by Cheryl Holt
“But it’s how I earn my living! How am I to cover my expenses?”
“It doesn’t matter to me how you cover them, but I suggest you check your bank account. I’ve obtained the appropriate writs and confiscated your remaining balances.”
“You couldn’t have.”
“You’re penniless, and I’ve learned from bitter experience that it’s a very scary place to be. In the future, you’ll have no ability to borrow again because you have no assets to encumber.”
“You’re trying to frighten me.”
“No, I’m just stating the facts. It’s the intriguing thing about England and its laws. The system is organized to punish debtors like you. When a rich man like me steps forward and agrees to square what is owed, any satisfying ending can transpire.”
The door burst open, and Beatrice waddled in, and when she saw Clayton’s bruised face, she demanded, “What happened to you?”
“Shawcross attacked me—with no provocation at all!”
“Didn’t I tell you he was mad?” she asked as she approached and hovered over Clayton like a wicked witch on a broom.
“He previously informed you that he’s gobbled up Carter Imports.” Clayton gulped. “Apparently, he’s gobbled up Carter Crossing too.”
Her gaze narrowed. “He what?”
“The manor is his too.”
For once, she’d been rendered speechless. She glared at Shawcross, flashing her usual glower, but he blandly stared back, his expression steely and terrifying to witness.
“Is this correct, Shawcross?” she asked. “You own our home?”
“Yes,” he blithely said.
“You stole it from us!”
“There was no stealing involved. I got it the same way I got hold of your business. Clayton took out mortgages and didn’t pay on them. So I paid them, and it means you’ve lost everything.”
There was an empty chair next to Clayton, and she sank down into it. “Why? Why are you doing this to us?”
“I’m doing it because I can. I’m doing it because—when you squirm and grovel before me—I feel like a god!” Shawcross rose to his feet and declared, “My father was Harrison Stone.”
Beatrice gasped with dismay. “That can’t be true.”
“Who is Harrison Stone?” Clayton asked her, but she didn’t explain. Was that the man she’d mentioned earlier? Was it the dolt who’d had the ancient dispute with his father? Who cared about that?
“And my sister,” Shawcross kept on, “was named Lydia. Might you recall a young lady named Lydia, Clayton?”
“Oh, no,” Beatrice murmured, instantly deducing where the conversation was headed.
“I don’t remember her,” he hurriedly lied. There had been so many trysts, and Lydia was such a common name. Who could blame him if he’d forgotten her?
“You seduced her when she was sixteen,” Shawcross said, “and she died in childbirth. Her baby died too. You did that to my sister—after what your parents did to my family. I was away in Africa when it occurred, which was lucky for you. If I’d been in England, I’d have snuck into your bedchamber and murdered you in your sleep.”
At the threat, Clayton blanched, and it was on the tip of his tongue to blurt out that Lydia’s baby hadn’t died. Although Clayton had fervidly wished for its demise, the little bastard, Alex, was alive and well and prancing about at Carter Crossing. Why hadn’t Shawcross been apprised?
Clayton’s mind was awhirl as he wondered whether it was better or worse to admit it. Would Shawcross be glad to hear his illicit nephew had survived? Or would he be even angrier to discover how he’d been misled for years?
Before he could decide the best path, his mother reached over and patted his arm, warning him to be quiet. They needed to consider the situation. If he ever spoke up and revealed the boy’s identity, he would definitely extract some concessions first.
Perhaps he could trade the boy for Carter Crossing. How badly did Shawcross want the bloody property? How desperate would he be to have the boy handed over? On the spur of the moment, there were too many variables to contemplate, and Clayton had to review them with his mother so they could wrangle a suitable conclusion.
“You have three days to move out,” Shawcross suddenly stated.
“Three days?” Beatrice huffed. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“It’s the length of time my mother was given after final judgment was rendered on behalf of Lord Coxwold. You recollect Lord Coxwold, don’t you, Beatrice? You shouldn’t deny it. Not to my face.”
