Continuing as if he’d not heard, Alastair said, ‘The court might wish to have your father exhumed, though I understand coroners disagree on whether poison would leave any trace in someone this long buried. The court would certainly want to know more about your relationship with Mrs Heathson and why you reinstated a woman accused of attempting to murder your stepmother. And then there’s the matter of your mistress. Very expensive, I’m told, with a rapacious appetite for jewels. So expensive, you approached your bank in the City to borrow more funds.’
While Graveston gaped at him, Alastair shook his head. ‘I have to say, I don’t think it would look good. An heir in need of cash hiring a disgruntled former employee to do away with his father, then threatening the poor widow’s reputation to try to cheat her of her portion so he can drape diamonds around his mistress’s neck. The penny press would be salivating at the courtroom door.’
Leaving Graveston no time to reply, Alastair continued, ‘For the sake of argument, let’s say the assizes believed your version of events. There’s still the matter of a trial—in the House of Lords, which my uncle has run for years. I regret to say, he’s no admirer of your late father, either.’
The Duke was looking less certain by the minute. ‘Are you so sure the Earl would wish to become involved? After all, he didn’t lift a finger for his son Max. I expect he’d be even less inclined to be saddled with cleaning up your scandal.’
‘What’s one more scandal to a Rogue?’ Alastair asked with a shrug. ‘Besides, “cleaning up” is what my uncle does best. He thrives on it, or so he assured me when I warned him about possible proceedings.’
‘You’ve talked with him about this?’
‘Of course. I’d never have pressed forward in so critical a matter without his approval.’
After giving that a moment to sink in, Alastair changed tactics. ‘A distasteful business,’ he said with a dismissive wave of the hand. ‘It’s not seemly that the noble name of Graveston, the family of the Manningtons, who’ve served their country since the Conquest, should be associated with such a sordid tale. Nor is there any need that it should be. If necessary, however, I’m quite willing to match my witnesses against yours. It’s up to you.’
At that, he sat back and gazed out the window, calm, confident and at ease.
For a long time, the only sound in the room was the tick of the mantel clock. Finally, the Duke said, ‘What does the bitch want?’
‘If you take that tone,’ Alastair snapped, ‘I shall be forced to proceed regardless. I’m quite willing to let Society weigh my reputation against yours, in the court of public opinion or in the Lords. A hero of Badajoz, frequent leader of the “forlorn hope”, valiant defender of Waterloo against a provincial aristocrat who has done—what have you done? Ah, married a wealthy girl and attempted to coerce a helpless widow. Now, would you like to rephrase your question?’
His expression simmering resentment, Graveston stared at Alastair with sullen eyes. ‘What does the Dowager want?’ he said at last, enunciating each word separately, as if they were being pulled out of him.
‘She wants nothing. What I want, though, is merely what is due to her. She will waive dower, while you facilitate transfer of the reasonable amount already stipulated in your father’s will—yes, I’ve seen a copy of it, already filed for probate—plus what was bequeathed to Lord James. Who is, as you’ve pointed out, the son of a duke and should be reared as such. I want you to cease your harassment and abandon any attempts to prosecute her, a process that would in any event never get further than the local court you could control. Win a judgement against her in the Lords? That horse won’t jump, Graveston. You have the title and a lucrative estate. Why not show yourself worthy of both?’
The Duke sprang up and took a turn about the room. ‘Just—let her go, with no retribution? You cannot know what it was like to have your mother, who lived for your father’s approval and wanted only to please him, ignored, scorned, once he was besotted by her. I might have understood it if she seemed to care for him, for anything. But all she ever showed was an icy disdain. Still, my father was consumed by her! He had no time for me; I was packed off to school, and when I was older and protested his excessive absorption in her, he even raised his hand to me!’
Despite his disgust for the Duke’s campaign for revenge, Alastair could hear in the man’s voice the lingering pain of an abandoned boy who’d seen his beloved mother humiliated and discarded. He knew only too well how abandonment and humiliation could fester within, a canker in the gut.
