“You go too far, gel,” he said, insulted. “No woman could have bewitched me from your sweet mama. She was everything to me. Losing her almost destroyed me!” The pain of his loss was still as fresh as if it had taken place yesterday instead of years earlier. He snatched the drink off the tray his valet carried, and dismissed him with a curt nod.
“I know. I take it all back.” She bit her lower lip, horrified that her careless words had stirred his endless grief. “Is it wrong for me to want nothing less?”
“No,” he conceded somberly. “Are you telling me this Milroy feels little for you?” His expression revealed his skepticism. Both were recalling Keanan’s last visit to their household, and the near violence it took removing him.
“He pursued me because Lord Nevin was interested. Somewhere along the way, I became more than a faceless pawn. I doubt he understands his feelings any more than I do.”
“My opinion still holds. Keanan Milroy is not worthy of you.” He put his hands on her shoulders. “That lad has pursued his demon sire for most of his life, not knowing if he would embrace or kill him when he cornered him. Having another to blame for Reckester’s murder might allow him to bury his anger. Give him a chance to hunger for more than vengeance.”
She circled in his arms to face him. “The duke is dead?” A wave of dizziness swept over her. She grasped her father’s arms to keep from falling. The insidious thought that Keanan might be responsible whispered though her, though all the while, her heart denied it. “Have they caught the killer?”
“No.” Understanding softened his grim features. “Ah, Wynne, my gel. As much as I would relish young Milroy out of your life, even I can see he is not the sort to hide in the shadows and murder an unarmed man.”
Finding comfort in her father’s assurance, she asked, “So you think he is incapable of murder?”
“Not exactly,” he hedged. “If a man like Milroy wanted you dead, he wouldn’t be skulking in street filth at midnight. He would meet his foe direct, and there would be no mistaking his intentions.”
“You speak as if you understand him.”
Coaxing her head to his chest, he rocked her gently, as he had done when she was a child and had need of his comfort. “I do. Any man who arrogantly declares my daughter his, warrants investigation.”
“His life has been so horrid,” she said, recalling what he had told her about his childhood.
“Parts. We all have sadness in our lives. Still, he managed to make something of himself. That should tell you something.”
Curious, she looked up.
“Milroy might have been thrown out of this house, but he will be coming back.”
* * *
Brook awoke at Tipton’s touch. Terror surfaced when she noted her state of undress.
“You are safe, Lady A’Court. Do you know who I am?”
Touching her various bandages, she slowly nodded. “Yes, you are Lord Tipton.”
“My apologies for awakening you. The duration of your sleep had me worried that I had overlooked an injury to your head.”
The lingering lethargy in her gaze vanished. She would have sat up if he had not pressed her shoulder back into the pillow. “I must leave.”
“You have trusted me until now with your care, Lady A’Court.” He did not mention that she had been unable to do otherwise. “Do you recall who did this to you?”
Tears drenched her pale-blue eyes. “He hurt me—m-my husband.”
His jaw clenched in restrained fury. This poor woman had endured enough violence at the hands of a man. She lacked the disposition for witnessing it unleashed even on her behalf. “How long has he been abusing you?”
“My husband has not been abusing me, my lord. It is his right to correct me,” she said without inflection, as if the words had been branded into her memory. “I have always been an impulsive, spirited child. I was honored he chose me to be his countess and showed enough interest to guide me when I erred.” The well of tears overflowed, slipping down her cheeks.
She had to be addled if she believed such tripe, he thought in disgust. “Well, madam, you almost did not survive your husband’s last instruction.”
Wiping her tears with the back of her hand, she said, “It was a mistake. Usually, he is careful not to leave any visible marks. He was just so angry, you see.”
“All too clearly, Lady A’Court.” He suspected from the scars on her back and abdomen that she had been mistreated from the day she was wedded. Not all the injuries were superficial. Her mental state concerned him, if she truly believed she deserved this vile handling.
“I hurt so. There was the baby to think of. I had to get away. I did not dream Wynne?”
“No. You arrived at the Bedegraynes’ and collapsed. Wynne summoned me immediately.”
