by Allison Lane
"You have nerve,” he snapped, stalking to the fireplace, where he assumed a dramatic pose. “Are you planning to kill me like you killed my sister?"
"I had nothing to do with her death,” Gray said calmly, determined to hold his temper, no matter what. “I was not even in town at the time, as everyone knows."
"What difference does that make?” snarled Turner. “You drove her to it. She was carrying your child!"
"Not mine."
"Liar!"
"Never.” Gray paused to unclench his fists. “It is time you accepted the truth, Turner. These childish attempts on my life must stop."
"I'll not listen to your insults.” Turner assumed a fighting stance.
Nick tensed.
Gray continued. “Denying your intent is even more cowardly than hiring ruffians so you needn't dirty your hands."
"How dare—You deserve to die."
"I disagree."
"As would anyone who knows him,” added Nick. “If you were truly a gentleman, you would discover the facts of the case. Then, if you had a grievance, you would deal with it in person."
"Only if my opponent were a gentleman.” Turner glared down his crooked nose. “A cad deserves no respect."
"Misguided youth,” murmured Gray with a sigh. “Always jumping to conclusions, then refusing to admit they were wrong."
"How dare you, Grayson?” Turner's temper snapped. “And how dare your dastardly friend imply I have no facts?” He tugged open a drawer and pulled out a tattered stack of letters. “Who knows more about your dishonor than Constance? You may be heir to a title, but I'll see you dead for what you did to her. So sweet and kind and loving. Yet you callously destroyed her. But it won't happen again. I've already sent your latest victim a warning."
"Leave Mary out of this, Turner.” Gray's temper flashed so fast he was on his feet before he restrained it. “I'll not have you annoying her with your lies."
"Bastard!” The letters narrowly missed the fireplace as Turner attacked. Gray ducked to avoid a fist in his bruised eye, knocking his arm on a table. Then he barely sidestepped a kick. Memories of that footpad made his hands tremble. He hated situations in which he ought to exchange blows. Fear of exposing his weaknesses kept him helpless.
Nick grabbed Turner from behind and slammed him into a chair. “Sit down!” he roared. “I'll turn you over to a magistrate right now if you don't behave."
"Relax, Nick.” Gray resumed his chair, donning a calm expression to hide his lingering fear—and sliding his wrist behind his back; it stung, as if he'd reopened that wound. If Turner discovered his problem, society would have a new weapon against him. “We are making progress. I was wrong to think him mad. He is merely loyal to his family. Commendable, though undeserved in this case. Don't threaten him until we discover her lies."
"Don't impugn my sister!” Turner struggled against Nick's hold. “She was the most loving girl in the world until you killed her.” His voice broke.
Gray sighed. “Only three people know what transpired, Turner. You are not one of them. Constance lied from the moment we met, pretending a courtship that did not exist. In truth, I spoke with her only once, at Lady Debenham's ball. I had never seen her before that night and never sought her out afterward."
"Why? Wasn't she good enough for you?” sneered Turner.
"Her worth is irrelevant. I did not dance more than once with anyone that year."
"So arrogant,” snapped Turner. “You think your title allows you to dally wherever you choose, then deny blame when you are found out."
"You aren't listening.” Rising, Gray leaned over Turner's chair, trusting Nick to control Turner's fists. “Your sister lied. There was no dalliance. No friendship. No seduction. The entire affair was a fantasy that existed solely in her mind.” He toyed briefly with locking Turner and Miss Seabrook in a padded room where they could entertain each other with their fantasies, but this was no time for woolgathering.
"You cannot deny her condition."
Gray paced to the fireplace. “No, but I did not cause it. I suspect she grew desperate when her lover disappeared, so she threw herself at me. Maybe she thought I would do anything to avoid scandal. But she was wrong. When her stalking became too annoying, I left."
