Tempting the Heiress (28 page)
Read Tempting the Heiress Online
Authors: Barbara Pierce
Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Historical Romance
“I assume this was more than a family visit?” Tipton mused.
“He wanted Mother’s sapphire ring.” Wynne hugged Amara, barely containing her excitement. “He told us that he intends to marry you. We truly will be sisters!”
The surgeon granted Amara one of his rare smiles. “So
Bedegrayne has finally caught his dove,” he said, his usually enigmatic eyes glowing with approval. “Welcome to the family, little sister.”
Bedegrayne has finally caught his dove,” he said, his usually enigmatic eyes glowing with approval. “Welcome to the family, little sister.”
Dazed by the affection, she accepted the cup of punch Devona pushed into her hand. It took Wynne seconds to whisper the good news in her sister’s ear. Shrieking, the youngest Bedegrayne embraced her. Tipton’s quick reflexes seized the cup before his wife spilled the punch down the front of Amara’s dress.
“Brock’s declaration is a bit premature,” Amara cautioned, dampening everyone’s enthusiasm.
Wynne sobered first. “The conte.”
“Who the devil is he?” Tipton asked.
“My sanctioned betrothed,” she admitted forlornly.
No one wanted to alarm Amara, so the sisters waited until she was distracted by one of the footmen. Devona and Wynne with Tipton’s assistance gathered up the Bedegrayne clan. An impromptu meeting was discreetly held outdoors in the garden.
Perplexed by all the tension she saw on everyone’s faces, Maddy said, “The room is so crowded, I could not reach Irene and Sutton. Where is Sir Thomas?”
“I noticed a short fairy with silver hair had him cornered,” Milroy said with a lilt of amusement. “For once, he seemed merry in his predicament.”
“Then we shall not interrupt them,” Tipton decided. “We can turn Sir Thomas and his blustery temper loose on the Keyworths once we know all the details.”
Milroy idly massaged his fingers on his left hand. “Is this about Brock?”
“What about Brock?” Maddy chimed in, anxious.
Devona comforted her younger sister-in-law. “We will tell you everything later.” She addressed the men. “Perhaps both of you should check his house?”
They would raise questions leaving en masse. “He will not thank us for overreacting,” Wynne said.
Tipton agreed. “I will go.”
“No,” Milroy contradicted. “Stay and watch over the family. I’ll check Bedegrayne’s house. I’ve more experience with this kind of trouble.”
Amara did not recognize the footman who had summoned her. This was not particularly strange since extra staff had been hired for the ball. “Repeat the message.”
“Just one word, Miss Claeg,” the servant dutifully repeated for the third time. “I was to say the word
tonight,
and tell you to slip out unnoticed. He is waiting for you on the street.”
tonight,
and tell you to slip out unnoticed. He is waiting for you on the street.”
“Tell no one,” she ordered, dismissing the footman.
“Yes, miss.”
She bridled at the servant’s sly grin. The man most likely thought she was running off to a clandestine meeting with her lover. Avoiding her parents and Buckle, Amara was on the stairs when Prola called out to her.
“My lady!” He rushed forward and clasped her hand. “We must speak.”
“It will have to be later, my lord. I—” How could she think of a plausible lie when Doran was waiting for her just beyond the door!
“No, signorina, now,” he imperiously commanded. “I must know your heart. You accept my offer, yes?” His grip was fierce as they stood on the stairs. He was attempting to tug her up and she desired the opposite direction. If she
remained at his side, they would spend the rest of their days at cross-purposes.
remained at his side, they would spend the rest of their days at cross-purposes.
Her answer was unequivocal.
Amara used her other hand to gently free herself from his grip. “I must refuse you, my lord. You offer me everything but the one thing I need—love.”
“It is this Bedegrayne!” Prola seethed, muttering oaths in his native tongue. “Your papa, he will not permit this refusal!”
“No. Anything precious is costly.” She was forfeiting her family. After this night, she was as lost as her brother Doran.
Amara hurried down the stairs.
“You are nothing but Bedegrayne’s whore!” he shouted. “You are not worthy of my spittle!”
Carriages congested the street. Leaving the protection of the house, she headed east. Doran did not reveal himself. Turning around, she followed the street past her house, her frantic gaze searching the shadows between the carriages.
“Amara.”
The soft masculine whisper floated on the evening air. She paused, almost afraid she had imagined it.
“Amara.”
Slipping behind one of the parked carriages, she followed the voice. Horses nickered greetings as she moved down the street, losing sight of her house.
“Amara.”