“Yes, I recollect the old sot,” she muttered.
“Lord Coxwold?” Clayton asked. “Who is he?”
They both ignored him, and Shawcross said, “My mother had three days to find somewhere to live with her young children—and so will you.”
“We can’t…move,” Clayton complained, “and we’re not going to. Carter Crossing has always been ours.”
“No, it hasn’t,” Shawcross countered. “It’s been yours for twenty years, and it was purchased with stolen money. I vowed that you would never keep it. It’s the promise I made to my dead father at his grave. I’ve never faltered in that goal.”
Clayton glanced at Beatrice, and she was pale as a ghost, as if she might faint.
“This is your mother’s curse playing out, isn’t it?” Beatrice asked.
“My mother cursed you?” Shawcross said. “Marvelous!”
“She swore I’d pay forever.”
“She was correct.”
“Mother!” Clayton cried. “Do something! Say something!”
“She can’t do anything,” Shawcross said. “She’s tiptoed through life on a lie, and if I have my way, she’ll be prosecuted for embezzling from my company.”
“Mother!” Clayton almost squealed the word.
Beatrice simply tsked and said to Shawcross, “I can’t believe you survived to pursue this.”
“I survived—no thanks to you and your husband. But my parents didn’t. My sister didn’t, and I’m determined that your son repent that sin.”
“Prove that you’re Harrison’s boy!” Beatrice said. “Prove that you have some connection to that pompous, loathsome family.”
“I won’t dignify your remark with a reply, but if you disparage my parents again, I can’t predict how I’ll react.” He waved the stack of papers at Clayton again. “Three days, Clayton. You have three days to vacate.”
“If we don’t?” Clayton dared to inquire.
“I shall arrive with a team of men and put your possessions out on the road.” He smirked. “That’s what happened to my own mother. We’ll see how your mother likes it.”
He strolled out, and Clayton and Beatrice dawdled like a pair of marble statues as his footsteps faded down the hall.
After it was silent, he leaned toward her and said, “We can’t let him get away with this! What can we do?”
“What can we do? I warned you this morning, but you wouldn’t listen.”
“He claims he’s taken the last money out of our bank accounts.”
“I’m not surprised.”
He gaped at her, feeling annoyed, but alarmed too. She was the one who always had a plan. She couldn’t be allowed to waffle in a crisis.
“You have to ride to London immediately,” she told him. “You have to hire a lawyer and file an appeal. And it has to be someone with the power and authority to stop him.”
In Clayton’s opinion, Shawcross was omnipotent and untouchable. “How can I thwart him?”
“It doesn’t matter how. Just do it!”
She pushed herself to her feet and, stunning him, she clocked him alongside the head. His wounds were still throbbing from Shawcross’s assault, and he wailed with outrage.
“What was that for?” he asked.
“You are a failure, Clayton! As a man. As a son. As a human being. Now haul yourself to London and fix this!”
“What if I can’t?”
“Then we’re doomed, and shortly, we’ll be living in a ditch.”
She swept out, and he tarried in the quiet room, feeling miserable and alone and very, very tired.
The world was such an unfair place! A fellow such as himself, a fellow who simply tried to fit in and be friendly, never stood a chance.
He yearned to leap up and race to London as his mother had instructed, but he couldn’t bear to show up there. Everyone in the house had observed how he’d been manhandled by Shawcross, and the gossip would be ugly.
Yet if he returned to London and resumed his regular habits, wouldn’t the dilemma calm down? Surely Shawcross wouldn’t evict his mother. Surely he wasn’t serious. He wouldn’t treat an older woman so despicably.
Clayton sat, and he continued to sit, and he couldn’t make himself move.
The boy was key to any resolution. Yes, the boy had to be utilized. Clayton had chased him out of the garden, so where might he be hiding?
