“I hope so.” Uncertainty lingered.
“You know I love you.” He entwined her fingers with his. “I could not say it yesterday when I thought I might be going to my death, but now I am free to shout it from the rooftops.”
“But my mother was—”
“I do not care.”
“And while my father is an earl, he was not married to—”
“It does not matter.”
“But that makes me—”
He placed his finger on her lips. “That makes you the woman I love. The woman who took a duke to task on behalf of an infant that was not even hers. A woman who was determined to do anything, to make whatever sacrifices were required, to assure that justice was done and those she loved were taken care of. A stubborn, smart woman who will give me stubborn, smart sons and never, ever bore me.”
She cocked her head to the side, somewhat hopeful at the talk of more children. “What about daughters?”
He chuckled. “I am certain our daughters will be just as beautiful and stubborn and smart as their mother.”
A smile slowly curved her lips. “If I become a duchess, I want to organize a charitable house where women who are in the family way and were abandoned by their lovers can stay and begin to rebuild their lives.”
He was silent for a long moment. “I agree that such a place is needed, but perhaps we had best call it a foundling house for the sake of the sticklers of society.”
She narrowed her eyes, but saw no resistance in his expression. “You are willing to help me create such a charity?”
“I am.” He bent his head and kissed her fingers. “I simply want to avoid the criticism of the narrow-minded.”
She stared at him for a long moment. With this man at her side and the power of a duchess, she would be able to help so many like Lettie, who had been abandoned by those who professed to love them. Taking his face between her hands, she kissed him with all the love bubbling inside her. “Yes,” she murmured against his lips. “Yes, I will be your wife.”
He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her with a passion that stole the breath from her lungs. And she closed her eyes and kissed him right back.
Long moments later footsteps sounded on the pathway.
“Your Grace.”
Wylde took his time breaking the kiss. Never looking away from Miranda’s radiant face, he said, “You must wish me happy, Travers, as Miss Fontaine has agreed to be my wife.”
“Excellent news, sir.”
Miranda heard the troubled tone at the same time Wylde looked at his butler. “Is something the matter, Travers?”
“Viscount Linnet is here, Your Grace. He has been badly injured and is most insistent he speak to you.”
“Good God.” Wylde jumped up from the bench, pulling Miranda along with him. “Where is he?”
“We have installed him in his usual chamber.”
Mouth grim, Wylde strode inside, Miranda hurrying beside him.
Kit looked paler than the white sheets he rested upon. Phillips was just stepping away from the bed with the viscount’s bloodstained coat, which had clearly needed to be cut away. Kit’s neck cloth had also been removed.
“He was shot,” the servant said. “We have sent for a physician.”
Wylde nodded, then stepped to the side of the bed. “Gad, Kit, what the devil happened to you?”
“Wylde…had to tell you.”
“Tell me what?” Wylde dragged a chair near to the bed and indicated that Miranda take another nearby. “This is no time for deathbed confessions, Kit. I am certain you will be right as rain.”
Kit managed to slowly shake his head against the pillow. “Coming for the baby.”
“What? Whose baby?”
Kit glanced behind him at Miranda.
“James,” she whispered in horrified realization.
Wylde leaned forward to hear better. “Who is coming for the baby?”
“I…am sorry. Bad friend.”
“I do not understand. Is someone after James?”
“Yes.” He nodded slightly. “Baby. James.”
“Who?” Wylde clasped his hand around Kit’s good shoulder as if he could will his own life force into the man. “Who is coming for him?”
“You. But…not you.”
“Me but not—blast it, Kit, are you trying to tell me the imposter wants the baby for some reason?”
“Yes.” Kit nodded. “Hates you. Wants to kill you.”
A horrible suspicion bloomed in his mind. “Do you know who he is, Kit?”
Grief twisted Kit’s features. “I am sorry.”
“Dear God.” Wylde pulled his hand away from Kit’s shoulder. “You have been helping him, haven’t you?”