Her hand slid down, resting over her womb. “The babe. He is well?”
Tipton could see no alternative for softening the truth. “I am sorry. Your child did not survive. The injuries you sustained—” He halted, watching her curl away from him. Her wretched sobs slashed at him.
“My fault … my fault,” she repeated over and over.
Helpless, he held her hand and allowed her to cry out her grief. He could tend her wounds, but not the one shattering her heart. Choosing to focus on the details he could control, his dark thoughts turned to the elusive Lord A’Court. The man deserved the lash. Until he could be found and caged like the animal he was, Tipton would make certain his patient remained out of his reach.
* * *
“Mr. Milroy, you are too kind, indulging an old woman’s whims,” Aunt Moll cheerfully flattered, while they enjoyed an afternoon stroll in Kensington Gardens.
Purposefully keeping pace with her limping stride aided by her cane on one side and his strong arm on the other, Keanan smiled down at her. “Ma’am, be fair. Your invitation was a royal summons, one I humbly heeded.”
She snorted in disbelief. “I am wise to you, sir. If you are humble, it is a method of gaining what you desire.”
“Let us not be coy. We share a mutual goal, one you have supported from the beginning.”
“My niece,” she agreed, seemingly pleased they could speak so forthrightly. “You have been a most difficult suitor, Mr. Milroy.”
An image of Wynne, her stubborn chin set, rose unbidden in his thoughts. She had sent him away, believing she was less important to him than claiming his inheritance. Once, he would have agreed. “Then we are even, for I have never met a more headstrong woman.”
Stopping, she admired the view of the palace on the horizon. “So what are your plans?”
He kicked at the stones on the gravel path. Considering her friendly, conspiring demeanor, he suspected Wynne had not told her aunt of the child she carried. “Things have been confusing of late. It is best I keep my distance. Sir Thomas has probably issued orders that I be shot if I dare approach the house again.”
Aunt Moll lifted one of her dainty gloved hands and whopped him on the ears. She put enough strength into it to make his ear sting.
“What was that for?” he demanded, rubbing his injured ear.
“For giving up too easily. You should be willing to endure all manner of hardships to secure her hand.”
“She will not have me,” he admitted, the bitterness still strong.
“Wynne has pride and temper and can wield them like a weapon if someone has hurt her. Woo her, Mr. Milroy. Show her that she has a place in your life.”
“And do I have a place in hers, Aunt Moll? I will never be the sort of man Bedegrayne wants for his precious daughter. True, I have money. She would not starve in my care. Even so, I will always be Reckester’s bastard. There will be talk. How long do you think she will stomach the stares and cruel gossip before she starts resenting me for it? And what of our children? My shame stains them as well.”
Noticing the movement of her hand, Keanan prudently stepped out of range.
“You underestimate Wynne if you think she would abandon you becaus
e a few insignificant individuals speak unkindly. And what about you? How can you prove that you covet more than her name and body?”
If a man had asked him that insolent question, he would have struck him down. “I walked into a club and challenged five ruthless men for besmirching her honor. Those belligerent fellows are most likely plotting my demise. I ask you, what more can a man do to prove himself?”
Sensing his fear, she was sympathetic. “Do not walk away.”
* * *
After he had returned Aunt Moll to her house, Keanan resisted the urge to call on Wynne. Instead, he drove the carriage, another recent acquisition, home. Despite her aunt’s assurances that Sir Thomas’s concerns were more for his daughter’s happiness than for his bloodlines, he doubted he would ever be the old man’s first choice for Wynne’s husband.
Married.
The direction of his thoughts stunned him. One afternoon with her dotty aunt had him foolishly weaving impossible dreams. The lady in question did not trust him, and her father wished he would simply die. It was a dubitable beginning for all, and he had seen too much hardship in his life to trust in happy endings.
“Sir, a word, if you please.”
Too lost in his unpleasant thoughts, he had not heard the boy approach. Judging from his ragged clothing, and a sober wariness that only pain could bring in a child his age, Keanan recognized a part of himself in that young grimy face.