‘It must have been difficult,’ Alastair said quietly, a reluctant sympathy tempering his disdain. ‘But that neglect was the fault of your father, not the Dowager, who had no more choice over your father’s actions than you did.’
‘Choice?’ he scoffed. ‘What was there to choose? He made her, the daughter of a nobody, into a duchess!’
‘Impossible as you—and he—seem to find it, she had no desire to be a duchess, as her behaviour made quite evident. But I understand the need to exact retribution for the unfairness of it all. I suggest a remedy with a more suitable opponent.’ Alastair lifted his hands and flexed them into fists. ‘Me.’
The Duke’s scowl turned to astonishment. ‘Meet you? For fisticuffs?’
‘We can resolve this here and now, man to man, out of the vulgar public gaze—more fitting behaviour for the heir to a great and noble title. Or we can have fisticuffs by lawyer, in full view of gawking spectators in the gallery of the Lords and in front of print-shop windows. That way, I promise you, you will surely lose, dragging your title and name into the mud when you do.’
Graveston frowned, looking furious—but uncertain. ‘You can’t seriously think a few well-placed blows could right all the wrongs done to me and my mother.’
‘Nothing can undo that—not fisticuffs, nor a public vendetta against the Dowager that would shame you more than it would her. All one can hope for is to assuage the sting of past injustice, and let it go,’ he advised, the truth of those words in his own situation resonating within him.
He held up his fists again. ‘That is, if you’re man enough. Or would you rather vent your spleen on a woman?’
‘I’m no coward, despite what you insinuate,’ Graveston snarled.
‘Then meet me. Expend that anger and resentment, and call it done.’
While Graveston appeared to weigh the matter, Alastair added, ‘It’s difficult to give up a grievance, especially one well founded. But it’s better for the soul.’
‘A ridiculous solution,’ Graveston muttered.
‘Perhaps. Before I leave you to stew in bitterness, might I ask the courtesy of knowing your intentions? If you won’t tell me, I shall feel compelled to proceed with the evidence I’ve gathered.’
Anger and frustration played across the face of a man too engulfed by tumultuous emotion to mask them. ‘Very well,’ he said at last. ‘Fisticuffs it is. Not here, though.’
‘Certainly not. I wouldn’t wish to damage any of your father’s carefully collected knick-knacks,’ Alastair said, running his finger over a vase on the table beside him.
‘Heathen!’ Graveston said with a reluctant smile. ‘That Greek hydria from the third century BC is probably worth more than your entire stable.’
‘Ah, a stable! That would be just the place.’
And so it was that the Duke of Graveston and Mr Alastair Ransleigh of Barton Abbey retreated to the stable, banished the gawking grooms and coachmen, claimed an unoccupied stall and proceeded to try to pummel out each other’s frustration.
Having obtained what he sought, Alastair intended to go easy on the peer, but found to his surprise that the young Duke held his own pretty well. He even managed to land two or three well-disguised feints that were going to leave Alastair with a bruised jaw for the foreseeable future.
* * *
S
ometime later, after they were both panting and bloodied, Alastair held up a hand. ‘Shall we call a draw?’
Holding his sides, the Duke nodded. When he could catch his breath, he said, ‘You were right. It doesn’t change the past, but it did...help.’
‘I’m glad,’ Alastair said in perfect truth. A man who would persecute a woman was despicable. But a man who could finally realise he was in the wrong, alter his course—and could throw quite a respectable right hook in the bargain—deserved a second chance. ‘Then we are agreed.’
Graveston sighed. ‘I’ve spent the last five years dreaming of revenge for my mother...and myself. It’s hard to let that go. There’s the temptation to keep fighting, even at the cost of tarnishing my reputation.’
‘Shooting your best hunting dog to take down a pigeon? Not wise.’
‘No—though oh-so-satisfying. But...yes, we’re agreed. I’ll inform my solicitor not to delay any longer the execution of Father’s will. Your Dowager will get her properties. I’d prefer that she and the brat not use the Dower House, though. I’d prefer they remain out of my sight permanently.’
