He stared at the letter that sat untouched on his uncle’s desk. He slowly placed his hand atop the aged parchment, then snatched it away as if he’d been stung by a wasp. Damn it. How did a dead man still have this power over him? This was just a piece of paper. It meant nothing.
Drawing a deep breath, he pulled the letter toward him, carefully unfolded the parchment, and scanned the words. Bloody hell.
Mark,
If you’re reading this then I am gone. Your parents are also dead. I am sorry. I know how difficult it is. The same thing happened to me when I was a young man in my early twenties. I had no idea how to be a duke then, Mark. The truth is, there are days I still think I don’t know how. Your mother and I never had a simple relationship. She seemed hell-bent on defying every one of my wishes and I was too much of a fool to let it go. If I could go back now and see her again, I’d tell her that. Alas, I cannot.
I did not know your father well. I’m certain he was a good man. I do know that he adored your mother and while that should have been enough for me, at the time, it was not. I have lived with that regret all these years. I also know your father was a proud man. Your mother told me that he asked you to never rely on our side of the family. It’s a sentiment I cannot blame him for. But what you don’t understand is the importance of family to me too. I love both of my children more than my own life. The fact that I didn’t always agree with your mother’s actions is what pulled us apart and it is what I regret now more than anything.
I am asking you, Mark, to consider this side of your family now. Mary and I spoke just before she died. I told her I loved her. She said the same to me. Your uncle was there too. She asked both of us, should the need ever arise, to convince you to take up your rightful place in this family and become the duke. Hence, my writing this letter.
I know becoming the duke is probably the last thing you want to do, but think of your mother. It was not her fault that I pushed her away out of my vanity and need to control everything. I’m told that you’re like me in that way, that you also like to control things. If so, I think you’ll make a fine duke. I can only hope you learn from my mistakes. Do not push away the people you love and who love you because they refuse to be the people whom you think they should be. The duchy of Colchester needs you. Your mother, who never asked anything from you in life, needs you. Do not let her down.
Bloody hell. Frustration and rage roiled from the pit of Mark’s stomach and soared up his throat. He wanted to yell. He wanted to punch his fist through the nearest wall. The only thing that could counteract his father’s deathbed request was the same request from his mother. The papers slid through his hands and fluttered to the desktop. He pressed the heels of his hands to his temples and squeezed his eyes closed. He hadn’t even been there to hear his mother ask him. He hadn’t been there for her, to hold her hand and tell her he loved her as she died. He’d had to hear about it after the fact.
At least she hadn’t been alone. Apparently, she’d reconciled with her family before she died. But damn it, why, why did this have to be the case? He’d had his life carefully planned for years now and none of it involved his taking up the duchy of Colchester. None of it.
His head still bowed, he opened his eyes and stared at the papers in front of him. Although his grandfather had signed his letter, there was another page. Squinting, he pushed the first page aside and stared at the last page for several seconds before it registered that it was written in another hand.
His mother’s hand.
“No,” he whispered, closing his eyes again briefly. Anything but this.
He took a deep, fortifying breath and forced himself to concentrate on the page. The vellum trembled like a leaf in the breeze in his unsteady hands.
My darling Mark,
You’re in Spain now. My illness is progressing and I fear I will not see you again. There are things I must say to you. Things you don’t know. Your father and I loved you dearly of course, but I was the one who pushed away my family. I rejected them when they tried to make amends. It wasn’t the other way around. I regret that now, Mark, because I want you to know them. I want you to be connected to them. They love you. I know if you will give them a chance they will show you that. I regret that you grew up not knowing your cousins. I regret that you grew up not knowing your aunt and uncle. I sorely regret that you grew up not knowing your grandfather, due to my choices, not theirs and not yours. I know your father asked you to never rely on them. I would not ask that of you either. But what I do ask you, Mark, what I need from you, is to allow them to rely on you. If you’re reading this it’s because John is dead. I asked Edward to give you this letter. You’ve already proven yourself in this world, Mark. You’ve made yourself the man you are without any help from my family. The time has come for you to help them, however, and I am asking you, I am begging you not to turn your back on them. For my sake. I know you will do the right thing. Duty has always been important to you. Your duty now is to take up the title of Duke of Colchester when the time comes.
