He rubbed his hands together. ‘Then you may leave us. My bride-to-be and I have business.’
Marianne stiffened. She was reluctant to see Delilah leave, but how could the woman stay? To make it appear Delilah was a friend would be to rouse Hayes’s suspicions. She took comfort in knowing Delilah would be downstairs, on the watch for help.
The door shut behind her and Hayes narrowed his gaze. ‘We have just a last bit of unpleasantness between us, my dear, and then in the morning we can seek out a man of the cloth. I should probably look into getting that ridiculous law changed that says no one can marry at night.’ They might have been talking about the news of the day for all the casualness his tone evinced. The bed took his weight. ‘At least it will give the girls here a chance to launder your dress for the ceremony.’
His hand rested, hot and heavy, on her flat stomach, the heat of him penetrating the thin fabric of her shift. She fought back panic. There was no reason to be afraid. Cassian would come long before then. There would be no ceremony, no forced wedding. This time tomorrow, she’d be home and she could cry all she wanted. But not now. Now was for surviving, for lasting until help came. He pulled up her shift and she shut her eyes, his hand splayed at her naked mons, fingers digging into the nest of hair there. ‘By Jove, you’re the colour of fire here, too. I’d suspected...hoped you would be,’ Hayes breathed.
She didn’t dare cringe, didn’t dare show any sign of emotion for fear of provoking him. She shut her eyes tight, trying to put her mind away somewhere else. It didn’t matter what he did to her. It didn’t. His weight shifted. He reached for the bonds holding her hands. ‘We’ll loosen them just a bit. I want you on your stomach.’ He manhandled her into position, his efforts rough. ‘I know you’ve betrayed me with Penlerick. You’ve been to his bed and you need to pay for that; you need to be purged of that feminine sorcery. It’s not decent in the wife of a viscount.’ Marianne bit into the pillow and waited for the blow to come. She would not scream for him. She would not.
* * *
He would not fail her. Vennor dismounted, pleased that his legs held. Fury had sustained him thus far. The others followed suit and prepared to enter. But Vennor held up a hand. ‘I go in alone. Someone needs to watch the back entrance and the front in case anything goes wrong.’ Nothing would go wrong, he promised himself. Hayes thought he was dead. The man was not reckoning on anyone finding them and he was without allies, although he probably didn’t realise it. Hayes would think his money had bought the loyalty of the whorehouse. He would be wrong.
Vennor pulled out his mask and tied it on, getting an arch-browed look from Inigo as dawning crossed his friend’s face. ‘I’ll explain later,’ Vennor murmured.
Inigo nodded. ‘I’m counting on that.’
Vennor stepped inside. The place was busy even for a Friday, but Delilah waited by the stairs, her face lighting with pale surprise. ‘I heard you were dead.’
‘Not yet. Upstairs I presume?’ Vennor was already taking the steps two at a time. The door was locked. He did not wait for Delilah’s master key. He kicked the door in with enough force to break it off its hinges. ‘Hayes! Get off her, you filthy swine!’ He crossed the room in two strides, grabbing Hayes by the collar and dragging him from Marianne, his mind registering her dishabille, the ropes, ‘You will not lay a hand on her!’ Thank goodness it appeared he’d arrived in time before Hayes had harmed her. The man was the basest of creatures to use a woman against her will in such a fashion. Rage possessed him in full. He threw the surprised Hayes against the wall, watching him bounce before he came at him with his fists. The strike at his jaw was for Marianne, the blow to his stomach was for his mother, the second blow for his father, and every blow after that for everything that been stolen from him.
Hayes wheezed, gasping for air on his knees as he begged for mercy. ‘This isn’t your fight, Vigilante. The girl is just a whore. We were playing. I paid her fair.’
‘She is no whore. That is the daughter of Sir Jock Treleven.’ She was other things, too: the woman he loved, his future wife, the future mother of his children, the sum of his world. But he could say none of that without giving away his identity. Let Hayes think the Vigilante had come for him. The Vigilante knew no law. Hayes should be very afraid. He’d wish Vennor Penlerick had come in his stead, that he hadn’t left him for dead in an alley.
