“He would, and he has. Claremont has been in league with the French a very, very long time.”
“No,” she denied vehemently, “You can’t say…where is the proof?”
“You’ve witnessed a few odd things yourself,” he said calmly. “The altercation in the garden where your father hit that man. The very talkative guest at your mother’s arts dinner.”
“Mr. Ashcroft?”
“There is no Mr. Ashcroft, or a grandson. Whoever sat next to you made all that up, so you would trust him and think badly of me. After you told me about it, I went straight to the Home Office.”
“And informed them my father is a traitor?” she said, bitterness coating her words.
“No. They were already aware. I mean, this investigation has been underway for some time, I don’t even know how long. My superiors were worried, and I was too, that your father and his associates had started and would continue to use you to get to me. Your life might have been in danger. That is why they sent me to France. I wasn’t truly needed there, but as long as I stayed away, they wouldn’t concentrate on you.”
Chills swept through her body and she pulled the quilt up over herself. It couldn’t possibly be true. Surely she would know if her father was a criminal. And yet, if she were honest with herself, how much time had she actually spent with him? Her childhood had been extended visits to Westleigh Park and over a decade at Miss Chadwick’s. Even since she had returned to town, he continued to attend his frequent meetings or lock himself away in his library. They had only really started talking a few months ago. For an hour at a time.
Where he had always made a point of enquiring about William. Asking where he’d been and who he’d been with. What he’d been doing. What his plans were.
And she’d always told him. Chirping away like an excited little bird.
“William,” she said, as a hideous thought lodged itself in her mind, “Your getting shot in France, was that…was that an accident?”
He looked away, and an agonized whimper escaped her throat.
Oh God.
“It’s my fault you were nearly killed,” she cried, burrowing against his warm, hard body for comfort. “I’m so sorry. A few days after you left I couldn’t bear it. My father asked me what was wrong and I told him about the French mission. I’m sorry. I love you.”
He pulled her tighter against him. “I would do it again. Take more bullets. I just want to keep you safe.”
Hours later, Samantha remained wide awake. Tomorrow she had to go home and face the biggest liar, the most shocking fraud she knew.
How on earth could she do it?
Chapter 18
It was time for the Marquess of Standish to die.
Past time, actually. But everything ran on Phillipe’s say-so, and it would be a truly brainless man who contradicted his word.
Sighing, John slouched further in his favorite chair, his feet propped up on a padded stool. At least Phillipe understood the urgency of the situation. Especially after what had happened in the Westleigh library. The staid, upright, Lord Standish in disguise as David Underwood! That had been startling. And if he was honest, rather disconcerting. They had underestimated the younger man’s intelligence and daring, which was foolish. He had survived a very competent assassin in Calais, after all. And, he hadn’t taken a backward step when confronted.
Which made the marquess a worthy enemy. Indeed, someone it would be an honor to kill.
As it had been an honor to kill Standish’s father and mother on that gloriously bloody day back in 1799. Well, he hadn’t performed the executions. He’d only been a fledgling, still learning and finding his place in the fight against the hated British government and Hanoverian king. So he’d had the responsibility of dealing with the boy. Phillipe had murdered Richard and Sophia Hastings. And the Frenchman had enjoyed himself, too. What a shame that Sophia had thrown herself in the path of the first bullet, and robbed them of the opportunity to fuck her in front of Richard. With a love match, torturing the wife was a sure way to break the husband swiftly.
Excitement heated his blood. Indeed, breaking others was his very favorite pastime. And he always succeeded.
An intrusive knock at the door sounded, and when Penn peered around the sturdy frame, John scowled. “I hope you have an excellent reason for disturbing my peace.”
“Your pardon, my lord, but Lady Samantha has returned home.”
“Ah. Send her in.”
“At once, my lord.”
However, when Samantha entered the library, his every instinct sounded a warning. Her smile was forced, and there were faint, smudge-like shadows under her eyes, as though she hadn’t slept a wink. But far more telling was her caution, as though she walked past a pen of rabid dogs and wasn’t at all sure the lock would hold.
Something had changed. Something significant.
John smiled warmly. “Good morning, m’dear.”
“Good morning, Papa. You are up early.”
“Indeed. Come in, come in and have a seat. Did you enjoy your evening with Jane? Forgive me for saying so, but you look a little...ragged around the edges.”
Samantha perched awkwardly on the chair closest to the door, her reticule clenched in her hands. “I am a bit tired. I was going to take a nap and then attend to some letters. The Season has put me well behind on my correspondence.”
“My word, did your aunt keep you up all night with her chatter? I shall have to have a word with her, either that or send for a restorative tonic. What on earth is wrong?”
She stared at him with an unblinking gaze, so long he suppressed the urge to slap her. Rage would not achieve anything, nor would a show of violence. Calm, kind politeness would unlock whatever secret she held.
“Samantha?” he said, as gently as possible. “You are starting to worry me.”
“It’s nothing, Papa,” she replied, shrugging. “I’m just tired. And perhaps…yes, I think perhaps too many sweets.”