Love forever, Your Mother
Mark folded the letter and expelled his breath in a rush. Leave it to the members of the aristocracy to do things like write heart-wrenching letters to be produced in the event that an heir died. They were constantly planning to secure their titles.
Bloody hell. Part of him had hoped that his uncle had been lying. That his grandfather had been lying. That his mother hadn’t really reconciled with them. It would make the entire thing much easier to deal with. He could reject them and feel right about the whole thing. But there was no mistake. The words he’d just read were in his beloved mother’s handwriting. The tone of the letter was in her sweet voice. There was no way this wasn’t real. His mother had died of consumption. She’d been of sound mind when she went. She knew what she was doing and she’d asked him on her deathbed to let her family rely on him.
He folded his arms across the desktop and let his head drop onto them. Damn it all to hell. This changed everything.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Nicole blinked furiously at Regina. “What? How did you—”
Regina leaned back in her seat and folded her arms across her chest. “Don’t try to deny it, Nicole. John was murdered. I’m certain of it.”
“How did you know?” The demand emerged breathless from astonishment.
“So I’m right?” Regina leaned forward again, an eager look on her pretty face.
Nicole drummed her fingertips along the tabletop. “Merde. Yes, you’re right.”
“I knew it!” Regina clapped her hands.
Nicole narrowed her eyes on her friend. “But truly, how did you know?”
Regina set her teacup on the table in front of her and fingered the rim of the cup. She lifted one shoulder. “I read about his death in the paper and it simply didn’t make sense to me. John had never had an attack. He was a fit and healthy young man. When Uncle Edward asked us all to meet, I knew my suspicions were correct.” She leaned forward, her eyes wide. “There will be investigators here, won’t there be? Bow Street and the like?”
Nicole glanced around to ensure they were alone. She lowered her voice. “Yes, Mr. Oakleaf will be here.”
“Ooh, who is Mr. Oakleaf?” Regina asked brightly, rubbing her hands together in obvious glee.
“Mr. Oakleaf … Daffin is the best of the Bow Street Runners. He and I worked together years ago.”
Regina’s pretty blue eyes searched Nicole’s face. “A real Bow Street Runner will be here? I cannot wait to meet him. The investigation, it’s why you and Cousin Mark are here too, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Nicole admitted. “I’m not supposed to be investigating of course, but I’d like to see them try to stop me.” She grinned at Regina.
Regina laughed and clapped her hands. “Ah, that is why you’re my favorite, Nicole. Spoken just like a true Colchester.”
Nicole’s smile was forced. It made her cheeks ache. She wasn’t a Colchester and she never truly would be one. But p
erhaps … perhaps her child would be. If she and Mark ever managed to get to the business of creating one.
“What I don’t understand,” Regina continued, “is why you and Cousin Mark came back to London together before John was murdered. I mean, you were in London that night, weren’t you? Which meant you had to have been planning to come back before John died.”
Nicole’s breath hitched. How much should she tell Regina? “It’s true,” she said after a moment. “We were on our way back long before John died.”
Regina watched her cautiously. “Care to tell me why you two suddenly made up after ten years?”
Nicole sighed and scrunched up her nose. “Suffice it to say your cousin came to France and made me an offer that was impossible to decline.”
Regina’s jaw dropped. “Oh, no, now you must tell me more. You cannot—”
A slight knock on the door snuffed the conversation. The two women’s heads swiveled to see who was there.
Nicole jumped from her seat, hastily gathered her skirts in her hands, and hurried toward the door. “Daffin! It’s so good to see you.”
The Bow Street Runner seemed taller and blonder than ever. His green eyes sparkled, his square jaw was like the edge of a razor, and his muscles went on for miles. Nicole would be utterly infatuated if she had eyes for any man other than her own blasted husband. Daffin was a good man too. He’d give you the shirt off his back and could be called upon day or night to help in any crisis. She was honored to call him friend.