‘There is no mercy today.’ Vennor drew his blade and advanced. ‘I take your life in trade for the lives of those who cannot claim their own justice against you.’
‘No!’ A cry from the bed stopped him. ‘Don’t do it. You don’t want his blood on your hands.’ Marianne was struggling, slipping one hand free and then another. She sat up, her hair dishevelled, her face tear-stained. ‘You are not a murderer, not a monster like him,’ she pleaded as she came to him. She was pale, her body trembling with shock and perhaps doubt. Her gaze studied him and he saw her thoughts, that perhaps it was one of the others who had come in his place, that somehow they’d known his secret.
‘This man has committed crimes that deserve to be paid for with his life.’
‘Then let the courts decide it,’ Marianne begged.
‘You, who have suffered at his hands, desire mercy for him?’ he growled, his fury at war with his better self. He wanted this man dead. Here. Now. No one in this place would ask any questions. No one would think to connect Vennor Penlerick to the murder.
Marianne’s hand was at his arm. ‘No, not mercy for him. Mercy for you. You do not want this on your soul.’ Mercy for him. She would sacrifice her own vengeance for a man’s peace. He would honour that.
Vennor sheathed the knife and collared Hayes, pushing him down the stairs, announcing to the crowd that had gathered below, ‘We will take him to the watch and he will stand trial for the Penlerick murders. His men have confessed to last night’s attack.’ He caught sight of Eaton at the door. ‘And we have documents that support the rest.’
Eaton opened the door and Vennor manhandled Hayes outside, aware of Marianne behind him. ‘Eaton, a cloak for the lady, please.’ The moment’s distraction, the brief instruction, was enough to give Hayes an opening, perhaps inspired by a realisation of how dire his circumstances were. Hayes shoved an elbow into Vennor’s stomach, pulling himself free and dashing off into the night. Vennor doubled over and swore, hands on his knees. Marianne was at his side, worried. He shook off her hand. The man was not going to get away, not now when he was so close to ending this.
Vennor righted himself and gave chase through the streets, down to the docks, his legs pumping, his head throbbing. It was entirely possible Hayes might simply outrun him, but the Vigilante knew the docks far better than a half-crazed man running for his life. Vennor cornered him on a length of pier and chased him to the end of it, where nothing waited but dark water. ‘Give up, Hayes. It’s over. Come back with me and stand trial.’ The Vigilante held out his hand. ‘You won’t get past me and I have a blade. I won’t hesitate this time.’
‘I know you,’ Hayes panted, looking at him queerly, his gaze riveted on the mask. ‘But it can’t be. Vennor Penlerick is dead. I had him shot tonight. I saw him go down.’ He was rambling out loud, unaware that he was damning himself in the process.
‘Restless souls with unfinished business often walk the earth before departing,’ Vennor growled, taking a step closer. He was nearly there. He could almost grab him, so paralysed by fear had Hayes become.
Hayes paled at the thought. Vennor reached out to take him, but Hayes let out a wail, ‘No, you won’t take me alive!’ He stepped back and was gone in a splash, the dark waters closing over his head as he sank. Left to his own devices, he would not survive the current.
Vennor pulled at his boots. Damn the man for thinking he could elude him. Damn the man for making him go in after him, to save him, to bring him to justice. Footsteps pounded on the wooden pier behind him. Marianne grabbed his arm. ‘No, let him go,
Ven. I won’t risk losing you twice in one night.’ Then she was in his arms, sobbing openly, undone by the surprise of finding him alive. ‘Don’t you ever die on me again and don’t you ever keep a secret from me again. You didn’t tell me you were the bait tonight.’
Her fists pounded on his chest. He grappled for them, holding them still against his beating heart. ‘I’m all right. I’m alive.’ Then he took her face between his hands, tipping it up to meet his gaze. ‘And you, Marianne? Are you all right? Has he harmed you? You must tell me the truth; whatever happened, it wasn’t your fault.’
‘I’m fine, just a bit bruised. Nothing more.’ She gasped and gave a breathy laugh. ‘We’re both a bit battered, but we’re both here.’ Then she started to shake, her words coming out in a rush. ‘I love you, Ven. Eliza was right. I should not have waited to tell you. When you fell tonight, I thought I’d lost the chance for ever.’