John stilled. Could she be lying to him? No. Impossible. The grotesque little bitch was so starved for love and attention, she had believed every word of his false fatherly concern in the past few months. Besides, no one as stupid as her could ever defeat a master strategist like him. And she did look a little green-tinged, much like her mother after a long evening out. Two peas in a pod, and equally repulsive. “All right, then. By the by, how was your visit with Lord Standish the other day?”
“Fine. Rather brief…his housekeeper Mrs. Kingsley was hovering so we didn’t stay long.”
“We?”
“I went with Southby.”
Inwardly, he danced a jig. It might indeed be time to take that particular matter further. In fact, as soon as the marquess was dead, the Earl of Claremont would be calling on his future son-in-law, the Duke of Southby. “Must say, m’dear, you are spending a lot of time with his grace. Are you now scheming to be a duchess rather than a marchioness?”
Samantha twirled the ribbon on her reticule around one finger. “I’ve spent a lot of time pondering the future. What’s best for me, and my family. Rest assured, Papa, I will fight hard for that. And not at all fairly.”
A genuine laugh escaped, and John got up, knelt beside her chair, and gave her a quick hug. That had sounded a bit like ruthlessness in her voice. Perhaps she had possibilities after all. “Well said. You know, I do believe Southby would be a better match. Far superior bloodline to Standish. Wealthier. Stronger in mind. You can rely on my full support should you wish to bring the duke up to scratch.”
“Thank you, Papa,” she said solemnly. “I know exactly how trustworthy you are.”
“Good, good. Now, run along and have a nice nap. I’ll see you at suppertime.”
Samantha got to her feet, bobbed a curtsy, and hurried from the room. Shutting the door behind her, John returned to his chair and sighed. Just as well he hadn’t lost his temper and killed her. The chit might be very useful in future.
Seconds later, a section of his bookshelf began t
o move, and Phillipe stepped out from behind the hidden entrance applauding slowly.
“Oh, bravo. You moved me. Especially the fatherly hug at the end.”
“Don’t remind me. I feel unclean about that.”
“Well, you won’t feel that way for much longer. Our time has come, mon ami. Napoleon’s Armée du Nord has over two hundred thousand men, and they are marching toward the United Kingdom of the Netherlands. Wellington’s green band of rabble and von Blucher’s Prussians might wait with greater numbers, but they are ill-equipped, disloyal, and cowardly. In perhaps a few weeks at most, our emperor will meet and destroy them.”
Elated, John reached for his brandy glass and lifted it in a toast. Soon, so soon, Standish would be dead, Samantha would be a duchess, and everything he’d worked for in the past twenty-one years would finally deliver the greatest reward. Absolute power.
“Salut.”
Chapter 19
“Please sit down, Standish. You are making me seasick just watching you pace.”
William forced himself to halt and instead stare out the wide window of White’s upper floor office. He’d done an unpleasant but practical task today, adding a codicil to his last will and testament in case of his untimely death. Settling a huge fortune and all unentailed properties on his unborn child under Samantha’s guardianship, with assistance from Stephen and Alexander, was the best he could do for them both. As he and Samantha weren’t married, even if she gave birth to a son, the boy couldn’t inherit the marquessate. And not being able to legally marry her immediately was enough to turn him quite mad.
He hadn’t allowed himself to feel in the longest time. Now, like a dam bursting, all kinds of emotions were hurtling through him, especially fear for Samantha and the baby. He’d lost far too many people he loved to untimely deaths. If he lost her, he would never recover.
“Easy for you to say, White. You don’t have a man aiming to kill you tomorrow.”
The intelligence coordinator rolled his eyes. “No. I have men aiming to kill me every single day.”
Hell. There wasn’t an argument to that statement.
“I just can’t stand the waiting,” William said finally, sinking into a chair. “Not knowing what he might do, because that bastard is literally capable of anything.”
Unexpectedly, White’s face softened. “The waiting is the worst part. I understand your frustration and anxiety, Standish. I feel the same way. Bringing Claremont and his accomplices to justice would be the greatest achievement of my life, and allow hundreds of murdered men and women to finally rest in peace. But one wrong step…just one…and he evades the noose yet again. The earl has many friends in odd places. He has carefully cultivated a persona that would make it difficult to convince his peers in the House of Lords that he is even capable of such heinous crimes. And, as you know, the witnesses disappear or succumb to accidents.”
William blinked. “I think that might be the most honest you’ve ever been with me.”
“It won’t happen again. And I’ll deny it with my last breath should you share those thoughts with anyone.”
“So what is the next move on the chess board?”
“A team is being put together as we speak. The best of my men, I promise. When you meet Claremont, wherever and whenever that is, they will be waiting to swoop on the earl and any cohorts captured alongside him.”
“What about Lady Claremont?”
White shrugged and shifted a pile of papers from one side of his desk to the other.
“There is no evidence to suggest she has willingly, or even knowingly, been involved. She will be protected to avoid the kind of treatment handed out to a traitor’s wife. Perhaps exiled to sunnier climes for her health or some such thing.”
