Celeste Bradley - [Heiress Brides 03]

by Duke Most Wanted

  Sadie tossed her head. “I can’t imagine why, Mr. Marbrook.”

  A twitch at the corner of his lips was Calder’s only reaction to her heavy-handed correction. Rafe behaved somewhat better. He bowed deeply. “My apologies, Your Grace.” Then he grinned at her, very much the old Rafe. “You look smashing, Sophie.”

  “Why thank you, my lord.” She curtseyed. “But my given name is Sadie.”

  “Rafe, don’t be drawn in.” Calder’s gaze was still cool. “This woman has lied to us all.”

  Sadie nodded calmly. “Indeed I have, although I assure you it was out of no desire to profit from you in any way.”

  “Truly?” Calder raised a brow. “Yet you moved into my house in my absence and apparently you’ve done something mystifying to my butler.”

  Sadie shook her head, her smile turning wry. “That part wasn’t me. I blame that on a different redhead altogether.”

  “Ah.” Rafe grasped it immediately. “The poor sod.”

  Calder looked sour. “I wish someone would explain it to me.” He held up a hand. “Later. At the moment, I would like to know why I shouldn’t toss Miss Bl—Lady Edencourt into the street.”

  Sadie continued to smile. He really was a dear man. So protective of Deirdre—as if a spitfire like Deirdre needed such a defender! “You may try,” she said sweetly.

  Rafe held up both hands in surrender. “That tears it. She must be related.”

  Sadie gazed at him fondly as well. “Only in spirit, I fear.” Then she frowned. “Although . . . if Tessa is stepmother and cousin to Graham, then . . .” She blinked. “I am family!” Was that right? “Hmm. Well, perhaps not.”

  “Close enough for us!” Deirdre came to stand beside Sadie, facing down her husband. “Isn’t that right, Phoebe?”

  Phoebe entered and took up position on the opposite flank. “Absolutely.”

  Calder and Rafe gazed at the three of them, posing with identical arch expressions and folded arms. An unassailable fortress of feminine clout.

  Rafe swore under his breath. “We’re outgunned, old man.”

  Calder scowled. “Don’t cave so quickly.”

  Rafe shook his head. “Outgunned, outnumbered and frankly, out of enthusiasm.” He shrugged. “I like Sadie.”

  Calder harrumphed. “I never said I didn’t.” He gave it one last try. “Deirdre, you must think of Meggie! Do you really want to expose her to someone you don’t know the first thing about?”

  Phoebe shook her head. “Ouch, Calder. That wasn’t wise.”

  From behind their skirts, a smaller, slightly grubbier version of female ferocity came stomping to the fore. Meggie took a stand in front of Sadie, her arms folded and her snapping brown eyes fixed on her father. “Papa, be nice. Sadie has had a very hard day.”

  Sadie felt her steel melt just a bit, leaving her with a tremble in her belly that just might turn into tears. She dropped her pose to drift one hand over Meggie’s jet-dark hair. “Thank you, Nutmeg. I was afraid you were angry with me.”

  Meggie twisted her neck to look up at her. “Sadie, you had to lie. You were an orphan. I know what it’s like when no one wants you.”

  That did it. Calder went down like a felled tree. “But Meggie . . .” His face looked ready to crumple. “I always wanted you! I just didn’t . . . I didn’t know what to do . . .”

  Deirdre snickered and Phoebe cleared her throat. Sadie had to smile.

  Rafe shook his head. “Brother, you didn’t stand a chance.”

  Meggie looked at her father with sympathy, a kindly conqueror regarding a devastated enemy. “It’s all right, Papa. I know you want me now.”

  Sadie thought Calder might cry. She patted Meggie on the head. “That’s enough, pet. Let the poor man come up for air.”

  Phoebe smiled. “It’s settled then. Sadie may stay as long as she likes.”

  Rafe smiled back at his wife as if he had no choice but to do so. Likely he didn’t, smitten as he was. “I’m glad we’ve resolved that, but what of Graham? From what we heard, he’s in serious trouble with his estate.”

  Calder seemed to be recovering, for he nodded regretfully. “I’d be happy to help monetarily but I don’t think Graham would take it. I know I wouldn’t.”

