise himself and mean it. But what if he forged ahead and it turned out to be wonderful?

  “I’m very wealthy,” he told Harry.

  “Shut up!” Harry snapped again.

  “And I’m remarkably violent and vengeful. What do you suppose will happen to you once my lawyers have me released? Kidnapping is a felony, and the penalty is hanging—especially when the victim is as obscenely affluent as I am. Haven’t you ever noticed that the rich can purchase any punishment they desire?”

  They shifted uneasily, then Harry said to Tim, “He’s just trying to rattle us. Don’t listen to him.”

  “You’re fools to have participated in this fiasco,” Damian said. “When you’re standing in the dock in chains and having to explain yourself to the judge, I can’t wait to hear what your excuses will be. Of course I shall insist the maximum penalty be imposed. Have I mentioned that it’s hanging by the neck until dead?”

  “One more word you cocky prick, and we won’t have to take you to London. You’ll die right here.”

  “Tough talk, Harry,” Damian scoffed. “I’m a betting man, and I’m betting you don’t have the guts to kill me. You were awfully brave when you had ten chums guarding your back. How about now? I’m bound hand and foot, but I’d be delighted to spar with you. Let’s see who prevails.”

  Harry bristled, and Damian stared him down. If he moved, Damian would strangle him. The rope on his wrists was loose enough that he could drape it over Harry’s head and pull it tight, but he really wasn’t feeling well. His strength had been significantly reduced from the beating he’d endured, and he’d rather not kill anybody if he didn’t have to.

  Harry warily studied Damian, then glanced away, and even though he’d been cowed Damian was too vain to back down.

  “I figured you didn’t have the balls,” Damian snorted.

  The taunt was too much. Harry swung his club, and Damian’s reaction was swift and brutal. His arms flew up, the rope choking Harry so he couldn’t exact any further damage.

  “Drop the club!” Damian ordered as Harry was being slowly throttled. He relented and it thudded to the floor.

  Tim viewed it all with confused horror, then shouted, “Help! Help!”

  Damian glowered at Tim and commanded, “Be silent. Your caterwauling gives me a headache.”

  As if nothing shocking had occurred, he released Harry and settled against the squab. Harry slid to his knees. He was gagging, rubbing his throat.

  “You’re insane,” Harry spat once he could speak again.

  “Yes, I always have been, and I take it we have an understanding now. Keep your fucking club to yourself.”

  “Bastard,” Harry grumbled.

  Damian kicked him very hard. “Don’t you dare insult my mother.”

  Harry remained on his knees, too stunned to climb onto the seat. Tim gaped with dismay as if he’d never previously witnessed such a vicious brawl. What kind of inept idiots had Miles hired? They’d have been murdered the first week at Botany Bay.

  He relaxed and was steadying his breathing so his ribs wouldn’t throb quite so much when the carriage door was yanked open. He’d been expecting some of the other guards rushing to rescue Harry, but to his great surprise, he was staring at Kit.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” he muttered. “Where’d you come from?”

  “Kirkwood. We’ve been following your sorry ass all day.”

  Kit stepped aside, and Damian was surprised again as Michael Blair took his place.

  “Michael? What is this? An odd sort of family reunion?”

  “My mother sent me to check on you.”

  “She worries too much.”

  Michael pointed to Damian’s battered face, his shackles. “Considering your current condition, I’d say she doesn’t worry nearly enough.”

  Damian looked at Kit. “You must have stopped by Kirkwood and found out what happened.”

  “Yes, Miss Fogarty told us.”

  “Miles orchestrated this disaster. Did you kill him for me?”

  “Michael wanted to, but I convinced him you’d want to handle it yourself.”

  “You’re right about that.”

  Damian held out his wrists, and Michael—always prepared for trouble himself—drew out a knife and sliced through his bindings.

  Tim and Harry had been nervously observing them, and as the rope fell away, Harry complained, “Now see here! He’s our prisoner. You can’t just cut him loose.”

  Michael loomed in. “Do you know who I am?”

  Harry scrutinized Michael’s livid expression and gulped with alarm. “No.”

  “I didn’t think so. Who’s in charge of this dirty business?”

  Damian nodded to the coaching inn. “He’s inside with his other men. They’re having supper.”

  “How many are there?”

  “Ten. He left these two to watch me.”

  Michael gestured to Harry who was still rubbing his neck. “It doesn’t look as if they did a very good job.”

  He marched off, and Kit helped Damian climb down. Normally Damian wouldn’t have accepted any assistance, but Harry’s accursed club had landed many, many times at Kirkwood. He suspected—when he removed his clothes later that night—he’d have bruises on every inch of his body.

  His head was aching, and he had to focus carefully so he didn’t see double.

  “How’s your head?” Kit asked as if reading his mind.

  “It’s pounding.”

  “You’re so obstinate. If they only banged you on your noggin, you’ll be fine.”

  “They hit me in other spots too,” Damian said. “With this.”

  He grabbed the club, and Kit gaped at it with fury.

  “That horse’s ass”—Damian flicked a thumb at Harry—“inflicted most of the punishment. The rest of them used their fists. You know that doesn’t bother me.”