Rebecca would know. He had to find her and get control of the little bastard. Once he had custody, once Shawcross learned the identity of the boy’s mother, then they’d see who held all the cards.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Rebecca stood in front of Oakley Manor, staring at the house. Most of the windows were still shuttered, but some boards on the ground floor had been removed. She could see inside, and it was dark and empty.
She walked around the building to where the master suite was located. It was a cold evening, so the windows were closed, but the drapes were pulled back, and a candle was burning. Someone was up there, and she had no doubt who it was.
The light called to her like a beacon.
She was struggling to understand her purpose. After her prior visit, where Mr. Melville had caught her kissing Raven Shawcross, she assumed she’d come to her senses about him.
She’d gone home, immersed herself in her chores, and ignored him completely. And she’d been so miserable!
When Clayton had accosted her earlier in the afternoon, Raven had blustered up to save her, and while she’d been thrilled to have Clayton pummeled, it would only make things worse in the end.
After the altercation, Raven had met privately in the library with Beatrice and Clayton. No one knew for sure what was discussed, but Beatrice was once again sequestered in her room, and Clayton was rampaging.
He’d bluntly announced to his guests that the party was over, and they would decamp for London in the morning. The staff had been tossed into a frenzy of preparation so people could depart on schedule. As to Rebecca, she’d been hiding because Clayton had been searching for her—and not with any cordial intent.
The maids had whispered warnings that he was drunker than ever, and he blamed Rebecca for the incident with Raven. She didn’t dare cross paths with him. She’d hidden Alex from him too, having arranged for him to sleep in the hay loft in the stables, where he would remain concealed until Clayton rode away the next day.
When night had fallen, the manor had quieted. There was no nocturnal gambling in the downstairs parlors. No men chatted by the fire. Everyone was tucked away in their bedchambers, probably perceiving that an explosion was imminent.
Eventually, she hadn’t been able to abide the tension or the isolation. She’d tiptoed to Raven’s bedroom, but apparently, after he’d quarreled with Clayton and Beatrice in the library, he’d packed his bags and had left Carter Crossing.
His absence had been inexplicably depressing. How could he leave without a goodbye? How could she mean so little to him? Didn’t he care about her at all?
The possibility was unacceptable, and before she could dissuade herself, she’d grabbed a cloak, lit a lamp, and climbed across the promontory to Oakley.
She went to the rear door and reached for the handle. If it was locked, she’d take it as a sign that she should go home. But if it wasn’t, she would take that as a sign too.
As she gripped the knob, she whispered a prayer for strength—and for a wisdom she didn’t seem to possess—then she entered into a porch. She didn’t reflect on or question her mission. She simply wound her way through the deserted mansion to the grand staircase.
When she arrived at his suite, he was seated in a chair by the fire, drinking an alcoholic beverage. His coat was off, his sleeves rolled back. She couldn’t see his face, but his posture was relaxed—like a man in his element, a man who’d finally ended up where he belonged.
“Hello, Rebecca.” He spoke without turning around.
“How did you know it was me?” she asked as she blew out the lamp and set it on a table.
“I always know it’s you. Where you’re concerned, I have a second sense.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Close the doors, would you? The room will stay warmer if we keep out the draft.”
She obliged him, then walked over to where he was sitting. He clasped hold of her hand and linked their fingers.
“You left Carter Crossing without telling me,” she said.
“Clayton and Beatrice will be departing shortly, and I had to give them a few days to make some plans. I didn’t think I ought to be lurking.”
“I missed you,” she told him.
“I missed you too,” he replied. “I was wishing you’d sneak over, but I wasn’t expecting it. It’s a nice surprise.”
“I shouldn’t be here.”
“Of course you shouldn’t be, but I’m glad you are. I was feeling…low, and you’ve cheered me.”
It was quite an admission for him. He was such an imperious fellow; he’d never like to confess a bit of melancholia.
“Why are you feeling low?” she inquired.
