“Smart man,” Burn said, repeating his thought out loud. “No wonder he’s going to end up richer than the rest of us combined, devil take him. Very well. Fifteen it is.”
Timothy didn’t blink. “Twenty.”
“Eighteen.”
“It was a pleasure to meet you, Lord Burn.”
“Oh, sit down,” the earl grumbled when Timothy began to gather up his papers, “and have a glass of scotch. If you and Graystone are going to insist on robbing me blind you might as well be civil about it.”
Hiding a grin of his own, Timothy sank back down into his chair. He had come to work for Gavin three weeks ago, and in that short amount of time his respect and admiration for his employer had grown to epic proportions. People often asked him why he thought Gavin was so successful. The answer, to Timothy’s mind, was simple enough.
Gavin was not afraid of failure.
He was a man who knew what it was like to go hungry. He had done it before, and was prepared to do it again. He carried that nonchalance with him into every meeting. It frightened and intimidated far more than any words or actions ever could, and as a result he almost always got exactly what he wanted.
Only Timothy and Ernie knew that Gavin was beginning to dictate more of his responsibilities. This was not the first meeting he had left early, nor would it be the last. Timothy would often catch him staring off into space, a vague smile on his lips, and knew he was not thinking of the business at hand but rather of his wife.
He would never hand over the reins completely – of that Timothy was certain – but there was a shift taking place. An unspoken rearranging of priorities. Timothy only hoped one day he would find someone who put the same light in his eyes that he saw in Gavin’s. Until then business would be his mistress, a mistress he had willingly inherited from his employer.
Pulling a contract from beneath the pile of papers, he pushed it across the desk towards the earl and offered a quill freshly dipped in ink. “Your signature, my lord.”
Releasing one long, suffering sigh Burn bent his head and signed.
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
Charlotte went for Dobson’s eyes.
Curling her fingers she clawed mercilessly at his face, stabbing and scratching at the soft, doughy flesh until blood trickled down her wrists and stained the sleeves of her dress a dark, ugly crimson.
Dobson howled in agony. He wrenched himself from side to side but Charlotte clung to him with all the tenacity of a feral dog, unhooking her claws only when he managed to get a fist between them and plowed it into her stomach.
“My eyes!” He staggered blindly away, upending a small wooden table. It crashed to its side, splintering on impact. “You bitch! You’ve blinded me.”
Ignoring the pain in her abdomen, Charlotte darted forward, wrapped her hands around one of the spindly legs jutting out from the broken table, and wrenched it free. She tripped over the hem of her skirts and stumbled, but managed to right herself without falling. Holding the table leg in front of her like a club, she waved it at the butler’s mangled face. Tears she hadn’t even realized she was crying streamed down her cheeks, mixing with the blood splatter from the long, vicious gouges in Dobson’s cheeks to create a macabre watercolor.
She swung the leg. Dobson tried to jump back, but with his eyesight compromised he moved clumsily. She brought it down across the arm he raised to protect his face and the impact of wood against flesh sang through her entire body. Dobson cried out in pain. Charlotte felt only grim satisfaction.
“Bastard,” she hissed. Raising the leg she waved it menacingly in the air. The butler cringed, tripping over his own feet in his haste to get away. He landed sprawled in a heap, pinned between a bureau with a long scratch mark running down the length of it and the wall. He did not try to get up. Charlotte was not surprised by his cowardice.
It took a coward to attack an unarmed woman. A coward to plan something so devious. A coward to attempt to carry it through. She tried not to think of what would have happened if he had managed to get her out of the house and into the carriage. Instead she thought of why Dobson would ever do such a thing, and when no answer immediately presented itself she could not help but ask.
Still keeping a tight grip on the makeshift club, she rested it over one shoulder and kept her gaze pinned on the butler. He may have appeared outwardly defeated, but she was not about to let herself be fooled by him again.
“What did I do to make you hate me so? I have done you no wrong. I have never been unkind to you.”
