It would have been a simple thing to tell him that he might have considered that possibility before compromising her in Mrs. Cress’s garden. She could wound him with a single sentence. It wouldn’t be as dramatic as taking an army of lovers, but it would still be revenge, and a fitting one.
She couldn’t gather up so much as a kernel of enthusiasm for the idea. If she’d retained any lingering thoughts of vengeance after their courtship, they were gone now. And heavens, it felt so good to know she’d let go of that anger. Wonderful and liberating and—
“Adelaide.” Connor spoke her name like a warning.
Oh, yes, he’s worried.
She smiled, which did a fair job of surprising him. Then she took his face in her own hands and kissed him soundly on the mouth.
“Yes,” she declared after she’d released him. “I trust you.”
Aweight slid from Connor’s shoulders.
I trust you.
He wasn’t sure why he’d needed the words so badly, or why Adelaide felt the need to proclaim them as she had . . . But he had needed them, and he’d take them any way she cared to offer. Besides, this new mood was a sight better than seeing her in tears. A flogging round the fleet would be better than seeing Adelaide in tears.
“Well,” Adelaide said bracingly. “What shall we do about this mess?”
Her voice was brisk, but he could still see the shadow of worry in her eyes. It fed the outrage that had been steadily growing since the moment she’d began to tell him of Wolfgang’s threats. Careful to keep that anger safely hidden beneath the surface, he brushed a wisp of hair from her cheek and wished he could brush her fear away as easily.
“We’ve a week.” He pressed a kiss to her brow. “Give me a day to consider the options.”
Chapter 24
Connor didn’t need the day to think over his options. He knew exactly what needed to be done.
First he coaxed Adelaide into lying down in their chambers for a spell . . . Well, initially he coaxed, then he demanded, then he pled, then he tried all three simultaneously and that seemed to do the trick.
She muttered and grumbled, but nevertheless crawled under the covers and promised to remain there for at least an hour. Which left Connor free to seek out Wolfgang in his chambers.
He didn’t bother knocking, simply took the key from the housekeeper and let himself in.
“Good evening, Mr. Ward.”
Wolfgang stood by a washstand with a pair of gloves in hand, apparently under the impression he was free to go out for the night. “Hell, man, don’t you know how to knock?”
“Yes.” Connor stepped inside, closed the door behind him, and crossed the room, taking dark satisfaction in watching the nerves jump in Wolfgang’s eyes.
“You’ve something to say?” Wolfgang asked, sticking his chin out like a surly child. “Spit it out, then.”
“We’re to be frank, are we? Excellent.” Connor leaned a hip against the washstand. “I don’t like you. The only reason I’ve not been rid of you is because your sister retains some affection for the boy you once were. Until late, I saw no harm in that. And so, out of deference to my wife, I have been patience, even lenient with you.”
Wolfgang tossed his gloves aside and curled his lip. “I never wanted your—”
Connor reached out, grabbed Wolfgang by the throat, and in the space of a heartbeat, had him pinned against the wall.
“That leniency is at an end.”
Wolfgang gurgled a protest and clawed at the choking hand. Connor ignored both. “You used your son as a threat?”
It wasn’t possible for Wolfgang to respond. It wasn’t necessary either. Connor only asked as an excuse to prolong the conversation, and therefore the pleasure of squeezing the bastard’s throat. He wanted to keep squeezing, wanted to watch Wolfgang’s eyes roll to the back of his head. Take George, would he? Hurt Adelaide, would he?
“I will send you to hell before you cause one more second of heartbreak in this family. I will eviscerate you. Do I make myself clear?”
He loosened his grip to give Wolfgang the chance to nod, but the young man was either too stubborn or too stupid to take advantage of the opportunity.
“You can’t,” Wolfgang rasped. “Adelaide hates me, but she would never consent to physical—”
Connor squeezed and leaned closer to whisper, “Adelaide would never know.”