"Fancy words, Grayson. But I don't believe them.” Only Nick's grip on his jacket kept Turner in his chair. “Constance was painfully honest, especially with me. She wrote almost daily, you know, describing every detail of her life. I know about the night she met you, the events you attended, the secret strolls through gardens, how you seduced her in the dark walk at Vauxhall. She also repeated your promises of love, marriage, and wealth uncounted."
"Fantasies, every one. Lady Beatrice would have known if she'd been conducting trysts in various gardens. And I haven't been to Vauxhall in ten years. I despise the place. Perhaps she substituted my name for her escort's, but it is more likely she lied from start to finish.” Gray was losing patience. “I did not court your sister. I did not seduce her. I did not seek her out in any way."
Turner ignored him, seeming lost in his own memories. “She wrote me the last day, her tears staining the page. You'd spurned her, you bastard. Cast her off without thought. She had no choice but to end it.” Hatred flared as he met Gray's gaze. “I must avenge her if I am to live with myself. But first you must suffer as she did."
"Enough of this farce,” said Nick, his disgust penetrating Turner's trance as Gray's anger had not. “Haul him to the magistrate and be done with him. You've witnesses enough to convict him. He'll leave for Botany Bay on the next ship."
"Not just yet.” Gray frowned, searching for a way to convince the boy. Turner had lost the only family who cared about him, then been mired in hatred for three years as he plotted revenge. It was time to move on.
His motives were not altruistic, Gray admitted, pacing. Unless he convinced Turner he was innocent, he would spend his life dodging plots. There was little chance of convicting him without additional evidence. Today's admissions were useless—his own word carried no weight, and even Nick's would be suspect in this situation. Asking Browning to testify would condemn the man to transportation. Besides, involving the authorities would focus attention on Constance's death, forcing society to judge him. Unless he won, they would ostracize him. There would be no more careful dance that allowed him to mingle as long as he behaved with more propriety than anyone else.
"No matter what Constance claimed, there were only three people who knew what happened,” he repeated. “Constance can no longer confess. The others are myself and the man who seduced her. Think about it, Turner. I could not have been responsible for her pregnancy. I reached London only a month before her death."
"I am aware of that,” said Turner. “But Rothmoor Park is only ten miles from Turner Hall. Constance wrote often about the gatherings there."
"If she valued her reputation, she never set foot in the place and avoided anyone who did. But you must know that it has been ten years since I last visited my father's house. Our differences have entertained the neighborhood most of my life."
For the first time Turner frowned.
"Think about it. You say she wrote daily, yet not once did she mention my name before arriving in town. She couldn't have. I had never met either of you. My father sent me to school before you were born, and I returned as rarely as possible. If she mentioned no men at the time she must have conceived that child, then she could not have told you everything. And if she actually did attend Rothmoor's parties, that would explain her pregnancy. They are fit only for the most debauched lechers. Every woman invited is a whore."
Turner said nothing, but his eyes seemed puzzled.
"You knew your sister better than anyone,” continued Gray relentlessly. “What would she have done if she found herself with child by a scoundrel? Would she admit her mistake, or would she have covered it up?"
"Harold had no patience with either of us,” he admitted. “So she might well have lied to him. But never t
o me. We had no secrets."
"Yet you were a schoolboy. Fourteen years old and under the thumb of harsh tutors. What could you have done? Why would a loving sister burden you with such knowledge, knowing that you could do nothing?"
"That did not matter. We had no secrets."
Gray's frustration spilled over. “Stubborn pup! I will produce proof that she lied,” he snapped. “Since she left you a detailed account of her activities, draw up a list. I will disprove it. Just as I can prove that I was nowhere near Rothmoor. I've not been within a hundred miles of the place since my eighteenth year. In the meantime, there will be no more attacks. Your obsession has already sickened a dozen innocents, injured four others, and damaged property that does not belong to me. One more incident, no matter how trivial, and you will face the magistrates on a charge of attempted murder."
"Vengeance is not murder!"
"No one will believe that. Nor will they condone your methods. That fire could have harmed dozens of innocent bystanders, just as that stunt in Piccadilly did."