This time the pitch had gained strength. “Doran?”
“Here,” the voice invited.
She stepped closer. A hand was clapped over her mouth, cutting off her cry of surprise. Another hand held
her arm. She struggled vainly in her captor’s embrace. A man emerged from the shadows. The lamp he grasped was positioned low to the ground, keeping his face in shadow. Only when he reached her did he raise it to his scarred face.
her arm. She struggled vainly in her captor’s embrace. A man emerged from the shadows. The lamp he grasped was positioned low to the ground, keeping his face in shadow. Only when he reached her did he raise it to his scarred face.
“Remember me?” the man rasped.
Not even the hand over her mouth stopped her screams.
Brock and Milroy entered the Keyworth ballroom together. Cleaned up and attired in black breeches and matching stylish silk coat, Brock looked no different from any other gentleman. Until one noticed his bleeding lower lip—and the limp.
Sir Thomas ambled over to the men. “Brock, my boy, you have moved beyond fashionable into rudeness. What—” His feathery brows furrowed as he noted his son’s numerous injuries. “Were you ambushed by a footpad?”
“No. Where is Amara?” He turned to Milroy. “Do you see her?”
His companion shook his head. “Here comes Tipton.”
The viscount’s pale eyes gravely studied him. More surgeon than aristocrat, Tipton grabbed Brock’s jaw with one hand. Ignoring his brother-in-law’s impatience, he silently evaluated the bruise blooming on Brock’s throat.
“Three men were waiting for him,” Milroy explained. “Prola was counting on the advantage of strength and surprise to outweigh any fighting skills Bedegrayne might possess.” There was cold satisfaction in his gaze.
“Obviously, they gravely misjudged Bedegrayne’s fondness for his neck.”
“Obviously, they gravely misjudged Bedegrayne’s fondness for his neck.”
Brock pulled his face away from Tipton’s hand. “I can speak for myself.”
“What’s this?” Sir Thomas challenged. “By damn, I will call this Prola scoundrel out myself!”
“Quiet,” he said to his father. “Milroy, search the room for Amara.”
“Aye.” He disappeared from their view.
“How badly are you injured?”
Brock returned his attention to Tipton. “Just a minor collection of bruises. One of the bastards tried to break my leg.” His grin was ferocious. “He failed.” Burnes and his companion were not dead, although when they regained their senses they might wish they were. “The pair will be in front of the magistrate come morning.”
“Good. They are one less problem we will have to settle later.”
“Lad,” his father interjected, “Prola has been present most of the evening. Where does he fit in this mischief?”
“He punched me first. I intend to return the favor.” Accepting his father’s handkerchief, he dabbed at the blood on his lip. The stinging cut alone had put him in a nasty mood.
Mallory Claeg clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Bedegrayne, are you trespassing or did my father actually let you through the door?” Finally noticing Brock’s battered condition, he was visibly shocked. “Dear Lord, how many footmen did you pummel into the dirt?”
“None,” he snapped, exasperated he was wasting time with further explanations. “Where is your sister?”
Claeg snorted, obviously soaring on something stronger than punch. “I can barely find myself in this mob.”
Brock gripped the other man by his coat. “Listen. Keyworth sent Prola and a few of his friends to my house. If not for my manservant, my corpse would have been tossed in the Thames.”
“Sell-lick?” he slurred, not believing a word of it. “The man couldn’t hold a tray. What’d he do, trip the assailants?”
He had no time for this. Brock shook him. “Sober up, Claeg.” The man’s teeth rattled quite nicely. “If we do not find Amara, your father will marry her off to a promising murderer.”
“I will kill him.”
Brock had no idea if the man was referring to Prola or his father. “Find your sister first. The brawling will come later.” He released Claeg and watched him stagger away.
“Brock!”
Wynne, Maddy, and Devona moved toward the men. Clenching against the painful impact, Brock groaned when his sisters collectively embraced him.
“Ladies, he has sore ribs and a lame leg. You are torturing him with affection,” Tipton admonished.
The women sprang back so quickly that at any other time their antics might have made him laugh. “Amara. Have you seen her?”
“Milroy found us and explained,” Wynne said, despising that her words were additional blows. “Brock, an hour has lapsed since anyone last spoke to her.”
Fifteen minutes later, Claeg returned looking grimmer and less inebriated than he had during their previous encounter. “Prola is missing.”