Slowly, Kit nodded. “He is mad,” he rasped. “Jealous…of you. Wants to be the duke.”
“I will not even begin to argue that bit of lunacy.”
“Byrne,” Kit managed. “Daniel Byrne.”
“That is his name?”
“Yes.” Kit sucked in a shuddering breath. “Hurry.”
Wylde rose from his chair and strode out of the room, leaving Miranda to scurry after him.
“What are you going to do?” she asked, trying to keep up with his long-legged stride as he headed down the stairs.
“I am going to bring the baby here so he will be safe.”
“But Kit said this fellow is mad. What if he hurts James?”
He stopped in the middle of the staircase and turned to where she halted a step above him. Taking her hands in his, he looked deep into her eyes. “I will make certain nothing happens to James. But we must move quickly. This Byrne may have already stolen the child.”
“Does he think he can simply walk into the house and take the baby?” Miranda asked, keeping pace as Wylde continued down the stairs. “How can he even believe such a thing?”
“Simple.” They reached the ground floor and headed for the foyer. “He is me, remember?”
“Oh, my God. He can simply pay a call and as the duke no one will question him.”
“Indeed.” Wylde caught the eye of his butler. “Have the coach brought around, Travers. And be certain my pistols are loaded. I shall need them.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” The butler immediately began directing the servants to fulfill his master’s request.
“I am going with you.”
“No, you are not.” He placed his hands on her shoulders. “This fellow may be dangerous, so it is best if you are not in the area. I will stop him and collect James and come right back here.”
“But—”
“It needs to be this way,” he said. “I cannot allow you to be in danger.” Two footmen hurried over with a brace of pistols and his hat. He donned the hat and tucked the pistols away beneath his coat. Taking Miranda’s hand in his, he pressed a passionate kiss to the back of it. “Wait for me,” he said, his dark eyes gleaming with promise and purpose. Then he turned and strode out the door.
She watched him go, panic tearing at her insides. He was brave, to go face this madman all alone. Yet still she feared for him. This imposter had led them a merry dance for months now. What made this time different?
Because for the first time, she realized, they had advance notice about where the villain was going to be.
And Wylde expected her to stay behind while he charged in? He was mad if he thought she would meekly hide when her child was in danger. And she was not about to lose her future husband before he had a chance to say the vows.
“Summon my carriage, please, Travers.”
“I am sorry, miss. The duke has instructed me not to allow you to follow him.”
She drew herself up to her haughtiest height. “For your information, I am not following the duke. I have an appointment with Lady Rothgard.”
“If you will give me her direction, I will pass it to the coachman.”
“Thank you,” Miranda said. “Please send Annie back to my home; I will be safe enough with a footman at Lady Rothgard’s.�
�� And perhaps Annie would be able to escape with James before the worst happened.
Chapter 20
When Miranda arrived at Rothgard’s town house, she had not even considered that she might be turned away. But Lord Rothgard would recognize her name, and it was he she asked to see. Apparently someone was at home, for she was requested to come inside and was shown to a drawing room to wait.
She had been there several minutes, roaming the room and studying the lovely Chinese decor, when the countess entered. Lady Rothgard’s manner was cool, hesitant, yet curious as she said, “Good afternoon, Contessa. What a surprise that you have come to call.”
“Good afternoon, Lady Rothgard.” Miranda bobbed a curtsy. “I had hoped to speak to your husband. Is he at home?”
“No, he has been out all morning.” The countess sank into a chair. “May I ask why you are looking for my husband?”
From the countess’s calm acceptance of her, Miranda assumed that Rothgard had not yet had the opportunity to talk to his family about the morning’s events.
“Mrs. Weatherby suggested I speak to his lordship about a presentation of The Tempest she would like to see performed,” she lied. “I believe she is seeking patrons to donate funds.”
“Oh, a play.” Lady Rothgard nodded. “And The Tempest is his favorite. I will certainly give him the message when he returns.”