‘I’m alive. We’re alive, Marianne.’ What a glorious thing it was, too, to be alive, to be standing on the pier while the dawn broke above them. He held her close. ‘I love you, too. I meant to tell you tonight once I felt I could claim it, once I could offer you a whole man who’d dealt with the demons of his past.’
She looked up at him from the shelter of his arms. ‘And can you? Offer me a whole man?’
‘Yes, I can. Do you want him?’
A soft smile took her face. ‘Yes. Always. More than anything, although it’s taken me far too long to realise it.’ She turned her face into his hand, kissing his palm where it cupped her jaw. ‘You’re bleeding.’ She reached for the hand. ‘Your knuckles.’ She gave him a rueful smile. ‘You have blood on your hands, after all, despite my best efforts to keep you from it.’ She kissed his palm. ‘I was afraid you were going to pummel him to death in that room. I’d never seen such fury unleashed. I didn’t want his blood on your hands. It would have haunted you. Revenge is never worth it.’
He held her gaze steady. ‘No, revenge isn’t, but you are. When I saw what he’d done to you, what he was doing to you...’ His voice broke with emotion restrained no more. ‘This isn’t blood on my hands, Marianne, it is love. A man must always be willing to fight for what he cherishes and a woman must let him.’ He reached up and took off the mask with a smile. ‘Besides, it was the Vigilante’s hands.’ He wiped at his knuckles with the silk mask and passed it to her. It was time to make good on his promise. ‘Would you like to do the honours?’
‘Are you sure?’ Marianne took the mask cautiously.
‘It’s time to let him go. The Duke of Newlyn and his new Duchess can carry on his work here.’ He was the Duke in truth now, no longer afraid to step into his father’s shoes or walk in his own.
‘The Vigilante saved me,’ Marianne prevaricated.
‘The Vigilante saved us both,’ he amended.
‘Are you sure he has to go?’ Marianne asked.
‘Yes, I’m sure.’
‘Then we’ll do it together.’ She took his hand and together they cast the mask into the water.
He kissed her hard then, sweeping her up into his arms and carrying her home—or as close to home as he could get tonight. Tomorrow there would be a formal proposal to offer, an acceptance to celebrate, a wedding to plan, explanations to make and the rest of his life to begin. But for tonight, it would be just the two of them in the little room in the warehouse, on a low bed wrapped in each other’s arms, celebrating the joys of a second chance.
Epilogue
July 31, 1826
Joy had come to Mayfair. The doors of Newlyn House were thrown wide open, garlands of summer flowers festooned the door frames and the staircase leading up to the ballroom where dancing would begin as soon as the handsome Duke of Newlyn and his new bride, the radiant Marianne Treleven, the Season’s leading Incomparable, finished with their receiving line. That line stretched out into the street on a warm London summer night and sounds of laughter could be heard several streets away.
Vennor stood beside Marianne, still smiling despite the length of the day. They’d been wed in the morning at St George’s amid all the pomp that befitted a duke’s marriage. Later, he would not remember much of that pomp or the decorations. He would rely on Marianne to recount it thoroughly though in M.R. Mannering’s next column. But he would remember the sight of the church doors opening and Marianne stepping through, dressed in her signature white, pearls at her neck, the bouquet of red and white roses he’d sent over that morning in her hands, her smile wide, her dark eyes dewy with a gaze that was just for him.
The world had faded for him when Sir Jock Treleven had put his daughter’s hand in his and he had lifted back her veil. There was only her. His lover, his best friend, his wife. His future. She’d cried when he’d slipped his mother’s wedding ring on her finger and she kissed him with all the passion of her soul when they’d been pronounced man and wife.
There’d been the carriage ride through Mayfair and the tossing of pennies, and the drive through the East Docks where they’d cut the ribbon on the old Penlerick warehouse, declaring it the site of their new school. He’d felt his father’s approving presence there in that moment. This was what purpose felt like. This was what loving felt like. People would have a second chance with their school.