  “I know.”

  Damian had been in hundreds of fights when they were boys. He understood a man’s need to lash out with his hands. It was when weapons were employed that he grew irate. He felt it gave his opponent an unfair advantage.

  “I’d deal with him myself,” Damian said, “but I think he broke a few of my ribs. Maybe my arm too.”

  “He broke your arm?” Kit was slow to anger, but when riled, he could be as violent as anyone.

  Kit leaned into the carriage and motioned to Harry, “You! Out!”

  “Sod off!” Harry blustered, but Damian could smell his fear.

  Kit clutched Harry’s coat and dragged him out, asking, “When you seized him, were you aware of his identity?”

  “Damian Drummond, but it doesn’t mean squat to me.”

  “What about my companion who went inside? His name is Michael Scott. If you’ve lived in London at all, I’m sure you’ve heard of him.”

  Tim muttered, “Dammit, Harry! We shouldn’t have joined in this foolishness.”

  Harry said to Tim, “We’ll be paid. Don’t worry.”

  Before he could turn back to Kit, Kit hit him with the club. The blow was fierce, and Harry collapsed to his knees. Kit wailed on him a dozen more times, beating him to the ground until he was a whimpering lump in
the dirt.

  Tim peeked out. “Blimey! Is he dead?”

  Kit was cool as ice on a winter day. “No, but if I stumble on him again prior to my departure from this coaching inn, he will be.” He lifted Harry so they were nose to nose. “No one touches Damian Drummond and emerges unscathed.”

  He threw Harry down, kicked him twice for good measure, then spun to Damian. “Let’s find Michael and get the hell out of here before I become angry.”

  Damian limped over, feeling much stiffer and more injured than he’d realized he was.

  “Great to see you again,” he told his old friend.

  “You’d better say that,” Kit complained. “I leave you alone for one lousy afternoon, and look what happens!”

  Sophia stood by herself in the front parlor at the manor. It was almost eleven o’clock, and Miles’s wedding was about to begin. No one else had arrived yet. Not her mother, and most particularly not the bride or groom.

  Mr. Drummond had been hauled off in chains, and there had been no explanation as to why that indicated they should rush the ceremony. Miles and Portia were important members of elevated families. They should have been in the church in the village with the organ blaring and the whole neighborhood cheering them on.

  Instead the vicar would flit in, read some quick vows, then flit out again. It was the most boring, uninspiring nuptial fête she could imagine. It made no sense, but then nothing made sense anymore.

  She’d been off shopping when the ruckus had erupted, and she was glad she hadn’t witnessed it. The household was in an uproar, and if she’d had a choice, she’d have skipped the entire celebration. She was so enraged by Miles and the trouble he’d caused, and in her opinion he could wed Portia or jump in the lake, but her mother had demanded she attend.

  She kept peeking around corners, listening for Kit, for Georgina. She was desperate to speak with both of them. Kit had ridden off to retrieve Mr. Drummond. But where was Georgina? No one seemed to know.

  Her cousin was definitely missing. Her bedchambers—both at Drummond Cottage and at the manor—were empty, her clothes gone. With the staff hastily preparing for the impromptu wedding, she couldn’t get anyone to agree that perhaps they should search for her.

  After the ceremony, Sophia wasn’t about to sit with Miles and Portia and eat their stupid wedding breakfast. She would start in the attic and scour every nook and cranny in the manor until she found some hint of where Georgina was hiding.

  Noise emanated in the foyer, and she assumed it would be Portia and her parents. Yet when the butler opened the door and she glanced over, Harold Bean and his mother walked in. She hadn’t seen him since he’d jilted her.

  “Harold!” Sophia snapped. “What are you doing at Kirkwood?”

  He had the decency to look abashed. “Your mother invited us to the wedding.”

  “She what?”

  “She invited us.”

  “Well, I uninvite you!”

  “That’s really not done, Sophia. We are your closest neighbors.”

  “I don’t care. How dare you show your sorry face here where you’re so despised.”

  His dour, gloomy mother offered, “We were invited, Sophia. What part of that don’t you understand?”

  “Be silent you old shrew.”

  They huffed with indignation, but she ignored them and stormed out to speak with her mother.

  How could Augusta blithely have him and Mother Bean pop over for a visit? Was Sophia the only one in the family with any pride? She was so incensed she was surprised she could stand up straight.

  Suddenly she was deluged by a wave of fondness for Kit Roxbury. Where was he when she needed him? He’d hurried off to hunt for Mr. Drummond, and she had to believe he’d come back. She’d told him she couldn’t marry him, but in rejecting him, she’d made a horrible mistake.

  When her option was to remain at Kirkwood with Miles and Portia, Kit could provide a perfect ending. She had to stop being so fussy and bind herself to the sole person in the world who wanted her and would always protect her.

  Despite what Miles claimed, Mr. Drummond owned Kirkwood, and when he ultimately confronted Miles, the conclusion wouldn’t be pretty. She intended to be safely at Kit’s side where she’d be out of harm’s way.