“Thank you.” She had to get home, to get back to James. Rothgard could not help her. “I have another appointment, so I shall take my leave…”
“My husband is inordinately fond of the theater.” The edge in Lady Rothgard’s voice halted her exit.
She looked back. “Everyone must pursue their passions.”
“Indeed.” The countess glanced down at her folded hands. “Are you one of those passions, Contessa?”
Miranda blinked in surprise. “I beg your pardon?”
The countess stood. “You did not come here to solicit donations for the arts, did you? You have some personal interest in my husband.”
Miranda edged closer to the door, anxious to escape. Perhaps Wylde had fetched James without incident. Perhaps Kit had been wrong and the imposter did not threaten her child. But she doubted it.
Coming here had wasted precious time. “Please tell Lord Rothgard that I came to call.”
“I knew this would happen. You look just like her. The first time I saw you, I knew.”
The urgent hiss of the other woman’s voice put her on her guard. “Lady Rothgard, you have me at a disadvantage.”
“How could he resist? A woman who bears such a striking resemblance to his beloved Fannie. Of course he would seek you out. Anything to have her again.”
Her voice grew shrill. Miranda hurried back to the countess, cursing herself for coming to Rothgard in person She could have sent a message. But the idea of a father was still so new, she had wanted to see him again. “Lady Rothgard, you have the wrong idea.”
“Have I? Are you going to stand here in my own drawing room and deny that you are having an affair with my husband?”
“Indeed I am,” Miranda said. “Listen to me, Lady Rothgard. Fannie Fontaine was my mother.”
“Your mother!” The countess paled. “Dear God, no wonder you look so much like her.”
“You really should discuss this matter with the earl,” Miranda said. “I should never have come. I must take my leave, right now.”
“No!” Lady Rothgard grabbed her arm. “You cannot leave me here wondering. What is my husband to you? Why are you really here?”
Miranda sighed, wanting to be anywhere but here, looking into the countess’s pain-filled countenance. “He should be the one to tell you.”
“Then there is something to tell.” Her fingers dug into Miranda’s arm.
“Nothing of consequence. Good day to you, my lady.” She tried to pry the woman’s fingers away, glancing up to lock gazes with her as she did so.
Suddenly the countess gasped and jerked free. “Those eyes. Dear God. Not a lover. You are his daughter, aren’t you?”
“Lady Rothgard—”
Miranda held out a pleading hand, but the other woman’s eyes rolled backward, and then she collapsed in a dead swoon.
“Oh, no!” Miranda managed to catch her before she hit the floor. With some effort, she dragged the Countess to the couch and laid her sprawled halfway on the sofa. As she struggled to lift her legs up onto the cushions, she heard a footstep in the hall. “Help!” she called. “In here!”
The door was slightly ajar and swung open to reveal Rothgard’s daughter, the other Miranda. Pale, blond, and shy—
“What have you done to my mother?” she snarled, then leaped at Miranda like a tigress.
Wylde walked in the front door of Miranda’s house, alert to anything out of the ordinary.
A maid came down the hall. “Goodness, Your Grace, I thought you were in the nursery! Has Mrs. Cooper returned?”
“Not yet.” Wylde glanced at the staircase. “I am going back up to look in on James.”
“Very well, sir.” Humming a tune to herself, the maid continued down the hallway.
Wylde crept up the stairs, quietly drawing one of the two pistols he’d brought from his pocket. He reached the nursery without incident and eased open the door.
“Come in, Thornton, old boy. ’Tis about time we met.”
Wylde paused, then pushed the door fully open. A man sat in a chair in the middle of the nursery, rocking the cradle with the sleeping infant in it with his foot. A pistol rested across his lap. The grin that spread across his face was the same one Wylde saw in the mirror every morning. His build, his hair-style—now Wylde could understand why his own servants had been fooled. Except for the green eyes and the madness glittering in them, the imposter was his duplicate.