‘I see no difficulty there. She has no more desire to set foot at Graveston Court than you do to see her here, and since the boy will inherit other properties, there’s no need for him to reside here either. In return, I’ll pledge that as long as you keep our bargain, I’ll not present my evidence to the Lords.’
Pleased to have achieved the results he wanted, Alastair felt he could be magnanimous and forgive the insults Graveston had flung at him. Smiling, he offered his hand.
Reluctantly, the Duke shook it.
‘One last bit of advice. When you take your seat in the Lords, I’d still be wary of my uncle.’
‘Thank you; I’ll remember that.’ Graveston shook his head. ‘I’ll never understand the fascination she elicits in men. She certainly won a strong champion in you.’
‘So she did. If you’re tempted to forget our agreement, remember that.’
Chapter Twenty-Two
Euphoria in his heart, Alastair set off for Barton Abbey, riding as fast as he could change horses. He knew Diana was anxious, despite her trust in him. He couldn’t wait to set her worries at rest.
Finally, they could move on to resolve the situation between them, resume the progress of their relationship that had been arrested when the threat against her demanded her removal to safety under his mother’s roof.
How would she choose to resolve it? Anticipation and anxiety warred within as he contemplated her possible reaction.
She’d more or less said she wished to resume their physical relationship. Would she allow more than that? Could he be satisfied with less than a full commitment from her?
Ah, how he wished to cosset and care for her! Shower her with so much attention and love that the grim years with Graveston receded into distant memory, blurred by time until they seemed like events in the life of a stranger.
Would she let him?
The only thing he knew for certain was he didn’t want her to walk away.
* * *
Three days of hard riding later, he had arrived at Barton Abbey in the late afternoon. Leaving his lathered horse at the stables, he had jogged to the house, impatient to bathe, change, and seek her out as quickly as possible.
A bare half-hour later, his still-dripping hair slicked down and his damp shirt sticking to his back, he found her at her easel in her north-salon studio.
He’d approached quietly, easing the door open, anxious to drink in the sight of her for a moment before she was aware of his presence.
How lovely she was, he marvelled, his heart contracting with joy and longing at the sight of her. Even better, her expression looked intent but serene as she studied her canvas, with no dark shadows of worry beneath her eyes and the once-wary set of her shoulders relaxed.
After a moment, some sixth sense must have alerted her she was under scrutiny, for she stilled, then looked over at him. ‘Alastair,’ she cried, the happiness in her voice the sweetest music to his needy ears.
Unable to resist, he paced towards her, picked her up and swung her around in his arms when she ran to meet him, then sat her down and kissed her thoroughly.
‘Ah, how much I’ve missed that!’ he murmured, cradling her to the rapid beating of his heart.
She looked up at him anxiously. ‘It must have gone well. You wouldn’t look so happy, if it had not.’
How much he wanted to sweep her into his arms, carry her up to his chamber, and make love to her for a week! ‘I could be happier. But alas, that will have to wait a bit longer. Come, sit, and I’ll tell you all about it.’
Contenting himself, for the moment, with one more quick kiss, he escorted her to the sofa and gave her a full accounting of his interview with the Duke of Graveston.
‘He will truly let it go?’ she asked, her tone disbelieving. ‘Are you sure?’
‘I think so. But if he should change his mind, he’s been warned.’
She gave a little sigh. ‘So there’s still the possibility he might try to destroy your reputation.’
‘Though we can’t totally eliminate the risk, I think it unlikely. If it should happen, we’ll deal with it. Your ultimate vindication is sure, even if he were so unwise as to proceed.’
‘As is scandal and disrespect to your name, if he should proceed.’
How he wished he could set her mind completely at rest! ‘Sweeting, we can’t live in fear of shadows.’
‘Live in fear of shadows,’ she repeated with a sad smile. ‘Ah, Alastair, I’ve done that for so long, I don’t know how to live in sunlight.’