Recovering from her faint, Amara slowly opened her eyes. The street and carriages were gone. While she was
unconscious, they had moved her to a tiny room. The crude walls and the coolness hinted that she was belowground, perhaps in a wine cellar. Three men sat around the table playing cards. Lying on her side, she twisted the bindings at her wrists. The loops of rope were so taut, she whimpered.
unconscious, they had moved her to a tiny room. The crude walls and the coolness hinted that she was belowground, perhaps in a wine cellar. Three men sat around the table playing cards. Lying on her side, she twisted the bindings at her wrists. The loops of rope were so taut, she whimpered.
“Ah, the sleeping queen awakens.”
The snide announcement had all three men turning to stare at her. The man she recognized and feared the most stood and came closer. “Miss Claeg, the passing years have enhanced your beauty.”
Glancing down at her bare hands, she realized they had stolen her jewelry. Amara awkwardly brought her bound hands up to her chest, ignoring the burning consequences of her questing fingers. Her talisman was gone! She swallowed her growing panic. “Where is my brother?”
The question distracted her captor. “Mallory? Still at the ball or whoring. It hardly matters.”
“Doran. Where is my brother Doran?”
That horribly scarred face grinned down at her. “Dead, Miss Claeg. You know he died in the Gate.”
She brought her knees up, curling into herself. Doran was never there. It had all been a ruse to lure her away from her family. The disappointment she felt was choking the breath out of her. “What do you want? Money?”
“I want what was denied me six years ago—money and marriage,” Lord Cornley rasped, reaching down for her.
Out of respect for his host, Brock had intended his chat with Keyworth to be private. Then he thought of Amara. She was alone and at Prola’s mercy. He blamed Keyworth.
Unerringly, he limped toward his quarry. Seizing the man by his cravat, Brock hauled him out of the card room. Squawking like one of his prized falcons, the man sputtered for his release. There was a flurry of protests and feminine shrieks as they moved down the hall and into the viscount’s study. Brock threw him against a table. The menacing stuffed peregrine perched on the polished surface crashed to the floor.
Unerringly, he limped toward his quarry. Seizing the man by his cravat, Brock hauled him out of the card room. Squawking like one of his prized falcons, the man sputtered for his release. There was a flurry of protests and feminine shrieks as they moved down the hall and into the viscount’s study. Brock threw him against a table. The menacing stuffed peregrine perched on the polished surface crashed to the floor.
Keeping his hand down on Keyworth’s neck, he lifted his head at the patter of a dozen footfalls. His family and some of the more daring guests had followed. “None of you have any part in this.” Brock wished them all to leave, especially his sisters. He did not want them to witness the burgeoning violence within him.
“Damn you, Tipton. Get the women out of here.”
Devona shook off her husband’s restraining hand. “Brock,” she pleaded. “He is her father.”
Keyworth stirred at their voices. “Someone get him off me. He intends to kill me!”
“Odd, you mention killing. Were Prola and his men following your instructions when they tried to kill me?”
The older man kicked out, striking Brock’s uninjured leg. Angered, he raised the viscount’s head and smacked it on the table.
Lady Keyworth screamed. Pushing her way through the crowd, she said, “The watch has been summoned. Mr. Bedegrayne, you will spend the rest of your miserable life in prison if you do not free my husband!”
He glared at the woman. If he was going to prison, he might as well be deserving of the crime. Brock squeezed the neck in his ruthless grasp. “I am not the only man in this room setting off to prison. Tell her about Prola.”
“Madam, I am innocent. I—I only asked the conte to
speak with B-Bedegrayne before the ball. He was upset when I rejected his offer to marry our daughter. I was afraid he might h-hurt her.” The viscount winced, preparing for punishment.
speak with B-Bedegrayne before the ball. He was upset when I rejected his offer to marry our daughter. I was afraid he might h-hurt her.” The viscount winced, preparing for punishment.
“Pitiful,” Sir Thomas muttered, dismayed by his old friend’s babbling excuses.
“Talk?” Brock mocked, letting his gaze slide over to Lady Keyworth’s bloodless cheeks. “The man broke into my house and left me at the mercy of his two friends, the type who do not ask too many questions and are built like oaks. I was fortunate I survived!” The viscountess started crying.
“Brock,” Tipton said, bringing him back to the present. “Amara.”
“My lord, where is my sister?” Claeg asked, standing behind his mother.
She sniffled into her handkerchief. “What of our daughter?”
“Your husband sold her to Prola.”
“I did no such thing,” the man wailed. “Ask him. He must be somewhere in the house.”
Strangely, Brock believed him. There was a chance Prola had confronted Amara about the marriage and she had refused. Acting on his own, he had kidnapped her. He leaned over, close to the man’s ear. What he had to say was for this man alone.