He waited for the awful light of understanding to dawn on Wolfgang’s face. There were all sorts of tragic accidents that could befall a man—a tumble from a horse, a sudden meeting with a speeding carriage, an unfortunate hunting accident. Connor had no intention of arranging for any of these to happen, but it served his purposes to have Wolfgang believe otherwise.
“Now have I made myself clear?” He loosened his grip once more.
“Yes,” Wolfgang choked out. “Yes.”
“Excellent.” Connor released him and watched him slide down the wall into a gasping heap on the floor. “Why do you owe Sir Robert four thousand pounds?”
Occupied with coughing and wheezing, Wolfgang didn’t immediately answer. His bulging eyes darted away, an unmistakable sign of an impending lie. Connor flexed his fist, persuading him to rethink the decision. “Why?”
“Letters,” Wolfgang finally spat, and the admittance acted like the release of a cork. The fight simply drained out of him. Closing his eyes on a groan, he let his head fall back against the wall. “He has letters.”
“What sort of letters?”
“Oh, Christ,” he moaned. “They’re from me . . . To Lord Stites.”
Connor knew the name. “You dallied with the son of a duke?” Not a wise decision but more common than some imagined.
Wolfgang rolled his head back and forth. “No. He took funds from his father. At my suggestion.”
“For what?”
“A financial scheme.” A broken laugh spilled from his lips. “He loved the idea. He salivated over the notion of cheating his own father out of money.”
And the letters, no doubt, spelled out every sordid detail of the crime. Idiot boy. “How much?”
“Ten thousand. We were to have five each. He kept it all.”
“How did Sir Robert obtain the letters?”
“I don’t know.” Wolfgang’s lids flew open. “What does it bloody matter? I stole from a duke. Do you know what that means? Do you realize what will happen to me when he discovers the truth?”
Given the involvement of the duke’s son, Connor imagined Wolfgang’s punishment would be swift and silent. A quick deportment or sudden disappearance were the most likely outcomes.
Pity he couldn’t count on it being the first.
He watched the young man’s chin sink to his chest and resisted the urge to tip it back up again with the toe of his boot. “You’re a foolish, selfish arse, Wolfgang, but for the sake of your family, and your neck, you are going to pretend otherwise for the next twenty-four hours and do exactly as you’re told. Understood?”
Wolfgang nodded weakly.
“Good. Stay here, talk to no one.”
Wolfgang looked up, a small spark of hope on his haggard face. “You’re going to give Sir Robert four thousand pounds?”
“I’m going to retrieve those letters,” Connor corrected. “And you are going to accept the commission I offered.”
Wolfgang nodded again, this time with more vigor. “I wanted to. When you—”
“I don’t give a damn what you want. Just do as you’re told.” Through with the conversation, he turned on his heel and headed for the door.
“Brice?”
“Bloody hell, what now?”
Wolfgang surprised him a little by lifting his face and making eye contact. “I wouldn’t have taken George. I know what I am, but . . . I’d never have done that to my own son. Adelaide has to know that.”
“She does. She knows I’d never have allowed it.” And with that, he left the room in search of his men . . . and the damn letters.
He found the
first already in the study, holding a good-natured argument with Graham over which of the local tavern wenches would be most likely to win at a footrace, and whether or not the lasses could be persuaded to give the contest a go. He persuaded them to drop the topic.
Discovering the whereabouts of the letters proved nearly as easy. Connor didn’t even have to bribe the information out of Mrs. McKarnin. Her gratitude for her new, and considerably more lucrative, position at Ashbury Hall was all the motivation she required.
“Articles of business are kept in the study,” she informed them. “Personal correspondence is stored in a wooden box next to the bed. The baronet never varied from his system of organization.”
“Thank you, Mrs. McKarnin.”
“My pleasure, sir.”
Graham turned to him after Mrs. McKarnin’s departure. “Blackmail is business.”
“Aye,” Michael agreed. “Who’s to fetch the letters, then?”