Squinting up at her out of the eye that wasn’t swollen shut, Dobson said, “Your husband never should have purchased Shire House to begin with. If not for him, none of this would have happened.”
“But why?” she persisted. Her hands unconsciously tightened on the club, her knuckles turning white. “Without Gavin, the house would have fallen into complete ruin.”
“Because it was not his to buy!” Dobson’s face darkened to a deep, incensed red. “It should have been mine. It all should have been mine.”
Charlotte shook her head. Devoid of pins, her hair tumbled in a long tangle of curls down her back. With her torn and bloodied dress, bruised throat, and swollen eyes she imagined she looked quite a fright. Her body ached. Her chest burned. She wanted nothing more than to soak in a hot bath for the next three days straight, but she couldn’t leave without knowing what had pushed Dobson over the edge into insanity.
Nothing he said made sense. As head butler Dobson was given a comfortable salary, but he never would have possessed the means to buy Shire House outright, a fact he surely must have been aware of. “I do not understand.”
“Of course you don’t.” Turning his head to the side, he spat on the floor. His saliva was the color of blood. “You are a woman. As weak and spineless as the rest of them.”
“Funny,” she said softly, “you did not seem to find me weak and spineless a few moments ago.”
He flushed. “You caught me off guard, that’s all. Underneath that pretty face you’re just like my mother. A helpless, cowering, pitiful excuse of a human being who couldn’t give her son what was owed to him by birth!”
A piece of the puzzle fell into place. “You truly believe Shire House is rightfully yours, don’t you?”
“Because it IS mine!” Dobson shouted. He started to get up on his knees, but one pointed swing of the chair leg had him crouching back down. “It is mine.” He spoke in the sullen tone of a child. “It was always meant for me since the moment I was born. He didn’t have any other children, did he? His wife was barren. Serves the bitch right. Always walking around here with her nose up, barking orders left and right.”
Charlotte nearly dropped her club. “Lord Shire was your father. You… You are his son.”
“His illegitimate son,” Dobson said scornfully. “My mother could have made him claim me, but no. I was an accident, she told me. A mistake made after Lord Shire went up to the servants quarters looking for someone to tup after a few too many glasses of wine. To cover it up she married the butler before she began to show. He had had his eye on her for years, never knowing what kind of a slut she really was. Shire House should have belonged to me! I grew up inside her walls. I cared for her when I came of age. I loved her as no one else ever did, and what is my reward? Bowing and scraping to the likes of your husband, a man without an ounce of blue blood in his veins!”
So much hate, Charlotte thought dazedly. It had festered inside of Dobson all of his life. Hate for his mother. Hate for his father. Hate for those who had what he could not. It was a wonder he managed to hold onto his sanity for as long as he did, and despite the pain of what he had put her through she could not help but feel a stirring of pity.
“I am certain your mother provided for you the best she—”
“What do you know of it? You, a lady who married a commoner! Your husband is nothing.”
Ignoring the protesting ache and pull of her muscles, Charlotte drew herself to her full height and lifted her chin
. “He means something to me, and that is all that matters. I am sorry your life did not turn out as you hoped, but we all have choices to make, and you will have to answer for yours.”
Dobson glared at her. “I have no one to answer to, least of all—”
“CHARLOTTE! CHARLOTTE, WHERE ARE YOU?”
At the achingly familiar sound of Gavin’s voice, Charlotte forgot Dobson existed. Her knees wobbled and she was forced to lean against a desk. At last, she thought. It is over at last. The chair leg clattered to the floor. Relief came in a sigh, one that threatened to turn into a sob before she choked it back and called out, “In here! Gavin, I am in here.”
She heard his pounding footsteps as he raced through the house. The door to the parlor was swung open so hard it crashed into the wall and plaster rained down in white powdery flakes. Gavin did not even seem to notice. He had eyes only for Charlotte, and when he took in her disheveled appearance he released a vicious curse the likes of which she had never heard before.