“I assume you are Daniel Byrne.” Wylde shut the door behind him.
The look-alike’s face lit up. “So Kit survived, did he? I was counting on that.” He tapped his pistol. “I decided in the end I wanted to kill you myself. Much more satisfying.”
“I admit I am at a loss,” Wylde said, keeping his own pistol out of sight with his leg. “I have never met you before, nor even heard of you. How can it be you bear me such enmity?”
“Justice.” Byrne’s foot slipped from the cradle with a thump. “I was the firstborn, you know. Our father was supposed to have married my mama, but your mother seduced him and trapped him into wedlock.”
“As I recall, my parents were betrothed from birth.”
“As you recall? You were not there, you nitwit! How could you recall something you did not witness?”
“My grandmother told me the tale.”
“As if she can remember anything clearly at her age. No, my mama told me how I should have been the Duke of Wyldehaven.” Byrne tilted his head, a grin playing about his lips. “Then I met dear Viscount Linnet, and the whole plan came together in one beautiful symphony. You should appreciate that.”
“What is your intent?” Wylde eased closer to the cradle. “Why have you gone through so much trouble to blacken my name?”
“Part of it was pure entertainment. But truly, I intend to see you dead and then I will take your place. I am, after all, the elder brother.”
“I cannot see how such a thing would work,” Wylde said. “If I were to die, it would be quite public, and then everyone would know you are not the true duke.”
“I am the true duke!” Byrne roared, rising to his feet. The baby began to wail. “Quiet, you hell spawn!” He pointed the pistol at the cradle.
“No!” Wylde leaped forward and smacked Byrne’s hand upward. The pistol fired into the ceiling.
Byrne drew back his fist and hit him in the jaw. Wylde’s head snapped back as pain exploded in his skull. He tried to bring up his own pistol, but Byrne wrenched it from his hand.
“One pistol fired and only one left.” Byrne sent him sprawling across the floor with a hard kick to the abdomen. “Shall I kill the father or the son?” He swung t
he pistol back and forth between Wylde and James.
“Your child,” Wylde managed, gasping for air. “Lettie’s child.”
“Lettie? Good God, that whore who fancied herself an actress?” He laughed. “So this is her get, is it? She was the first to believe that I was Wyldehaven.”
“You will never be Wyldehaven.” Wylde could feel the other pistol beneath his coat, digging into his side.
“I already am Wyldehaven. And soon the ton will know it, too.” The wails of the baby grew louder, and Byrne cast an annoyed look at the cradle. “Does that squalling blob of human flesh ever stay quiet?”
“You woke him.”
“Silence!” Byrne shouted at the child. “I said silence!” He kicked the cradle.
“He is your son,” Wylde said.
“As if I care about some puling brat. Though perhaps when I am recognized as duke, I shall help myself to a piece of that ladybird you have been keeping. Plow her until she is with child.” He laughed, but then the baby hit a shrill note, screeching loud enough to shatter windows. “Damn you,” he thundered, raising his weapon at the cradle. “I said silence!”
Wylde pulled out his second pistol, swore as it caught in his coat. Byrne cursed at the child, taking careful aim.
A shot rang out, and the baby’s cries abruptly stopped.
Miranda fought off the wild termagant who flew at her with nails extended like claws. “Calm yourself! She has swooned! Your mother swooned!”
“What did you do to her?” The girl grabbed a hank of Miranda’s hair and pulled.
“I did nothing.” Miranda grabbed the girl’s wrist and squeezed hard.
Rothgard’s daughter screeched and let go of Miranda’s hair. “I told you to leave! Why could you not just leave London, leave us in peace?” She slapped at Miranda’s hand.
Miranda did not relax her grip, only shook the girl. “I said calm yourself! Have you any hartshorn for your mother?”
“Just leave London.” The blond girl sniffled, tears welling in her eyes. “Why did you have to come here? Everything was perfect before you came.”
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