“It’s been a difficult year for me, and I’ve been pondering all that happened. Because of it, I’m incredibly morose.”
He pulled her onto his lap, and he leaned in and nuzzled her neck as he untied her cloak and tugged it off.
“Are you all right?” he asked. “Clayton didn’t bother you again, did he?”
“No, but he’s been rampaging, so I’ve been hiding for hours. Alex too.”
“Why does he detest both of you so much?”
“I have no idea. I’ve always been kind to him, but I suspect Alex reminds him of his failings. Were you aware that Alex is his bastard son? He was sired during one of Clayton’s many peccadilloes.”
“Clayton told me he was Alex’s father, but I couldn’t decide if he was being truthful or if he was just rudely boasting.”
“It’s the truth, and I’m a bastard too. My mother was Beatrice’s cousin, and she was young and gullible and working for a nobleman who seduced her.”
“That’s a story as old as time. Who was the nobleman?”
She hesitated, debating candor, but she never discussed her dubious antecedents. “It doesn’t matter who he was, and I don’t like to talk about it.”
Luckily, he didn’t press. “I understand.”
“Alex and I had nowhere to go when we were small, and Beatrice brought us to Carter Crossing, but she and Clayton have never been happy about it. They act as if they’re better than me—because of my mother and how she misbehaved—and it saddens me. Beatrice insists I’ve inherited my mother’s immoral tendencies, so I constantly try to prove her wrong.”
“I predict that’s been a futile pursuit. They’re not the sort of people to change their views on any issue.”
“You’re correct. Every day of my life has been futile.”
“And how about the hidden tendencies you’ve inherited from your mother? Is there a great wave of wickedness churning under the surface?”
“No. Yes. Maybe.”
She groaned and nestled herself to his chest, and he stroked a soothing hand up and down her back. She snuggled with him while he sipped his liquor and gazed into the flames.
“You make me question everything about myself,” she said.
“Why?”
“I like you more than I should. I hate it when you bark and snap and boss m
e, and I’m enraged that you’re tormenting my cousins—yet here I am anyway.”
He snorted at that. “I guess I like you more than I should too, and I’ve been struggling to figure out how I feel about that. My relationship with you is typical of how confused I’ve been the entire year. We’re a pitiful pair, aren’t we?”
“Yes, we are. What will become of us?”
“Nothing good, I’m sure.”
“At least you’re honest about it.”
“Ever since Sir Sidney was murdered in Africa, I’ve been at loose ends.”
“Were you terribly close to him?” she asked.
“Very close. He was like a father to me.” He reflected for a moment, then smirked. “Well, perhaps if my father had been a wild, unrestrained roué.”
“Sir Sidney was a roué?”
He wrinkled his nose. “Forget I mentioned it. I’m especially maudlin tonight, and I shouldn’t denigrate him. I thought he was magnificent.”
“Were you there when he was killed?”
“Yes, I was standing a few feet away. I saw my friend, Nathan, attacked too. Have you heard of him? Nathan Blake? He’s Lord Selby.”
“Yes, I’ve heard of him.” She responded as casually as she could. “Wasn’t he left for dead by all of you? You assumed he’d died, but somehow, he staggered home on his own.”
He winced. “Don’t remind me. I blame myself for our abandoning him.”
It was another shocking admission. My goodness! If he would share such a stunning detail, he was definitely glum.
She scowled. “Was it your fault? Or are you suffering guilt that’s not really yours?”
“It wasn’t my fault, but it was absolutely my fault too.”
“That makes no sense.”
“A man from our team—a fiend named Judah—claimed he’d found Nathan passed away in the ferns, but the situation was too dangerous to retrieve his body. Later on, when matters had calmed, we went to locate his corpse, but it had vanished. I never wondered about Judah’s story. I should have, but I didn’t. If I hadn’t been so distraught, it would have dawned on me that he was lying.”
“Were you ever able to confront him about it?”