The wedding ball had been Marianne’s idea, a resurrection of the Penlerick Charity Ball on its old day, another second chance of sorts. He thought it was a marvellous idea. It had not been easy to get it done. There’d only been a month between the proposal and the wedding. But Eliza, Audevere, Penrose and Marianne had been a collective force of nature, organising the wedding and the ball to perfection while the men had watched in amazement.
‘Is it time to dance yet?’ Vennor turned to Marianne as they greeted the last guest. He swung her about, feeling energised despite the demands of the day. ‘Dancing with you is one step closer to my wedding night.’ He kissed her, not caring who saw. People would have to get used to seeing such displays from him. He meant to love his wife every day of his life.
She moved against him, her skirts indecently close to his trousers, her smile hiding nothing. ‘I can hardly wait. The ball had seemed like such a good idea at the time, but now I wonder if it was. We might already be in bed otherwise,’ she whispered mischievously. ‘I can think of nothing but how I want to undress you, to stare at you in the candlelight and feed you strawberries in bed.’
‘Hmmm. Great minds think alike.’ Vennor nipped at her ear. ‘I was imagining the same, only I think mine involved drinking champagne from your navel.’ He pulled her into an alcove and drew the curtain around them. ‘I have a gift for you. Perhaps I should give it to you now, since we will be busy later tonight.’ He gave her a wicked grin and pulled an envelope from inside his coat.
‘What is this?’ She unfolded the paper and scanned it. ‘It looks like a deed.’ She read it and he delighted in watching her mouth make an O of surprise. ‘You’ve bought the magazine?’
‘Yes. M.R. Mannering can write whatever he or she pleases, whenever it pleases her. Perhaps I can even persuade the Duchess of Newlyn to lend a hand as editor-in-chief.’
‘Oh, Vennor!’ She threw her arms about his neck, laughing loudly enough to make people beyond the curtain wonder what they were up to. Vennor didn’t care. At last, after three years of being lost, he was found. Marianne was the beacon that had shown him the way home.
The orchestra was finished tuning up. He took Marianne’s hand and kissed it. ‘Shall we, my Duchess?’
They led out the first waltz, Marianne radiant in his arms. ‘They’re here, you know.’ Marianne smiled up at him as he swept her into the opening steps. ‘Your mother, your father. They are happy for you. The people we love are never far from us.’
Vennor smiled warmly and gestured for the Cornish Dukes to join them. The Dukes, their duchesses, their heirs with their wives, took to the floor with them and Vennor’s heart was full as his frien
ds sailed by, filled with their own joy. What a summer it had been! What a future it was going to be. Tomorrow he and Marianne would depart for their wedding trip to the ducal properties, with promises for all of them to reunite in Cornwall in late autumn. There would be babies to hold and visits to be made, and the way Marianne was looking at him right now as he swept her through the turn, they might just have an announcement of their own to make. He hoped so. He could hardly wait to be a father, a husband, a man of worth, as all the Cornish Dukes were.
* * *
If you enjoyed this story, be sure to read the first three books in The Cornish Dukes miniseries by Bronwyn Scott
The Secrets of Lord Lynford
The Passions of Lord Trevethow
The Temptations of Lord Tintagel
Keep reading for an excerpt from Wedded for His Secret Child by Helen Dickson.
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Wedded for His Secret Child
by Helen Dickson
Chapter One
1794
Violet was not yet one year old when Melissa rode out one fine day in spring. She rode astride, with her daughter in front of her, her favourite hound bounding along beside her.
Violet had the natural healthiness of an infant. Despite the passing of time Melissa remembered the man who’d sired her as if their brief encounter had been yesterday. She saw his likeness every time she looked at her daughter. The moment she had cradled her baby in her arms she knew nothing in her life would be the same again.
She was amazed by the outpouring of maternal love she felt for the tiny human being. A protective love, the kind of which she had never known, had engulfed her. With each passing day this new presence in her life left a trail of comfort as though coated in soothing balm. She insisted on doing everything for her—even feeding her, much to her mother’s horror. She had wanted to employ a nursing woman to take over the task. Melissa had even insisted that the crib be brought from the nursery and placed in her room, beside her bed.
The Confessions of the Duke of Newlyn Page 21