“Have you eaten?”
“’Avent come a’ begging, sir. I’ve been employed to deliver ye a message,” the lad said, puffing up with importance.
Climbing down from the phaeton, Keanan let his groom take his place and see to the horses. “Well, let’s hear it.”
The boy scrunched his face, concentrating on the exact words he had been paid to repeat. “I was to tell ye that a certain gentleman ’as papers of vast importance to ye. They’re yours if yer willing to pay their worth.”
He had anticipated this offer, understanding the temptation Reckester’s missing papers provided. Still, it could be a ruse. “How much?”
“Thirty pounds,” he said, confirming it with a nod when Keanan lifted his brows at the amount. “The meeting is set for ten o’clock in Covent Garden. Come alone, ’e warns, and no pops, else ’e’ll peddle the papers to some other chap.”
The man had chosen well. Covent Garden was a perilous area at night, filled with thieves, whores, and gamblers. No one would stir at the sound of a discharged pistol or a desperate plea for help.
“You can tell your employer I will be there.”
“No need to, sir. The cove never doubted yer answer.”
Twenty
The family had united against her. After a private, heated discussion with Aunt Moll earlier in the afternoon, Sir Thomas had reluctantly agreed that hiding from polite society might lend credence to the circulating rumors about Wynne, Keanan, and a certain group of gentlemen who were nursing varying degrees of injury, but all had been amazingly close-lipped on the subject. Wynne had opposed the family evening out. She was overruled.
Only when her father reminded her that his reasoning went beyond her personal comfort, did she relent. There was also Brook to protect. Lord A’Court could make all the accusations he wanted, but he had no proof that Wynne had anything to do with his wife’s disappearance. Strangely, for a man certain she was the key to finding his wife, he had not voiced his suspicions to the police. Perhaps he was worried what she might say if pressed. Regardless, she assumed he was having the house watched. This presumption had kept her from returning to her friend’s bedside. It was safer this way, and besides, she trusted Tipton and his people to protect her.
“It appears Reckester’s demise has not diminished the turnout, though I can think of few who would truly mourn him,” Sir Thomas said, frowning at the room filled with people. He was never comfortable with so many females fluttering in their finery. “There’s my gel!” He opened his arms to his youngest child.
“Good evening, Papa.” Devona greeted her father with a kiss. Her gaze shifted to her sister. “Wynne, you look splendid. I envy you for that dress,” she complimented, her casual words spoken for the curious. Leaning forward, she brushed a kiss on Wynne’s cheek. She whispered, “Tipton assures me his patient is well. You are not to worry.”
Pleased by the news, Wynne was not feigning her delight. “We will endeavor to keep you amused despite your husband’s absence.” Together the trio strolled the corridor, ignoring the flurry of interest their arrival heralded. “A pity Irene is not in residence. She could instruct us all on the precise conduct for this essentially awkward situation.”
Devona hid her laughter behind her fan at their father’s stern expression. “Leave your elder sister be,” he dutifully admonished. “She has never stood a chance against the pair of you saucy wits.”
A shared amused expression passed between the sisters. Since baiting their paragon sibling was best in her presence, they yielded to their father’s request.
“Ah, there is Amara.” Devona acknowledged their friend from across the room. “And her horrid mama.” Fanning herself, she observed Lady Claeg restraining her daughter before she could cross the room and greet them. Looking miserable, the young woman met Wynne’s gaze and offered a silent apology. “Lady Claeg despises me,” said Devona. “Do not be hurt by Amara’s rejection. Her mother is formidable, and she will never forgive your kinship.”
Too aware of what Brook had endured behind locked doors, Wynne wondered what price Amara paid for her defiance. “I regret my association with Amara has only increased her hardship.”
“Tosh,” Sir Thomas objected. “Miss Claeg values your friendship above any reprimand her stone-hearted mama bestows. Besides, she is a sensible gel. Provoking Lady Claeg into a confrontation with our family would not add polish to either of our houses.”
