Tempting the Heiress

by Barbara Pierce

  “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.”

  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.

  “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.

  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.

  “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 defil
es 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.”

  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.

  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.

  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.

  Sounds from above had everyone glancing up. The footfalls traveled the length of the room and then faded. None of the men seemed worried about their late caller. A door creaked somewhere in the house.

  She shivered. “You never mentioned you had a brother.” Amara twisted the ropes at her wrists.

  Cornley sipped his beer. “Why would I? He was poor, titleless, and lacked my good looks. Most women ignored him.”

  The door swung open. Amara had not perceived she was inching backward until one of the men grabbed her bindings and pulled her closer to the table.

  Conte Prola laughed at her surprised expression. “John,” he ordered Cornley in crisp English, “get our lady a chair. She looks as if she is about to swoon.”

  “May I present to you my brother, Matthew Fenner,” the earl said, using a falsetto voice.

  Amara let herself be pushed into the chair one of the men procured. “Brother. You fooled everyone. My father—my—everyone!”

  The man named Matthew Fenner bowed. “Thank you, Miss Claeg.”

  She persisted, trying to find the conte in this gentleman. “Are you even from Genova?”

  He shook his head apologetically. “We have traveled extensively over the years, but England is my homeland. Conte Prola is merely a useful character. He opens doors that are now closed to Lord Cornley.”

  Cornley muttered under his breath.

  “After I rejected your proposal of marriage, you could have left town. Your—the conte could have continued on somewhere else.”

  “There is no need to move on once we are married,” Matthew assured her.

  It suddenly occurred to her why she had resisted Conte Prola. It was his eyes. Those gorgeous orbs were always so eloquent, their bluish depths filled with a liquid sincerity she never quite believed. Now he watched her, his gaze sharp and filled with a touch of arrogance. The determination gleaming from within absolutely terrified her.

  Her hands concealed under the table, Amara diligently plucked at the knot with her fingers. She wet her parched lips with the tip of her tongue. “My father is ambitious. Even so, he does have his principles. A foreign count is acceptable for his daughter, a swindler is not,” she said, allowing the derision she felt to reflect in both her expression and voice.

  Lord Cornley pounded his fist on the table, causing her to flinch. His body shook with mirth instead of the anger she had expected. “She is correct. Keyworth would choose a monkey over you!”

  “Silence, you grotesque monstrosity!” Prola shouted over his brother’s laughter. Walking around the table, he grabbed Amara’s upper arm and pulled her up. “Your father will not contest a consummated elopement.” He pinched her arm so hard the muscles grated against bone. “Are you breeding, Miss Claeg? Keyworth will be pleased you have settled so quickly into marriage.”

  Amara parted her lips.

  “Yes,” he said, seeing her sudden comprehension. “I am aware how close you were with Bedegrayne. I followed you both out of London. Your activities that night were most shocking.”

  Cornley slammed his cards down on the table. “It is unfair! You cooed and sighed for Bedegrayne. When I had you, all you did was whine and scratch.”

  The scoundrel! His attack had almost destroyed her sanity. She wanted to kill him for what he had done. Using her bound hands as a weapon, she struck Prola in the face.

  The unexpected blow stunned him. He staggered backward, landing on the lap of one of the other men. The chair tipped over.

  Amara did not hesitate.

  Baring her teeth, she dashed by Cornley and through the open door before anyone recovered from her bold escape. She ran through the connecting chilly corridor. Someone had lit the lamps suspended from the arched stone ceiling, chasing the darkest shadows away, al
though the bleak light did little to quell her fear of the unfamiliarity of her surroundings or the ambitious men behind her. With her heart pounding in her ears, she moved as fast as her skirts permitted, half convinced phantom fingers were brushing her nape.

  The corridor widened. This room was unlit, the only hint of its dangers provided by the distant corridor lamps. Amara cried out as she collided into something solid. Using her bound hands to feel her way around the obstacle, she dropped into a crouch. The rough fragrant wood of the oak casks confirmed her earlier suspicion that they had indeed stashed her in a cellar. She flinched when one of the men shouted that he had glimpsed her. Since he was on the opposite side of the subterranean chamber, she guessed the befuddled man was pursuing rats. Rats, she thought with a squeamish shudder. Forsaking modesty, she hitched up her skirts so she could crawl forward to the closest rack of wine bottles. Her fingers closed around the neck of one of the bottles and silently removed it from its dusty berth. Wielding it like a club, she stood and moved stealthily in what she hoped was the direction of the stairs. The sound of scuffling feet had her pressing herself against the wooden frame of one of the numerous racks.

  “Amara,” Cornley rasped, his voice the embodiment of all her nightmares. “If marrying Matthew is disagreeable, you could have me.” She counted the approaching footfalls.

  “Never,” she vowed. Aiming high, she swung out and shattered the bottle into his horrified visage. Dropping the severed neck of glass, she ran straight to the stairs. More bottles shattered as Cornley blindly thrashed into the racks. His eerie howls had her panting in terror. Halfway up the unlit stairs, she blindly slammed into one of her captors.

  His arms circled around, binding her to his chest while she kicked and screamed.

  “Amara!” the man shouted, dragging her the remaining distance up the stairs and into the light. She fell onto the floor, striking out at real and imaginary foes.

  “Dove, dove,” Brock said, dropping to the floor and pulling her into his arms. He repeated the word over and over until the world around her came into focus. She finally recognized the three formidable men standing above her: Mallory, Tipton, and Wynne’s Milroy. They had formed a protective circle around her and the man who held her so fiercely that she could barely draw a breath.