‘You’ll learn. I’ll help you.’
‘After all those years in the shadows, I know I’m...damaged. I don’t know how to forget them, how to heal. If I can heal.’ She traced his cheek, her touch tender. ‘You deserve so much more. Someone whole, whose love has no shadows.’
It wasn’t the full-fledged avowal he longed for, but... Once, sensing how close she was to telling him everything he wanted to hear, he might have pushed her for more. But she’d been pushed and manipulated enough. More than that, if they were to have a future together, it would have to be her choice, free and clear.
He gave her a wry smile. ‘Diana, there is no one for me but you. For too many years, I tried to deny it, but after finding you again, I no longer fight that truth. I love you and I want you in my life, in whatever way you are comfortable. I’d prefer you as my wife, but I’ll take whatever you can give me. Mistress. Friend. Adviser. Just let me stay close and help you heal. If you needed friends and allies against a duke, you’ll need them even more battling the demons of the past. But that’s what I desire. What do you want?’
She rubbed his hand, her expression anxious. ‘I’m still not sure. A place of my own, to start over.’
‘You can stay at Barton Abbey until the provisions of your husband’s will are carried out. Which, by the way, buttress your position. Despite the animosity between you, Graveston left a substantial sum to you and an even more handsome one to your son. Not quite the act of a man at war with his wife.’
‘It was war, though, most of the time. The Duke had won his trophy, but he could not make me compliant. Having given up all I wanted and everything I loved, defiance was all I had left. It...confounded him. He’d never met resistance that couldn’t be broken. After all, he’d been raised since birth to believe the world should rearrange itself to suit him; he had only to express a desire and it was gratified. I think he found it incomprehensible that a woman, especially one who’d not been born into the highest aristocracy, would not abandon her childish opposition and go from reluctance to delight that he’d deigned to make her a duchess.’
‘He should have believed it,’ Alastair said. ‘You told him forcefully enough.’
‘It took him a long time to finally realise it. Years of tracking down and then removing everything that meant anything to me, until he had nothing left with which to try to control me.’
Alastair hadn’t wanted to ask—the prospect made him sick to contemplate—but somehow the words forced themselves out. ‘Not even beating you?’
‘Ah. Beating. That was perhaps most frustrating of all to him. Eventually he realised—unlike, I suspect, his poor first wife—that I had no fear of physical punishment. What was physical pain, compared to the agony of all I had lost, what I would never have?’
Rising, she paced away from him, making a circuit of the room. Though he wanted to go after her, pull her into his arms, offer comfort, he knew he had to leave her be.
Finally, she looked back at him. ‘I’ve had time these last few weeks, finally free of his menace, to think about all that happened. I found myself wondering if I did indeed overestimate his power. Perhaps he would only have threatened, but never actually used Papa’s debts to put him in prison or find perjured witnesses to ruin you. All I knew was that I loved you so much, I would rather die than destroy you. He understood that and was shrewd enough to use it.’
‘That doesn’t make him less despicable in my eyes. I do wish, though, that you’d doubted his influence enough to come to me then.’
‘So do I. But wishing won’t change the past. By the end, I think in his own way, he was...fond of me. Not that he would have let me leave him, but I think he respected my courage in resisting him, even as it infuriated and perplexed him. Of course, a Duke of Graveston could not admit he’d been wrong; he never returned the books or paints or musical instruments he’d had taken away. But when he came back from London, things would appear. An exquisite antique Greek vase in my sitting room. New gowns and costly furs in my wardrobe. His way, I suppose, of reaching out, asking for peace between us. If I had deferred to him then, even a little, he might have considered his victory finally won, given me back all he’d taken and treated me as less of a prisoner. But after years of suppressing all emotion save defiance, I didn’t know any other way to be. I couldn’t yield to him—if I had dismantled any of the barriers that had kept me upright through years of siege, I risked the whole edifice tumbling down.’
The Rake to Rescue Her Page 23