They all volunteered, and a lengthy debate ensued, all three men of the opinion that none were as fit for the task as himself.
Michael insisted that as a reformed thief, he was clearly the most qualified.
Gregory pointed out that Michael hadn’t picked a lock in thirty years, and if anyone was to risk his neck for a bit of paper and ink, it ought to be the man with the least to lose and the most to gain. He was old. He was tired. If he ended on the gallows, so be it. It wasn’t every day a worn-out old criminal like himself knew what it was to be a hero to a lass. He wanted that, just once, before he died.
It was a moving, albeit maudlin, sentiment.
Graham followed it up with an offer to see the job done for fifty pounds.
Connor leaned back in his chair. “It’s for me to do.”
This announcement was met with loud complaints from Gregory and Michael. Graham spoke over them.
“What’s the nature of these letters?”
Connor considered his answer. He’d been circumspect in his telling of events. Sir Robert had letters that Adelaide wanted returned, that was all he’d offered. He didn’t like keeping secrets from his men, particularly from Gregory and Michael, but he disliked the idea of Adelaide being the last to learn of her brother’s crimes even more. He’d inform her of the truth once he could assure her the letters no longer posed a threat. Then he would tell his men . . . Possibly. He’d see how she felt about it.
“Their nature is personal,” he replied.
Michael slammed a fist on the desk. “You letting your wife send personal letters—?”
“No.” He slanted Michael a withering glance for the insult. “They’re letters she wants. The contents would be of embarrassment to the family.”
“And Sir Robert knows it, does he?” Gregory demanded. “Been holding it over her head?”
“Over Wolfgang’s.”
“Ah,” Michael shared a knowing nod with Gregory. “That explains a thing or two, don’t it.”
Graham rose from his seat. “A moment, lads.”
“Bring us beer,” Michael tossed at him before turning to Connor. “Look here, boy, there’s no sense in you being the one what sneaks into Sir Robert’s. You’ve never done the thing.”
“Aye,” Gregory agreed. “And you’ve a family to be thinking of.”
Connor decided to let them argue a bit longer. They’d abide by his decision in the end, but there would be less grumbling in the long run if they felt they’d had their full say on the matter first.
Five minutes of heated debate later, the door opened and Graham crossed the room to toss a stack of letters on the desk. “These them?”
The room fell silent. Connor grabbed the top one and scanned the contents. “Bloody hell.”
“Is it them?”
“Yes.” He tossed the letter with the others and eyed Graham speculatively. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to grin or shout at the man. “How did you get these?”
“Usual way. Saw the box weeks ago, thought the contents might be worth something.” His mouth hooked up. “And they didn’t get checked so often as the silver.”
“Are these all of them?”
“Aye, and I want a hundred pounds for ’em.”
Connor didn’t take offense at the sudden rise in price. It was business. “I’ll give you the fifty and won’t break your neck for not having turned them over earlier.”
“Seventy-five and I’ll slip word to Sir Robert’s new valet that someone ought check the box.”
“Done.”
Connor flicked a glance at Gregory and Michael. After more than a decade of working together, a single pointed look was understood as readily as a verbal order. They rose together and left the room in silence, closing the door behind them.
Graham looked from the door to Connor. “If you’re thinking to snap my neck after all, you’ll find it’s got more steel than most.”
“I’ll not snap your neck. The deal is done.” He leaned back in his chair. “You’ve made a tidy profit these last few months.”
“Man’s got to live.”
“If he wants to live here, he’s got to mind the silver.”
Graham smiled at that and shook his head. “If I’d been after harming you and yours, I’d have used those letters same as Sir Robert.”
“Why keep them secret?” Connor asked, tapping the letters.
Graham shrugged. “I figured if the boy didn’t know the letters were about and you didn’t know the letters were about, then the lass didn’t know they were about. What was the point of bringing ’em to light?” A scowl settled over his face. “A girl don’t need to know every foul deed her brother’s done.”