  “Food,” Sadie suggested quickly. “You can send food to the cottagers. He’ll accept that, I know he will.”

  Phoebe’s eyes brightened. “Oh, yes, that’s marvelous. Even an idiot man can’t turn down food for the children.”

  Rafe looked offended. “Oy!”

  Phoebe waved a hand affectionately. “I didn’t mean you, darling. You’re hardly ever an idiot man anymore.”

  Rafe didn’t seem all too sure he’d been complimented. “Er . . . thank you?”

  Calder was gazing at Sadie in speculation. “Perhaps you’ll do, after all,” he murmured.

  Sadie saw the gaze and raised him one eyebrow. “Perhaps you’ll do, as well.”

  Deirdre clapped her hands. “Swords down, I say!”

  Abruptly, Sadie felt every moment of her “very hard day.” Her head pounded and her body ached from too many hours’ unaccustomed riding and from . . . well, Graham. She raised a hand to one cheek. “Thank you all for your concern,” she said. “But I’ll only be staying long enough to gather my things . . .” The room seemed to tilt just a bit. It seemed like weeks since she’d slept.

  Meggie peered up at her. “Are you going to faint? Because if you are, you should be sure to stand next to a sofa or something.”

  Deirdre put a supporting arm about her. “Calder, look what you’ve done!”

  Calder gaped. “But . . . I . . .”

  Phoebe came to her side. “Rafe, get some water!” Rafe took off at a run.

  Then Fortescue was there. “Her Grace’s room is ready. There’s a bath waiting and I’ll send up a tray at once.”

  Sadie, who in the last day had been loved, accused, wed, abandoned and now, at last, embraced, allowed herself to be ushered upstairs and put to bed like a child by the closest thing to a family she had ever known.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  The whiskey tasted like piss. Graham glared suspiciously at the decanter. What had Nichols been up to?

  Frustrated and edgy, he threw the decanter into the hearth of his study. It shattered on the bricks, the whisky flaring in a momentary explosion of blue flame.

  That decanter was fine crystal. You could have put food on someone’s table for a month!

  When had his inner voice become female—and always right?

  Everything that could be sold would be sold. He should put the London house up for auction. He didn’t believe it was included in the entail. Perhaps it would be enough to quiet the most vociferous—and violent!—creditors and purchase new roofs for the cottagers still determined to stick out the winter at Edencourt.

  After that, he truly would be poverty-stricken.

  He was not frightened for himself. He no longer seemed to possess an appetite and after the last twenty-four hours it was quite evident that he wasn’t capable of ever drinking enough to shut out that tart, lying voice in his head. So he’d need no food or drink, only a roof over his head and chair to sulk in.

  He’d be that mad, brooding duke in the crumbling manor, the one mothers used to frighten their offspring into obedience.

  Be good or the duke will get you.

  Shadows of his own childhood terror shivered through him. Spurred to restless action, he sprang to his feet—

  But he had nowhere to go. There was no one waiting for him at Primrose Street but Tessa. There was no caustic strawberry-blond with endless legs and vastly too much brain for her own good.

  Where did she go when you abandoned her at the church?

  He hadn’t abandoned her. She’d been safe and sound, in the middle of a crowd.

  A crowd who despised her. Even the priest was casting her hostile glances.

  Not his concern. Not his love, not his darling. Not his Sophie.

  Just your wife.r />
  He rubbed a hand over his face. His wife, Sadie.

  Sadie.

  He said it out loud, trying it out. “Sadie, Duchess of Edencourt.” It sounded all wrong. A washerwoman’s name and a title second only to the queen’s. The combination was ridiculous.

  He heard delighted laughter in his mind. Ridiculous yet perfect.

  “See, I told you he was drunk.”

  Graham didn’t bother to turn. “You missed my wedding, Deirdre.”

  “That’s fair. You missed mine.” She strolled into the room, followed by Phoebe. Graham waited for their smitten husbands to enter as well, then let his breath out in relief when they didn’t. He thought they were all right most of the time, but the last thing he wanted around him now was love so thick in the air that one could hardly breathe.

  I can’t breathe. I can’t feel my heart beating. I can’t live without my Sophie.

  Who didn’t exist.

  What a pickle.

