Regency 02 - Betrayal (2 page)

He cursed as he strode swiftly into his
mansion. He supposed he could have taken her to his friend’s wife,
Lady Verena Northwicke, but that lady had only recently given birth
to twins and Adam had already brought her enough grief with his
groundless accusations and petty spite. No, he would have to look
after Lady Brianna Derring, Countess of Rothsmere—better known as
Bridgette—himself.

Bri awoke slowly, unaccountably warm and with
a feeling of security. She wondered what caused this since the last
thing she remembered was awaiting her fate in Newgate Prison. She
opened her eyes slowly and looked around—and encountered carefully
blank gray-green eyes set in a harshly handsome face.

“Adam!”

Her voice was a mere croak of sound and she
found a glass of water thrust at her with a terse command to drink.
She obeyed since she really had no other choice. After a moment,
she tried again.

“Where are we?” she whispered.

Adam shifted restlessly in the hard chair by
the bed. Why the deuce were bedside chairs always so blasted
uncomfortable? It made no sense.

“We are at Lockwood House in Berkeley
Street.”

She gave him a look of confusion. He watched
the look pass over her once beautiful features and again
experienced that odd pain in his chest. He shook it off,
attributing it to indigestion this time.

“My townhouse,” he supplied woodenly.

She seemed to lose even more color, as if
that were possible. “We’re still in London?”

“Of course we are. Your family is here.”

Her eyes widened until they were great green
saucers in her gaunt face. She seemed to be struggling with some
strong emotion.

She was. Rage. She wished she had the
strength to claw his eyes out. She wanted to slap that sardonic
look off his face. She wanted to plant him a facer. She wanted to
kiss those lips that were now curling into a mocking grin.

Oh, Lord! She must be delirious. She couldn’t
possibly want to kiss him. He was despicable. He was little better
than a Bow Street Runner. Actually, he was worse. He hunted
innocent humans purely for the thrill of the chase.

“I think I’m feverish,” she mumbled thickly.
She did feel awfully hot. And her body positively ached.

Adam reached over and felt her forehead. She
was almost too hot to touch. He had to get a doctor, but there was
no one he could trust. He wanted to find out from her what was
going on before handing her over to her family. He hoped it was
nothing too bad since he had to turn her over, no matter what. She
was only twenty. She still had nearly five years before she gained
complete control of her inheritance.

He suddenly thought of Connor. It was very
early, but he knew his friend would come.

He stood up and rang the bell. Mrs. Campion
arrived a moment later.

“Mr. Prestwich?”

“Sit with Miss Bri, Mrs. Campion. I have to
ride for a doctor.”

The motherly housekeeper curtsied and took
Adam’s seat by the bed. He reflected irrelevantly that she seemed
quite comfortable in the cursed chair from hell. He turned on his
heel and left.

Charger, his great black hunter, stamped and
pawed at the ground as if sensing his master’s agitation. The beast
was soon saddled and pounding through the London streets. Adam
reflected as he rode that the snow he had suspected had made its
appearance a trifle sooner than he had at first thought.
Thankfully, it wasn’t yet a detriment to his horse or himself as he
raced to Vale Place at breakneck speed.

Adam thanked God that Connor had seen fit to
come to town for a brief stay. Verena had given birth to twins, a
boy and a girl, less than two months ago and so was unable to
travel to the metropolis with her husband. But Connor, now the
Marquess of Beverley although he refused to the use the title for
personal reasons since the death of his brother, had some necessary
business to attend to and so had left his young wife at Denbigh
Castle, his childhood home.

Adam reined in as Vale Place came into view.
The impressive residence, located in Grosvenor Square, was
deceptive in appearance. It appeared small and quaint on the
outside; inside was like a veritable palace.

Tossing the reins to a footman who came
hurrying out, Adam burst into the house. The butler, Samson—an old
man with long white hair tied neatly at his nape—bustled
forward.

“Get Lord Connor at once. Tell him it’s an
emergency.” He turned to the footman still on duty. “Have my lord’s
horse saddled immediately.” The lad jumped to do his bidding, all
the servants knowing that Mr. Adam Prestwich was as near to being
the second master at Vale Place as any man ever could be.