Daffin Oakleaf held out his arms and Nicole rushed into them, hugging him. “Good to see you too, Nic,” he said with a laugh.
“You must come meet my cousin Regina.” Nicole tugged him into the room. “She’s Mark’s cousin, actually, which makes her my cousin by marriage. She just mentioned how much she looked forward to meeting you.”
Regina rose from the table, her eyes bright and cheeks flushed, as Daffin made a slight swerve around Nicole and beelined straight to her. He stopped before her, and for a long moment, neither spoke. Nicole glanced back and forth between the two. Was it her imagination or had sparks leaped between them? They stared at each other intently, each sizing up the other.
Nicole shook her head, realizing her failure to make the proper introductions. “Lady Regina Haversham, this is Mr. Daffin Oakleaf.”
Regina picked up her black skirts with both hands and executed her best curtsy. “Mr. Oakleaf.”
“Mr. Oakleaf, this is Lady Regina. She is the duke’s niece.”
Daffin took Regina’s hand and bowed over it. “My lady, a pleasure. I’m sorry to hear of your cousin’s death.”
“Thank you, Mr. Oakleaf. I appreciate that, and the pleasure is all mine.” Regina’s blue eyes smoldered as she spoke.
Nicole continued to glance back and forth between them. Oh, yes, there was definitely a spark in the air.
“Are you still hiring ladies to be Bow Street Runners?” Regina asked Daffin, a saucy smile on her lips.
Daffin arched a blond brow. “Are you volunteering?”
“Yes,” Regina replied. “Yes, I am. Especially if I get to work with you.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Mark tossed back the final finger of brandy in his glass. He’d been drinking with Oakleaf in his uncle’s study for the last hour. In the shadows, the grandfather clock stirred to life, dutifully bellowing the midnight hour.
“What is it with women in your family and the desire to investigate crime?” Oakleaf asked him. He’d just finished relating the story of how he’d met Regina in the sunroom.
Mark shrugged. “I can’t explain it. It must run in our line.”
“Nicole told me I should hire her.” Oakleaf shook his head.
Mark pushed his empty glass around the desktop in a circle as he considered Oakleaf’s words. “Regina’s clever. Always has been. I should have known she would guess the truth about what happened to John.”
Oakleaf rubbed the back of his neck and groaned. “Yes, well, both ladies peppered me with questions for the better part of an hour. Lady Regina agreed to keep the news a secret, however.”
“Good.” Mark nodded, then shifted in his seat. “And was my wife a ‘sight for sore eyes’ as you said?” He narrowed his eyes on the runner.
“She’s a fine-looking woman.” Oakleaf emptied his glass and set it down with a resolute thud on the desk.
Mark was about to reply to that loaded statement when Oakleaf added, “As is your cousin Regina.”
Mark flicked the glass hard, making a pinging sound. He wanted to toss the bloody thing into the fireplace. Damn it. No good could come of arguing with Oakleaf. The man was obviously trying to rile him. No more brandy. It was time to retire. He and Nicole would be sharing a bedchamber tonight, and Oakleaf was right. She was a fine-looking woman indeed.
A hot jolt of anticipation streaked through Mark’s middle and settled in his groin. Would she welcome him into the bed or ask him to sleep in a chair in the corner? It was bloody ridiculous to contemplate, but he’d put it off for long enough. The last time they’d been alone together, in the coach, she’d said she needed him too. He’d known what she was really saying. She’d lived up to her part of the bargain, now it was time for him to live up to his.
Yes. He needed to be a man and make love to his wife, but it stuck in his craw that she’d mentioned his being upset about her involvement with the runners when they’d spoken in the coach. First, she’d failed to reveal that bit of news before they married. Second, and most importantly, it was true he hadn’t liked her involvement with Bow Street, but not for the reason she seemed to think.