"Prove it."
"I can. I have already found several witnesses. Runners will easily find others once they learn your identity. You have no hope that the outpourings of a distraught female will convince a court of my guilt. Rumor and innuendo might carry the day in a drawing room, but courtroom standards are more rigorous."
Collecting his hat and cane, he left.
Nick followed. “You are in a strange mood today, Gray. You've had two miscreants in your hands, both of whom admitted their guilt, yet you allowed both to remain free. What is wrong with you?"
"I feel sorry for him. He was ignored by his parents, ill-used by his brother, abused by the sister he trusted, then left to nurse his grievances in solitude.” In truth, Turner's upbringing was too much like his own. “Since I doubt his constitution is sturdy enough to reach Botany Bay alive, I do not want his death on my conscience. So I will force him to face the truth. But I am not completely lacking in sense. Until this is over, I'll have men watching him so he can do me no further mischief."
He must also protect Mary. Turner had already sent her a letter. If he believed it was a love match, he might use her to hurt Gray.
"He will never believe you innocent. His hatred has festered too long."
"He will. And once he does, society will follow. Rockhurst has already raised doubts.” He should have fought for his honor three years ago, but he'd been too shocked to think clearly.
"Clever. I should have seen that for myself."
"You would have if you weren't so bloodthirsty this morning. But I will need help to convince him. His belief in Constance's veracity is so strong that producing her lover might be the only way to overturn it. I am convinced the man is a gentleman, for she was not the sort to risk her future for a romp in the hay. She came after me only out of desperation. People noticed a change in her conduct when we met. So ask questions. Few discuss it now, but they will remember. Gossip never really dies."
CHAPTER TWELVE
Mary stared at Frannie. “Lord Grayson is here?” she repeated.
"He insists on seeing you, even though Lord Rockhurst is out, as are Lady Rockhurst and Miss Laura.” Her tone implied that his request was not respectable.
"We are betrothed,” said Mary, then cursed herself for explaining to a servant. Frannie too often mimicked Laura's airs, especially toward the unworthy and unwanted baby sister.
"Miss Laura says he'll jilt you before the week is out,” sneered Frannie. “He can't want a clumsy oaf with no conversation. You should run home before he locks you in an attic."
"Enough, Frannie. It is not your place to judge your betters. Nor does a proper maid repeat her mistress's tirades. Not if she wishes to retain her position.” She ignored Frannie's sudden frown. Never again would a servant intimidate her. It was time to find her own maid. “Tell Lord Grayson I will join him in the drawing room. And ask Barhill to order a tea tray."
Barhill would have already done so, but she wished to be alone for a few minutes. What could Gray want? He had said nothing about calling today. Had he hoped to speak with Blake, asking for her only when he found Blake gone?
She caressed a peony, reminding herself that they had been friends before last night. She needn't fear this meeting. All she had to do was remain the proper miss he deserved.
A formidable task.
Gray was standing by the fireplace when she reached the drawing room. Shadows under his eyes spoke of a sleepless night, which did not bode well for their marriage. He might claim acceptance, but no man accepted coercion lightly—especially a lord.
He was dressed in somber black this morning, even his pantaloons, which gave him a puritanical look. And his frown made her wish she'd changed into one of her new gowns. Laura had discarded this one three years ago. But changing would have required Frannie's help.
"You wished to see me, my lord?” she asked, perching near the tea tray and gesturing him to a settee.
"I thought we settled on Gray.” He lifted her hand to his lips, then smiled, reviving the friend she knew. “Is something amiss, my dear?"
"I remain overwhelmed.” And terrified that he would come to hate her, though she couldn't admit it. “I just realized that I must find a new maid. Begging help from Laura's is no longer feasible."
His face darkened. “Is a servant giving you trouble?"
"No more than usual. Would you care for wine, Gray? You look exhausted—again."