Samson moved faster than Adam could ever
remember him moving. Deciding to wait in the hall, Adam moved
towards the chair that leaned against the wall. He eyed it with a
cynical light. Good God, he was to be plagued with hard chairs for
the rest of his life, he thought.

“What’s to do?” Connor asked as he came down
the stairs, shrugging into a brown riding jacket.

“Glad to see you dressed for riding,” Adam
remarked as he headed back to the door.

Connor followed with his normal easy-going
complacence, being long used to his friend’s strange quirks. When
they reached the horses, Adam suddenly turned to him.

“Damn! Get whatever you need to cure a raging
fever. I have need of your doctoring skills.”

Connor raised one pale brow in question, but
said nothing and sent the footman to retrieve some items for him
from the kitchen.

Then they were off, rocketing through the
deserted city streets as if being pursued by Satan himself.

Adam paused outside the door to Bri’s room,
stopping so suddenly Connor almost bumped into him. The marquess
threw his friend a startled look that held a twinge of amusement
and waited patiently for Adam to explain whatever freakish start
now held him.

Prestwich looked back at Connor assessingly
for a moment, a shadow crossing his chiseled features. His friend
cocked an eyebrow inquiringly but said nothing.

“Before I let you through this door, I must
demand absolute secrecy about the presence of the person in this
room,” Adam finally uttered into the lengthening silence.

Connor nodded in agreement, his curiosity and
the shiver of unease he suddenly felt hidden underneath a calm
façade.

“Especially your wife. Verena can’t know,”
Adam added emphatically, finally looking his friend in the eye, his
hand poised above the door handle.

His eyebrows threatening to disappear into
his hairline, Lord Connor agreed. Other than his initial look of
surprise at the odd request, he was careful to conceal his feelings
behind a serious tone and a bland expression.

Satisfied with his friend’s answer and
demeanor of seriousness—Connor never gave his word lightly—Adam
nodded and turned the handle on the door leading to his unwilling
guest. “Follow me,” he said unnecessarily. His tone was resigned as
if he would have much rather kept the countess’s presence a
secret—which, of course, he wished with his whole heart were
possible, but he knew, at this point, that it couldn’t be
helped.

Adam gave his housekeeper a speaking glance.
She bustled from the room, giving Lord Connor a friendly smile as
she went.

“Bridgette?” Connor uttered in disbelief,
keeping his voice low as he stared at the familiar face in the
bed.

“Brianna, actually,” Adam replied helpfully,
advancing a little further into the room. He shrugged and met
Connor’s eyes, a half-smile twisting his lips at the look of
bewilderment on the marquess’s face. “Well, to be completely
accurate and strictly proper, my lady the Countess of Rothsmere,”
he added dryly.

Shocked blue eyes met wry gray ones for a
moment before swiveling back to the emaciated form in the huge
four-poster. Connor shouldn’t have been as surprised as he felt at
that moment. He distinctly recalled a certain thought he had had
about Bri over a year ago. He had suspected even then that she was
Quality.

“I assume you will explain,” replied Connor
with a frown, his composure restored with the usual rapid recovery
for which he was known. His voice held a note of unmistakable
command seldom if ever heard in the easy-going young lord.

Adam responded to it the same way that he
would have responded to anyone unwise enough to order him to do
anything: “No.”

“I’m not giving you a choice, Adam” was the
firm reply.

Connor stared at his friend and didn’t move
from his place just inside the open door.

Adam remembered that look from when they were
children. Connor rarely was serious but Adam Prestwich knew better
than to simply ignore him when he was in such a mood. He wanted
answers and when Lord Connor Northwicke wanted answers, that was
exactly what he got—even if he had to use his fists to get
them.

Despite Adam’s being taller and heavier,
Connor was virtually unstoppable in a fist fight, as Adam had cause
to know having seen any number of bullies bested by the younger—and
often smaller—man. Adam could see he wouldn’t fare any better if he
persisted in being stubborn.

Not that he was afraid of him.

“Very well,” Prestwich conceded grudgingly.
“I will tell you if you help her and promise to keep quiet about
everything.”

“Should I be insulted?” Connor asked with the
ghost of a smile on his face. “You seem to have little faith in my
discretion.”