  She dashed through the foyer and had proceeded to the stairs when the butler approached.

  “Miss Sophia?” he said.

  “Yes?”

  “You were asking about Miss Georgina.”

  “Has she been located?”

  “No, but a footman just returned from the village. He spent the night there with his parents or I might have heard this sooner.”

  Her pulse raced. “What is it?”

  “Miss Georgina left.”

  “For where?”

  “I don’t know. He drove her into the village yesterday afternoon so she could catch the mail coach.”

  Sophia frowned. “The mail coach? What on earth for?”

  “I have no idea. She had her portmanteau with her so evidently she’d packed her clothes, which is why we couldn’t find them.”

  “Was there any mention of where she was headed?”

  “No, and he didn’t feel it was appropriate to inquire.”

  “How did she appear? Was she upset? Was she sad?”

  “She seemed very, very happy.”

  “Who asked him to take her?”

  The butler stoically glared as if conveying an important message he was anxious for her to receive. “I’m told it was your mother.”

  “My mother…” Sophia repeated.

  Of course it would have been Augusta. Over the past few hours, Sophia had pestered her a dozen times as to whether she’d seen Georgina. Her mother had insisted she hadn’t, but clearly she’d been lying.

  Sophia spun and ran up the stairs. What could have happened? Her mother loathed Georgina so the myriad of possibilities was terrifying.

  She arrived at her mother’s door and burst in without knocking. To her consternation, Portia was present. She and Augusta were seated by the hearth and drinking a glass of wine. They looked sly and triumphant, as if they were celebrating.

  “We were about to come down, Sophia,” her mother said. “There was no need to fetch us.”

  “Harold and his mother are down there! How could you invite them?”

  “They’re our neighbors. Why wouldn’t I have?”

  Her mother seemed genuinely perplexed, and Sophia bristled with rage. She’d always detested her mother’s autocratic ways, and apparently she’d reached the limit of what she could tolerate.

  “He jilted me!” She was nearly shouting. “Have you conveniently forgotten?”

  Her mother waved away the comment. “It was a misunderstanding. Now that Miles’s business dealings are settled, I’m sure Harold will be eager to renew your engagement. I’ve already talked to his mother about it.”

  “You think I’d have him back?”

  “Why wouldn’t you? You’re much too immature, Sophia, so you require his steadying influence. I’ve explained this over and over. He’ll be the perfect husband for you.”

  She thought of handsome, dashing Kit Roxbury who wanted her so desperately. She thought of how he gazed at her, how he smiled at her as if she was the most extraordinary female in the kingdom.

  “I would rather slit my wrists than marry Harold Bean, and if he and Mother Bean stay, I will not attend the ceremony!”

  “Honestly, Sophia,” Portia said, “you’re being appallingly melodramatic.”

  “Shut up, Portia. I’m speaking to my mother. Not you.”

  “Don’t take that attitude with me.” Portia sounded like an elderly matron. “I’m about to be mistress here. Your continued residence in the manor will be at my pleasure. I suggest you treat me accordingly, or you’ll be begging Harold to have you.”

  “You’d better be careful, Portia. If you stick your nose any higher into the air, you’ll float off into the sky.”

  “You little w
itch! You will not behave so disdainfully to me!”

  “Girls! Girls!” Augusta chided.

  Sophia whipped her irate focus to her mother. “Where is Georgina? Where has she gone?”

  There was the slightest pause, the quickest furtive glance between Portia and her mother, and it told Sophia what she needed to know. They’d done something awful to her.

  “Where has Georgina…gone?” Augusta struggled to appear confused by the question. “I wasn’t aware that she’d left.”

  “Don’t lie to me!” Sophia was next to a decorative table and she banged her fist on it, sending the knickknacks smashing to the floor.

  “Sophia!” Portia scolded. “Look at the mess you made!”

  “This is none of your affair, Portia!” Sophia bellowed. “Be silent!”

  “Return to the front parlor, Sophia,” her mother ordered. “I won’t put up with you when you’re in such a volatile condition. Your tantrum underscores the necessity for you to marry a man of Harold’s temperament.”

  “You always hated Georgina,” Sophia fumed.

  Augusta considered the charge, then nodded. “I suppose that’s a valid assessment.”

  “What did she ever do to you?”

  “She did nothing. I simply never liked her, and it was wrong of your father to burden me with raising her.”

  “Really, Mother? Is that your story?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you ever heard the servants’ gossip about it?”

  “I don’t listen to servants’ gossip and neither should you.”

  “They say you were in love with Georgina’s father. They say you wanted to elope with him yourself, but Georgina’s mother snagged him first, and you’ve always been hideously jealous because of it.”

  A muscle ticked in Augusta’s cheek. “Don’t be ridiculous. I was betrothed to your father when Sergeant Fogarty came to town.”

  “I bet you’d have tossed Father over swiftly enough if Fogarty had noticed you. Rumor has it that Georgina’s mother was very pretty. Is that why you hate her? You look at her, see her mother, and remember how Sergeant Fogarty preferred her to you?”

  “I can’t abide your slurs, Sophia. You need to go downstairs. Now!”