“Who did this to you?” His eyes wild, his face pale, he kicked aside what remained of the broken chair and pulled her against the length of his hard body, cradling her as though she were made of delicate glass, which at the moment it felt as though she was. She wrapped her arms tightly around him, clutching at the folds of his jacket as she inhaled his scent.
“I am so glad you’re here,” she murmured, burrowing her face into his chest. “I was so frightened.”
He touched her gently, his hands running down the length of her spine before traveling up her arms and across her ribcage as though to ensure himself she was all in one piece before he cupped her cheeks. She stared up at him, her eyes swimming with unshed tears, and he swore again. “All of the blood—”
“It isn’t mine. Well, most of it isn’t,” she amended.
“Who?” he repeated harshly. “Tell me who did this to you.”
Charlotte did not speak. She simply pointed.
“Dobson?” The shock in Gavin’s voice was mirrored by the shock on his face. He gazed slack jawed at his trusted butler, seemingly unable to move, before Charlotte felt a hard shudder wrack his body and he released her to throw himself at Dobson.
The butler screamed like a stuck pig and then there was only the sound of flesh hitting flesh, furious curses, and mewling whimpers.
“Gavin, stop. You are going to kill him. Gavin, STOP!”
Breathing heavily, Gavin whirled away from Dobson. The butler appeared unconscious but alive. His nose was grotesquely broken, as well as his jaw. It hinged crookedly off to one side, and Charlotte averted her gaze.
A vein pulsed in Gavin’s forehead. His hands, streaked red with blood, were still curled into fists. His chest rose and fell in time with his raggedly drawn breaths, and the pain in his eyes reflected the pain she felt in her body. “He hurt you.”
“Yes,” she acknowledged with a nod, “he did. Have him arrested. Have him sent away so I never have to see him again, but do not kill him. I do not want his death on your conscience.”
Gavin swallowed with visible difficulty and Charlotte took his hand. How odd it felt, and yet how right at the same time, to be the one giving comfort. It steadied her, grounded her, and without speaking she leaned up on her tiptoes to press a soft kiss to his cheek. “I am going to have a bath drawn,” she whispered into his ear, “and go lay down in our bed. Will you come to me when you are done with this?”
“I need to know why—” he began, but she silenced him by pressing a finger to his lips.
“I will tell you everything,” she promised. “But first, I need to bathe and change and you need to arrange to have him taken away.”
He gave a hard, tense jerk of his head which she took for a ‘yes’. Looping her arms around his neck she squeezed him tight, as though to reassure herself of his realness, before she stepped around and left the room without sparing Dobson a second glance.
Gavin waited until Charlotte had closed the door behind her to kneel over Dobson. Staring down at the bruised, battered face of his butler he felt neither regret nor sympathy for the beating he had inflicted. Dobson’s wounds would heal with time; his nose worse for wear, his jaw never working quite right again, but he would recover, and he would live if the court so wished it. One thing was for certain: he would never touch Charlotte again.
“If not for her I would choke the life out of you with my bare hands. You hurt the one person most precious to me in the entire world. If you had killed her…” Unable to finish the threat for the rage pulsing through him, Gavin stood up.
He made the necessary arrangements, and Dobson was dealt with accordingly. Still unconscious he was loaded into a carriage and taken to Newgate where Gavin’s money and influence would ensure he remained imprisoned for the rest of his miserable life. He sent Ernie along to ensure the butler ended up where he was supposed to and went upstairs to find Charlotte.
She was sleeping curled up on his side of the bed, her hands tucked between her thighs and a line of worry creasing her brow. Smoothing away the line with a kiss, Gavin silently undressed and stretched out beside her.
She had changed into a ivory nightgown with a high neck and long sleeves trimmed with lace, but the soft fabric was unable to cover all of her bruises. They were already turning purple and would be darker still by morning, temporary tattoos that spoke silently of the abuse she suffered.