  He pressed both palms to his head, hoping the pressure would drive the voice out. Perhaps he should consult the priest. Didn’t they do exorcisms from time to time?

  The voice in his mind shut up, but there was no silencing Deirdre when she was on a roll.

  “What are you doing, sitting here in the dark, drinking?” She strode to the window and whipped the curtains wide, letting in a horrible, harsh glare. She turned to regard him with her fists on her hips. “You have important matters to see to!”

  Graham blinked at the sunlight currently piercing his brain with white-hot needles. “Shut that, would you? The carpet will fade. I might have to sell it soon.”

  Deirdre waved a sheaf of papers in his face. “You must do something to help Sadie!”

  Phoebe took pity on Graham and shut the draperies partway. “Deirdre, why don’t you take some of that fury out on Graham’s execrable butler? I think we could all stand a cup of tea.”

  Deirdre exhaled in frustration, thrust her papers at Phoebe, then swept from the room in a righteous sputter. Poor Nichols.

  Phoebe straightened the sheets as she watched Graham sink into the large chair behind the massive desk. “This is the strangest room,” she said conversationally.

  Graham grunted. “You should have seen it before the bonfire.”

  She smiled. “There’s nothing like a good bonfire. I like the bear, though. That looks like something So—Sadie would do.”

  Graham closed his eyes. She was in his very blood and bones. What did it matter if traces of her kept appearing elsewhere? “She added the bow.”

  “Ah.” Phoebe came to seat herself on the low stool at his knee. “Graham, I haven’t known you that long. I’ve known Sadie no longer. Yet it seems to me that she truly loves you.” She sighed. “She’s so very sad.”

  She was at Brook House. Of course.

  Safe and sound.

  He didn’t care. Not a whit. Still, something deep inside ceased its circling worry and settled down wearily to mourn instead.

  Stupid loyal hound. Stupid loyal heart.

  He tipped his head back on the chair. “Phoebe, what does it matter if she loves me? I don’t even know the woman.”

  “Graham, if you don’t quit that tuneless drone I’m going to dump this putrid tea in your lap.”

  Graham didn’t open his eyes. “Oh, lovely. Deirdre’s back.”

  Aren’t you just a bit sick of yourself by now? He was, actually. He opened his eyes.

  “I think you ought to be good and sick of yourself at this point,” Phoebe pointed out.

  “I know I am,” agreed Deirdre.

  Still, his aching heart seethed. “She ruined me!” In the financial sense, of course, not the other. Except that actually, she’d ruined him there as well.

  Phoebe glared at him. “Sophie only did it for you, Graham!”

  “She lied!”

  Deirdre snorted. “One lie. One teensy little lie. Surely you’ve lied to someone, somewhere, haven’t you, Graham?”

  “But—”

  Phoebe weighed in. “She was all alone!”

  That struck him. He knew what that was like.

  Phoebe continued. “You put her on a pedestal. That’s not fair. Sooner or later she was bound to make a misstep and fall. She’s only human.”

  He hadn’t thought of her as human. He’d thought of her as . . . as . . . as some sort of icon—a symbol of truth and decency and blah, blah, blah—God, he was sick of his own circling thoughts!

  It was easy to blame her for everything, but Edencourt had been in trouble since before she was even born and it was going to remain in trouble for a very long time. Even with some astounding influx of cash, there was no miracle cure for the estate. It was going to be hard, slogging, gradual work—work that he hadn’t wanted to admit that he might not be up to.

  He’d thought he needed Lilah’s money—but that was simply the old Graham, hoping someone would take away the hard parts. He raised his head from his hands and looked at Deirdre and Phoebe.

  Sadie Westmoreland had lied to them as well. She had tricked them and made fools of them and even tried to steal their inheritance!

  Hell, she’d tried to give him his heritage, all wrapped up in a pretty pink silk bow.

  All she’d stolen from him was his heart.

  But then, he had given that willingly, hadn’t he?

  Deirdre was watching him closely. “Lementeur told us that you had your chance to back out of the wedding. Have you really asked yourself why you didn’t?”

  He ran a hand through his hair. “I couldn’t ruin her.”

  Phoebe smiled at him. “But you could ruin yourself?”

  Deirdre’s satisfied smile would have put a well-fed cat to shame. “Sounds like love to me.”