The runners risked their lives on a daily basis, chasing down thieves and murderers. Nicole might enjoy the adventure, but she put herself at risk by working with Daffin. Mark had been scared witless every time he contemplated her being exposed to such danger. It wasn’t because he didn’t believe women could take care of themselves. Two of his best spies were Daphne and Danielle Cavendish, Rafe’s and Cade’s wives. He’d trust those women with his life. He would trust Nicole too. The difference was … God damn it, the difference was that he had loved Nicole. She was his family. The only family he had left. He’d watched his father die and he’d been absent for his mother’s death. Losing Nicole would have been too much for him. He’d never said those words aloud. Now it was too late. He’d take his own life before he’d tell her that.
He’d already had to pressure her to allow him to make love to her, not tup her like a common whore. If she didn’t want to call lying with him making love, she certainly wouldn’t want to hear those other words from him now.
He groaned and scrubbed both hands across his face. She wanted a baby. A piece of him that would open him up to the fear of loss, the unimaginable pain. The notion of having a baby made his stomach clench. He hated the thought of losing a child. Seeing his uncle’s reaction to John’s death made it worse. But Mark had agreed to Nicole’s condition. He would not go back on his word. Yes, tonight, he would keep his promise. It was time.
Mark stood and headed toward the door. “Good evening, Oakleaf.”
“Evening, Coleford.” The hint of a smile resided in the runner’s voice.
Mark’s only reply was a growl.
* * *
Nicole had asked Susanna to help her into the most risqué bit of lace and silk that could still qualify for a shift. She pulled her hair down and ran her fingers through it, brushing it until it shone. Next, she drank half a glass of wine to calm her nerves. Then she crawled into the middle of the fluffy white feather bed and kneeled in the center, waiting for Mark.
Not five minutes later, Mark opened the bedchamber door and strode inside as if on a mission. He headed for the antechamber where his clothing was, tugging at his cravat. He didn’t even glance up to look at her. Her knees trembled and her heart pounded. Was the man even going to acknowledge her?
After several minutes passed, she crawled off the bed, stood beside it, and cleared her throat. She placed a
hand on her hip to (hopefully) make herself a bit more enticing. Mark emerged from the antechamber, his coat and waistcoat off, his cravat gone, his boots removed, and his shirt opened to the waist, revealing glimpses of his muscled abdomen. He braced a forearm against the antechamber door frame and looked across at Nicole, his eyes hooded, smoky.
The moment their gazes met in the firelight Nicole realized he knew precisely what she was about. Dropping her hand to her side, she took a tentative step toward him, the slit in her shift coming all the way up to her hip, exposing her leg.
His throat worked when he swallowed. “You haven’t … retired yet, I see.”
“I have no intention of retiring.” She lifted her chin. “Not without you.”
Mark advanced on her. The determined set of his jaw and the heat in his eyes sent her pulse thrumming. He ripped his shirt from his shoulders and tossed it to the floor.
He backed her up to the wall behind the bed, his lips hovering a mere inch over hers, his hands pressed against the wall above both of her shoulders, caging her in with desire radiating heat from his body. He was so close to her. Could he see her heartbeat jumping beneath her breast?
“Are you certain this is what you want?” he asked, his tone even.
“I’ve never been more certain,” she breathed.
Apparently, that was all Mark needed. One hand moved down to cup her jaw, while his mouth captured hers. The second their tongues met she wrapped her arms fiercely around his neck. It felt so good, his strong, unyielding body pressed to hers, to drink in the taste of him, to let her mouth soften beneath his. The feel of his hands on her was so right. Like coming home again. She hadn’t experienced this sort of passion since she’d left England and she’d doubted she ever would again. She had to enjoy however many nights they spent together. Enjoy them and remember them forever.
He reached down and pulled up her shift to her hips in one swift, sure movement. He was as desperate as she was as they both ripped at the fall to his breeches. The moment he was free, he pushed boldly between her legs, so caught up in his passion that he didn’t measure her readiness, but it didn’t matter because she was more than ready for him.
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