There had been bruises on Dobson as well, he recalled. Bruises not delivered by his own hand. Charlotte had fought for her life. Even faced with outstanding odds she had not given up, nor given in. She was a true warrior, both inside and out. It would be a foolish man who ever thought he could stand against her. Thankfully Gavin did not consider himself foolish.
If his soul had not already belonged to her he would give it to her now. She deserved it. She deserved everything: his love, his adoration, his devotion. Without her he was only half of a whole, and while it had not taken her near death to make him realize what he felt in his heart was real, it was the urging he needed to tell her his true feelings, for the thought of something happening to her without her knowing the depth of his love was more than he could stand.
It was early yet – the sun was only just setting – but with his arms wrapped protectively around her slight body and his eyes drifting closed, a deep sleep claimed him within moments.
Charlotte’s dreams were of Gavin.
His voice. His touch. His heartbeat.
He consumed her, and when she woke it was not in a blind, fearful panic, but slowly and softly, summoned by the gentle stroke of his fingertips along the long, sweeping curve of her arm.
When her eyes blinked open she stared into his eyes, and when he smiled she smiled, and when he kissed her she kissed him back.
“Good morning,” she murmured sleepily once they had broken apart.
“Good morning,” he returned, his voice husky and deep.
For a long time they simply basked in the glow of each other as they had never done before; accepting and receiving each other’s love in a silent ebb and flow that filled Charlotte with contentment. When Gavin’s expression grew serious, she took a deep breath and shared what had happened with Dobson as thoroughly as she could, leaving no part, no matter how trivial, unspoken.
He listened without question, his face expressionless save the darkening of his eyes when she divulged the duke’s involvement.
“Crane will never plague you again,” he vowed when she was finished. “You have my word.”
Charlotte did not ask what he intended. That chapter of her life was closed, and she was ready for the next to begin. Whether Gavin liked it or not she was going to tell him exactly how she felt. She knew he loved her. She knew it. Whether he chose to share his own feelings would be up to him. Her depth of love for him would remain unchanged either way, and having faced down a man drowning in the depths of insanity she rather thought telling her own husband she loved him would be quite easy by comparison.
“Gavin, I have been mean
ing to tell you—”
“Charlotte, there is something I must say—”
Wide-eyed they stopped speaking at the same time, and Charlotte laughed. “Go on,” she said, gesturing with her free hand. The other was tucked snugly against Gavin’s chest. She rested her head comfortably on his pillow, breathing in his scent, a scent that had become as familiar to her as her own.
Gavin leaned up on one elbow. He stared down at her, his expression softened by the light in his eyes, and said, “I know what I am and I know what I am not. I am not a high born lord, no matter how hard I strive to play the part, and I know I do not deserve a high born lady as my wife.”
“Oh, for goodness sake—”
“Hush.” His scowl was fierce and completely feigned. “I am speaking, woman.”
“Woman, is it?” One russet eyebrow arched. “Say that again and we’ll see if you can speak without a tongue in your mouth.”
He grinned. “You take down one butler and turn blood thirsty. The poor man never had a chance.”
“He didn’t, did he?” she agreed happily. In the light of day with Gavin by her side, she felt as though she could have taken on a hundred Dobson’s. “But go on. I am sorry for interrupting.”
Gavin tugged on her hair, now contained in one long braid that looped over her shoulder. “Where was I?”
“You were telling me how you do not deserve me. Which is positively absurd. I could have been a duchess, you know, and if titles and status meant a farthing to me I would be one now. But I am not. I am not because a handsome stranger came to my rescue and swept me off my feet. You are not a lord, Gavin. You are a knight. A knight who rescued a damsel in distress.”
He snorted. “I am about as much of a knight as you are a damsel in distress.”
“You do not think I am a damsel?”
“A red haired hellion more like it.”
She bared her teeth and struck him lightly on the arm. “Be nice.”
The Runaway Duchess Page 24