“You could have destroyed them,” Connor pointed out.
“Aye, but this particular brother . . .” Graham narrowed his eyes and gave quick shake of his head. “I don’t trust. Never know when a bit of leverage might come in handy. You aim to use it?”
“No. I’ve my own means for keeping Wolfgang in line.” Financial manipulation and, failing that, brute force.
“I’d wager you do. Are we done?”
Connor jerked his chin in agreement. “We’re done.”
As Graham let himself out, Connor flicked the edge of one of the letters and swore. Bloody hell, they were going to break Adelaide’s heart.
Chapter 25
Adelaide told herself she wasn’t heartbroken—no more so than she’d been an hour before, anyway. There was only so much grief she was willing to bear for Wolfgang, and the last of it had disappeared when he’d threatened to take George. She was done with him.
She accepted the letters and Connor’s explanation of their contents with quiet resignation and watched them burn in the fireplace. When they’d gone to ash, she turned to Connor, wrapped her arms around him, and held tight until the heartache she refused to acknowledge was eased.
Wolfgang left Ashbury Hall at dawn the following morning. He was to go south, to another of Connor’s holdings, and wait there until he received word of his post.
His departure was a subdued event. He looked in on his sleeping son, nodded to Isobel in the hall, and walked to the waiting carriage with Adelaide. At her request, Connor and his men stayed away. There was no sense in forcing polite good-byes. No point in pretending the departure was anything other than what it was—a banishment.
He offered an apology. A single, softly spoken “I am sorry,” before he climbed inside the carriage and shut the door.
Adelaide believed he was, but whether he was sorry for the sake of his family or sorry that he’d made himself so miserable, she didn’t know. And because she couldn’t know, she made a conscious decision to leave the question alone and concentrate on what was right before her.
George was safe, Isobel was happy, and Wolfgang’s carriage was rolling away. He would start a new life far away from them all.
A hesitant smile spread slowly across her face as she turned away from the drive and walked into the house. With every step she took, she felt another weight slip from her shoulders, and t
he last of the marionette strings snap free.
She intercepted a maid carrying a fussy George in the great hall. The young woman cooed patiently, bouncing him gently on her hip.
“He woke up a mite cross, ma’am. I thought a walk about—”
“I’ll take him.” She transferred George onto her hip and brushed a hand over his disheveled hair. “Will you bring a small glass of milk to the parlor, please? And a plate of those pastries cook made yesterday.”
“The pudding filled, ma’am?”
“Yes, please.”
She felt like indulging. She wanted to pamper herself and spoil George.
“Let’s be a trifle reckless,” she whispered to George as she carried him into the parlor. She set him down on the plush carpet and watched him dart to the settee and shove his hands between the cushions. “There’s no spoon in there, darling. But just you wait, I’ve something even better coming for you.”
When the pastries arrived, Adelaide cut them into thirds while George slurped down his milk. She wiped pudding from her fingers, took a slice for herself and set the plate on the floor for George. Then she watched with tender amusement as he hunkered down on his haunches in front of the offering.
“Biscuits!”
“Biscuits, indeed.”
She took a seat next to him, uncaring that she was setting a terrible example by eating sweets on the floor with her fingers. A few moments of silliness would hardly ruin the child, and it was such a joy to watch him giggle and squirm and reach out to squeeze the creamy white pudding from one of the slices.
“Ooooh. Beetle.”
“Beetle? . . . Oh, ew.” She laughed and ruffled the silken curls of his hair. “No, it is not a squished beetle. It’s . . .” She took a bite of her slice and made a humming noise. “Mmmm.”
George mimicked her by cramming half the remains of his pastry into his mouth.
“You may have two,” she informed him, knowing full well he had no idea what that meant. It didn’t matter; she liked saying it.
An Unexpected Gentleman (The Haverston Family Trilogy Book 2) Page 25