“Devil take you, it isn’t that,” Adam
retorted sharply. He searched for a reason for his unusually
unguarded tongue. “If anyone finds out she’s here, she’d be
compromised and I’d be forced to play the part of a gentleman and
marry the chit,” he said in a low growl, praying his tone was
convincing enough to throw Connor off.

“Why?” the marquess asked simply. “You could
always let her face the scandal alone, you know.”

Adam stared at his best friend in genuine
disbelief. “I think I’ve just been roundly insulted but you have a
funny way of telling a man he’s less than a gentleman.”

Moving into the room, Connor stood beside the
bed and looked down at the young woman who had posed as his wife’s
abigail just over a year ago. It was amazing the change time and
most likely unspeakable hardship had wrought.

Looking up at Adam who stood at the end of
the bed, he inquired mildly, “And you trust your servants to keep
such a delicious
on dit
to themselves? One of the wealthiest
heiresses in the land pretending to be what she is not and residing
under the roof of a suspected rake. I’m tempted to spread the word
myself. Do you realize how popular I’d be with such a scandalous
piece of gossip? I’d be feted and petted wherever I go.”

He was obviously teasing, but Adam had to
suppress a desire to wipe the smile off his friend’s face with his
fist. “Of course I trust my servants,” he replied instead,
completely ignoring the rest of his friend’s words. “Every last one
of them is loyal to me and knows it would be more than their lives
are worth should they dare betray me. Besides, they are unaware of
her true identity.”

“Would it be so bad to marry her?” Connor
asked then, abruptly changing the subject back to what he felt was
the true issue. “You have to get married sometime, you know.”

Connor turned away to prepare to examine the
sleeping Bri and so he missed the flurry of emotions that flashed
across Adam’s features. When he regained his composure, the older
man offered nonchalantly, “I do? Whatever for? I can leave my
wealth to whomever I deem worthy and I have no title to pass
on.”

“Do you not?”

Adam stared. Connor ignored his friend and
rang for Mrs. Campion. Then he turned and explained, “It might be
best to have a woman present.”

“What do you mean by that?” Prestwich finally
snapped.

Easily following his friend’s train of
thought, Connor retorted with a slight twinge of heat, “Just what I
said: Do you or do you not you have a title to pass on? I realize
the title of baronet is not much compared to a duke or a marquess
or even a baron for that matter, but it is a title nevertheless and
should be handed to someone worthy.” He paused, but not long enough
for Adam to reply. “As it was to you,” Lord Connor concluded in a
gentler tone.

“How the bloody hell did you find out?” Adam
exploded right as the housekeeper made her entrance after a minor
scratching on the door—a good servant never knocks.

She stopped in her tracks and looked from one
gentleman to the other warily. A soft moan issued from the bed and
Connor glanced at Bri quickly before returning his attention to
Mrs. Campion. He bade her enter and put her at ease with a friendly
smile. He explained quickly what he expected from her and she
resumed her seat near the bed.

Connor swiftly and efficiently examined the
countess in a very impersonal manner while Adam retreated to the
peace and sanity of his library. He needed a drink, he thought even
as he poured a stiff measure of brandy. He started to set the
decanter back in the cupboard, hesitated, and then, after
retrieving a bottle of port from the cabinet as well, carried both
back with him to a cozy leather armchair by the fire. He placed the
liquor on a table beside him within easy reach and quaffed the
amber liquid already in his glass.

He refilled it, drank it down, and refilled
it again before he finally started to relax. He sat with the glass
in one hand and stared beyond the chair’s twin out into the
lightening gray sky of early morning. God, how he wished this day
was over. Or better yet, had never happened.

What the devil had ever possessed him to take
up such a ridiculous hobby?

Even better question: How the devil had
Connor discovered that he, Mr. Adam Prestwich, was in actuality
Sir
Adam Prestwich? A reluctant part of him had to admire
his best friend. It wasn’t something the man just stumbled over. He
must have had some sort of inkling and decided to investigate. With
Adam’s own interest in discovering certain facts that were nigh
impossible to uncover, he couldn’t help but be impressed by
Connor’s triumph.