“Confidentially…are you serious about arrest and a proper trial? Or is there the possibility this particular male subject might not make it to that point?”
“Of course I am serious,” White replied blandly. “But raids are a hazardous activity. While my operatives strive to observe every procedure and propriety, naturally there are occurrences where they are, shall we say, forced to defend themselves.”
“Then I look forward to defending myself.”
“Beg pardon?”
William frowned. Why the hell did White look mildly startled? “I’m going to end this once and for all. Personally.”
“You most certainly are not.”
He got up from the chair and stalked over to White’s desk. As he braced his hands on the edge, a jolt of pain raced up his shoulder. “This group made me an orphan. And tried to kill me. This is very much my fight.”
“No. It’s time for you to leave the Buchanans behind and retire. Find some blue-blooded lady to marry, and sire enough children to make even Lord Grey blush.”
“I can’t,” he snarled.
White raised his eyebrows. “Why not?”
“Because I’ve found the blue-blooded lady I’m going to marry, and the first of our blush-inducing brood is already on the way.”
“Good God. You didn’t!”
“I did,” he said defiantly.
“Damnation, Standish,” said White, hurling his pen onto the desk. “Do you know how many rules you’ve broken? How utterly, stupendously idiotic you’ve been? What if Lady Samantha had been involved in her father’s activities?”
“She isn’t! And it was bloody obvious very early on. I didn’t mean for it to happen, but it did and, that is all there is to it.”
“Well, when you put it that way,” White replied, folding his arms and giving him a disgusted look. “Does Claremont know?”
“I think the fact I’m standing in front of you rather than being fished out of the Thames answers your question.”
“I see.”
“I just want to protect her and our child. Samantha is at Claremont’s townhouse right now, and I can’t stand it. He could be saying all sorts of things to her. Or hurting her.”
“Again, I do understand. But I will have no dead marquesses on my watch. And blood is thicker than water—have you thought how Lady Samantha might react if yours was the hand that killed her father?”
Anger surged through his body and he stared at the floor. Yet White spoke the truth. She probably would hate him.
And yet how could he not be involved?
William raised his head. “I promise,” he said deliberately, as he shrugged into his greatcoat, “not to do anything foolish.”
“Standish,” White growled, his eyes narrowing, but William merely bowed and departed the office.
If White thought he could keep him away from Samantha, if he believed William Hastings, Marquess of Standish, would play no further role in bringing down the man he had been chasing for half of his life, the man he hated with every fiber of his being, he was very much mistaken. Whether in self-defense or not, the only person who would have the ultimate vengeance on the Earl of Claremont would be him.
It was mid-afternoon when Samantha dragged herself from her bed, her rumbling stomach no longer able to be ignored. It was the strangest things about pregnancy—one minute you couldn’t imagine eating anything ever again, the next you were practically gnawing chair legs to appease a bottomless pit.
The hours in her room hadn’t really helped, though. A desperately needed nap had remained elusive, as the conversation with her father whirled around in her head as much as last night’s with William. Reality was being in the middle of two factions who were at war with one another. And soon, very soon, she would be forced to choose a side.
William, the man she loved, and the father of her child. The man she believed in.
Or her own father. Her blood.
Shuddering, she left her chamber and started down the hallway, only to halt at the sound of raised voices. How very odd. Her parents never fought, mainly because neither cared enough about anything the other did.
Every hair on the back of her neck rose. Instinctively, Samantha ran back into her chamber, and grabbed the sheathed
dagger from her reticule. With a firm shove, she pushed it down between her stays and skin, then darted back out and into a shadowed alcove between her mother’s bedchamber and the stairs, close enough to hear them, but not be seen.
Her father was looming over her mother with his arms folded. “Remind me how long you’ve been Countess of Claremont?”
“Twenty-one long years.”
“And you couldn’t even do the decent thing and provide an heir.”
“What is all this about, Claremont? You know very well Samantha’s birth went badly, and I couldn’t have any more children.”
“Ah, yes. Your daughter the bastard.”
“You acknowledged her!”
“I hardly had a choice. The dates were approximately right, and the baby had my eyes…but we both know why that is, don’t we? I must say, I did admire your cold-heartedness in forgetting your dead lover so quickly in order to lure me into a library and get caught. That was how I knew you’d be the right kind of wife. An amoral whore.”
Reeling, Samantha pressed a fist to her mouth to prevent a cry of disbelief. John Buchanan wasn’t her father? She didn’t want to hear one more cruel word, yet her feet were frozen to the floor.
“I don’t wish to discuss this,” said her mother, voice rising in fear. “I’m going to summon help.”
John laughed, an ugly sound. “But we are going to discuss it, Eva. And if you take one step toward the door, I will be very displeased.”
“All…all right.”
“I’m going to tell you a tale. A tale of a second son who was always forced to live in the shadow of his perfect brother and sister. Who had no purpose in his life, until the day he met a man named Phillipe. Phillipe taught this second son all he needed to know about being successful. About wealth and power. About victories. About the joys of hunting.”
Tempting the Marquess (The London Lords Book 3) Page 24