"Thank you. I've not had time for sleep.” He sat. “What do you mean by no more than usual?"
"Frannie has always prided her position as dresser to a diamond."
"I see. I've heard that Brummell's valet is insufferable. But what has that to do with you?"
"Frannie has served Laura and me for ten years. But her pride rests in Laura. She resents wasting time and talent on someone who doesn't improve no matter what she does."
"Surely Rockhurst supplied you with your own maid for the Season.” He sounded shocked.
She shrugged. “No one expected me to make a match.” Taking refuge in her cup, she chided herself for whining. It wasn't like her to complain, and she never shared personal problems with others. This wasn't the time to start.
"But you did.” Setting his glass aside, he reached into a pocket. “And we are well suited, Mary, no matter what you may fear at the moment. I will do everything in my power to see that you are satisfied with our bargain. As a token of that vow, I offer this.” Lifting her hand, he kissed it, then slipped a ring onto her finger.
She trembled. Never had she seen anything like it. A swirl of gold cradled a triangular emerald, reflecting and warming its brilliance. The effect was mesmerizing.
"It's beautiful, Gray.” She stared at the ring for a long minute before meeting his eyes. “Where did you find an emerald this shape?"
He smiled, seeming relieved. “One of my captains bought it in the Caribbean. It suits you, for you are also unique. I had the ring made up this morning."
The statement stunned her. He must have paid a fortune for such service. Of course, he could easily afford it, and producing so special a ring added credence to their courtship.
"Thank you, Gray. I will cherish it always."
He stood, drawing her into his arms. Last night's excitement returned, though he didn't kiss her. His cheek rested atop her head, and his hands caressed her back, making it harder to lean passively against him. But she must never forget that his actions were designed to protect them both from censure. So far, he was hiding his anger at fate's latest blow, but he could not like it.
She stayed in his arms a long time, drinking in his warmth even as she schooled herself to stillness. But her calm vanished when he swayed.
"Sit down before you collapse,” she ordered, sliding her arms around his waist to hold him upright. He was exhausted—again. Illness, injury, and lack of sleep drove grooves across his face and painted shadows under his eyes.
"In a moment.” He pulled her closer. Hi
s shoulder was warm under her cheek. When his hand traced a line down her neck, she wanted to purr. Her body trembled under his touch, drawing a blush.
She thought his lips brushed her hair—or perhaps he sighed. But before she could decide, he released her.
"The ring is not the only reason I needed to see you,” he admitted when he'd seated her next to him on the settee. His expression was serious. “I spoke to the cart driver this morning. As you expected, he was hired to knock me down."
"What did you do?"
"Nothing.” He shrugged. “This was the first time he had accepted such a commission, and I doubt he will ever do so again. But his description matched Turner."
"As I feared. Turner doesn't know that gossip is unreliable.” She paused, but Gray needed to know everything. “He truly hates you. He sent me a vitriolic letter this morning, accusing you of the most vile deeds. I fear he is even more unbalanced than I thought."
"He mentioned the letter.” He scowled.
"You spoke with him? Dear Lord, he could have killed you!"
"Shh.” He patted her hand, but his expression lightened. “It's all right, Mary. I took Nick along."
"Nick?"
"Nicholas Barrington, my closest friend."
"Did you convince Turner that the gossip is wrong?"
"Gossip is not the problem. Constance sent him letters describing our fictitious courtship. He believes every word."
Mary frowned.
"He will change his mind only if I can convince him that she lied—not an easy task, for he all but worships her. The only sure proof is to produce the man who seduced her."
"Difficult. If the culprit had any honor, he would have come forward three years ago."
"True.” Releasing her hand, he paced to the window overlooking the garden.
Mary joined him, touching his arm. “Who were Miss Turner's particular friends that Season?"
"I have no idea. After that first night, I avoided any gathering where she was a guest. When that failed to discourage her, I retired to my estate.” He pulled her against his side as if absorbing her warmth. Tremors rippled through his arm.