“You accused me of being unworthy. Unworthy is selling your daughter six years past to the highest drunken bidder in order to satisfy your greed. It is inviting that man into your country house and being so careless, the villain beats and defiles the daughter you should have treasured. I despise you. When I find her, I am taking her away from you. Pray, Keyworth, that Amara is unhurt,
because the next time we meet, I will do more than wrinkle your cravat.”
because the next time we meet, I will do more than wrinkle your cravat.”
Releasing the older man, Brock limped toward his family. Claeg walked away, obviously determined to continue the search for his sister, leaving his mother to comfort her husband. Behind him, Brock could hear Lady Keyworth sobbing. Tipton put his arm around him and took some of the burden off his injured leg. Everyone parted for them. Some of the guests seemed as if they wanted to applaud his vulgar display, others were simply horrified.
“I am not leaving the house until we locate someone who noticed Amara leaving,” Brock said.
“We will find her, my dear,” Aunt Moll promised. She patted his arm. Blinking back tears, his sister Irene nodded. She moved on, watching over their elderly aunt.
Twenty minutes later, the Keyworths’ butler, Buckle, dragged a terrified footman in front of Brock. His accounting of Amara’s final moments in the house was baffling until the quaking man described the gentleman who had paid him one pound to deliver his message. It was Prola.
The coach swiftly barreled across town. Brock’s knuckles still stung from the brief, yet enlightening chat he had had with Prola’s cohort, Burnes. It seemed the Italian kept two houses in London: one for appearances, and one that Burnes had said was for discreet nocturnal encounters. If Prola had Amara, he would have taken her to that house.
Tipton and Milroy had joined Brock. Fortunately, they had convinced Sir Thomas that he was needed at home to guard the ladies. Digging out a rusty old pistol that he had stored under the coach’s seat, his sire was seeing rogues
in every corner. Brock needed Prola alive. He was not so confident he could keep the elder Bedegrayne from putting a hole in the Italian’s heart before the man revealed Amara’s whereabouts. Or anyone else, including himself! Everyone was too hot-blooded.
in every corner. Brock needed Prola alive. He was not so confident he could keep the elder Bedegrayne from putting a hole in the Italian’s heart before the man revealed Amara’s whereabouts. Or anyone else, including himself! Everyone was too hot-blooded.
Tipton competently wrapped strips of linen to bind Brock’s right leg. The night air was stiffening his muscles. He could barely put his full weight on it. The tight wrapping provided some extra support.
“You should have stayed with your wives.”
Milroy sat forward, his arms resting between his legs in an attempt to diminish his large size. It did not help. “Prola might not be alone.”
“Burnes and the laughing strangler are sleeping in a cell. How many friends does one man hire?” Brock wondered aloud.
Claeg, who had buried his face in the crook of his arm, snickered. “Obviously, they did not pound the humor out of you, Bedegrayne.”
“’Ey, I resisted reenacting my ambush with your father, though I was tempted when I noticed him running about and demanding my arrest.”
“You showed remarkable restraint,” Claeg praised. “If anyone had actually listened, I would have held him down for you.”
The thought made him chuckle. This was the first time he had laughed since he had left Amara. Swearing, Brock groaned and held his gut. “The next man who makes me laugh will get my foot.”
Tipton closed his medical case. “What did you whisper in Keyworth’s ear?”
“Your words troubled him,” Milroy observed.
He leaned back in the seat and closed his eyes. Brock
regretted losing his temper. He had wanted Keyworth to understand that Brock’s hatred stemmed from what had been done to Amara, not to himself. If there was justice, the knowledge would torment him, consuming his sanity as greed had feasted on his rotten soul.
regretted losing his temper. He had wanted Keyworth to understand that Brock’s hatred stemmed from what had been done to Amara, not to himself. If there was justice, the knowledge would torment him, consuming his sanity as greed had feasted on his rotten soul.
Amara was forced to stand beside Lord Cornley while he played cards. His obsession with the game allowed her to peek at his profile. His once handsome face was ruined. The flesh not disfigured by the fire, age, and overindulgence had softened. Only his eyes appeared the same. They were still hard, brimming with malice and selfish ambition.
“Everyone stares,” he murmured, not glancing up from his hand. “You cannot help it. The scars ensnare.”
“How did you survive the fire?”
“Providence. The fire caused such an uproar, no one noticed my brother had dragged me out. Of course, there were pieces of me he could not save.” He bobbed his hairless brow at her.
Like his wits?
She did not express her opinion aloud.
She did not express her opinion aloud.
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