  Love.

  “Bloody hell!” Graham stood abruptly. “I forgot! That Blake woman told me she intended to press charges!”

  THE BITTER, VENGEFUL Mrs. Blake had taken up residence at the house on Primrose Street. Tessa, having won the battle to save Deirdre’s inheritance, had graciously allowed it, then within the hour had packed up her things and moved in with her new lover.

  When someone was even more poisonous than Tessa, that someone bore watching.

  Graham, Phoebe and Deirdre mounted the steps of the house in unison. When Tessa’s slackard butler finally answered the knocker, he found himself face to face with three cheerful angels of retribution.

  Deirdre stunned him with a glowing smile that didn’t reach her furious eyes. “Good afternoon, Harrick. We’ve come to make a family call.”

  Chapter Thirty-two

  In the parlor of the house on Primrose Street, Graham, Phoebe and Deirdre surrounded the stiffly quivering Mrs. Blake.

  “You say she was a servant?” Phoebe exuded patient ruthlessness. “Yet you never paid her, is that correct?”

  “I gave her a home, didn’t I? Treated her like family! No need to pay her as well! That money came addressed to my daughter! And she stole it! That ungrateful, wicked—”

  “Your daughter?” Graham spoke slowly, holding the gazes of Phoebe and Deirdre as he raised his brows with significance.

  Phoebe’s eyes widened, but Deirdre caught on immediately. “Yes,” she agreed with Mrs. Blake, nodding sympathetically. “Your daughter, Sophie.”

  Mrs. Blake immediately leaned toward the only source of sympathy in the room. “Yes, my sweet darling, my precious—”

  “Daughter.” The corners of Phoebe’s lips began to rise. “Your daughter.”

  Mrs. Blake began to catch on that something was amiss, that her audience kept repeating the same phrase over and over again. “Yes,” she said tartly. “My daughter Sophie! What of it?”

  Graham looked down at his folding hands. “After you lost your daughter, you brought S—Miss Westmoreland home, correct?”

  The woman’s gaze was truly wary now. “Yes. I missed my own Sophie, so when she passed, my housekeeper brought me an orphan girl to keep me company. She said she chose her because she looke
d like my sweet darling—although I never saw the resemblance—”

  From what Graham could see of the woman and the miniature she clutched dramatically to her chest, Sophie—er, Sadie, looked enough like them both to be naturally born in that family. Hair too red to be properly blond, eyes of a particular storm cloud gray, and the Pickering nose in full flower. He could see that Phoebe and Deirdre were drawing the same conclusions. The woman had intended to pass the orphan off as her own daughter to win the Pickering fortune!

  “Hmm.” Deirdre’s smile was a bit too bright. “What is it called when someone takes a child from an orphanage and gives her a home?” She snapped her fingers in the air. “Graham, help me here. What’s that word?”

  Graham smiled. “I believe the word you’re thinking of is ‘adoption.’ ”

  Deirdre’s smile became like that of a satisfied cat. “Yes, that’s the word. Precisely.” She was all but purring as she watched Mrs. Blake through narrowed eyes.

  Phoebe followed suit. “The money was meant for your daughter, as you said. Does adoption not make Sadie Westmoreland your daughter—and thus the rightful great-granddaughter of Sir Hamish?”

  The woman’s eyes narrowed. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

  Phoebe tilted her head with a smile. “I think I know someone who can explain it to you.”

  Mr. Stickley, when he arrived, was ushered into the familiar parlor and confronted with the eerie tableau of the Duke of Edencourt, the Marchioness of Brookhaven and Lady Marbrook, all standing behind a chair like a handsome warden and his two beautiful guards. The chair was occupied by a subdued and uneasy version of the awful woman who had ruined Miss Blake’s beautiful wedding.

  Except she wasn’t Miss Blake, was she?

  “Oh dear,” Stickley blurted. “What a pickle all this is.”

  He blinked in mystification when the three people standing broke into spontaneous laughter.

  Once matters had been explained to him, however, Stickley was in his element. “In entailment, an adopted son is not considered a legal heir,” he explained. “But an adopted daughter could most definitely inherit from an ordinary will, provided that said will did not stipulate blood relations.”