“You are correct, Papa,” Wynne murmured, noticing Lord and Lady Lumley moving toward them on the right. If anyone had expected to find her quivering in some dark corner after all the nasty speculation linked to her name, they would be disappointed. Chin high, her eyes green pools of cool reserve, she confidently walked over to the couple, leaving her family to follow.
* * *
At the stroke of ten o’clock, Keanan was prowling Covent Gardens. He was not the only predator hunting for prey. The fireworks display in the piazza had drawn an impressive mob of spectators. Vendors, pickpockets, and prostitutes shifted through the restless crowd, each eager to separate the gull from his purse. Resting against a stone column, Keanan watched them all. The smell of gunpowder and greasy food lingered heavily in the air, while the smoke of the discharged fireworks diminished his visibility. Celebratory music and laughter drifted in the distance, casting an eerie mood since he was there to meet Reckester’s killer.
“Lovely night.”
He would have turned, but the pistol pressed against his spine discouraged any risky movements. “You’re late.”
The unknown man chuckled. “Keep your hand on the stone, an’ the other behind your back where I can see it.” His voice was soft, almost effeminate, but it sounded unnatural. “The fists of Reckless Milroy are to be respected. So is my popper.”
The hand leaning against the column tensed, curling into a fist. “You were the one who called this meeting.”
“Aye. You brought the ready?”
He sneered, “On me? I would be a fool, considering you are the one poking me with a pistol.”
The man cursed, grinding the barrel against bone. “You wouldn’t be here if you weren’t planning on coming to the mark. Where is it?”
“Close.”
Staring ahead, Keanan was certain he appeared to be just another spectator enjoying the fireworks. Everyone was too absorbed with the display of light and smoke to wonder about the two gentlemen engaged in a serious conversation.
Shutting out the noise around him, Keanan focused, trying to pick out details about his unknown adversary. The hand clutching his at his back
was rough, not the hand of a gentleman. He smelled of spirits and sweat, but he did not seem careless or drunk. Judging from their proximity, he sensed the man was tall and probably outweighed him. None of those details bothered him. It was the placement of the barrel, and the man’s growing jumpiness, that worried him.
“Stalemates are not to my liking. I prefer being the winner.”
“Give me my thirty pounds and we’ll both walk away richer,” the man said, his voice dipping lower as his anxiety mounted.
Brooding, Keanan’s eyelids narrowed. “So speaks the stranger holding the pistol at my back.”
“See here, those fists of yours can be punishing when you have the mind. I needed something you’d respect.”
Oh, indeed. He had an immeasurable desire not to have the damn weapon exploding his spine into insignificant fragments. “I’m here. You have my interest. Standing about all night will not get you that blunt.”
The man was wavering; he could feel it. Keanan smiled, imagining the retribution he would deliver.
This delight illuminating from his handsome profile had not gone unnoticed. A dark-haired woman caught a glimpse of his wicked grin. Mistaking it for an invitation, she was already counting her coin when she sauntered next to him.
“You have the look of a real bone setter, m’lord,” she cooed, jutting her bosom forward to offer him a view of the pleasures for purchase. Spotting the man behind him, her greedy eyes widened a fraction. “I’m game for a pair, or do you prefer to watch, luv?”
Flustered, the man took a step back, trying to hide deeper in the shadows. Keanan moved the second the barrel shifted away from his back. Whirling, he threw a wild punch, clipping the other man on the jaw. Stunned, his opponent staggered, discharging the pistol into the ground. The prostitute screamed. Enraged, and not about to allow him to escape, Keanan lunged, tackling the man by his calves. Wiggling free, the attacker kicked, missing Keanan’s throat. The blow landed on his collarbone.
He sucked in a harsh breath; the bone felt as though it had been cracked in two. Climbing to his feet, he pursued the fleeing man, zigzagging through the crowd. The activity around them became an infuriating blur of obstacles. Keanan leaped over a small fire, blocking out the angry shouts from the men warming themselves by it. Blood pumping to the point that he felt his heart would burst, he was moving more by instinct than by sight.
The Scandalously Bad Mr. Milroy Page 27