by Cheryl Holt
Yet with Georgina’s recent death, Grace was where she’d been as a young child. Broke. Afraid. On her own—but this time with two charges who needed her care and support.
Why was the world such a grueling place? She bet Jackson Scott never had to wonder over when his next meal would arrive.
A sound wafted by, of voices laughing and glassware clinking. It came from the second floor. Was Jackson Scott holed up in one of the rooms?
The prospect that he was idling away the morning set her temper ablaze.
Dare she climb the stairs? Dare she accost him?
She glanced over at Michael and Eleanor, their expressions expectant and curious.
"I think I hear people upstairs," she said. "I have to see if it’s Mr. Scott."
"Really, Grace"—Eleanor’s tone was scolding—"is that wise?"
"We can’t tarry forever without a resolution. You stay here. Don’t move an inch—no matter what."
"Should I come with you?" Michael asked. "Mr. Scott might wish to speak with me right away."
"You sit with Eleanor," Grace replied. She wasn’t about to introduce Michael before she learned the true situation. "I may be gone for many minutes. Don’t be nervous and don’t search for me."
"We won’t." Eleanor slipped her arm through Michael’s to keep him with her as Grace marched up the stairs.
On the landing, the noise was louder, and she followed it to the room at the end of the hall. The double doors opened into a large, messy salon. Empty glasses and decanters of liquor were strewn about, as were pillows and blankets. A vase had been smashed, but no one had bothered to pick up the glass shards.
There was an ornate, throne-like chair over by the window. A man lounged in it, and she didn’t have to be told that—with very little effort—she’d found Jackson Scott.
With his black hair and blue, blue eyes, he looked exactly like Michael, exactly like Edward. There could be no mistaking their close blood relationship.
He was different though, too, appearing tough and menacing in a way Edward had never been. He seemed arrogant and weary and ruthless, and her heart sank.
This wasn’t the encounter she’d envisioned, at all. She’d pictured a stuffy parlor, tea on a tray, stiff-backed chairs, uncomfortable questions, erudite answers.
Instead, she’d walked in on what had to be an…orgy. She’d never been particularly clear on what the word described, but this had to be it.
Mr. Scott was being tended by several lithe, blond beauties. They were scantily clad in undergarments made from a thin, gauzy fabric Grace had never seen before. Mr. Porter had mentioned that Mr. Scott lived in Africa, and he had to have brought the clothing with him from that wild locale.
Two of the women fanned him with palm leaves, while a third danced a seductive dance. A fourth was seated on his lap and feeding him bites of food.
As Grace watched the shocking spectacle, he leaned in and kissed the woman on the mouth! The woman gleefully participated, the others simpering as if they couldn’t wait to be next, and Grace was so astonished, she was surprised she didn’t faint.
His dark hair was much too long—it actually brushed his shoulders—and needed to be trimmed. His chest was broad and muscled, his skin tanned, which she could plainly see because he wasn’t wearing a shirt or shoes. He was attired only in a pair of loose-fitting trousers sewn from another exotic, flowing fabric.
It was the sort of garment she imagined a sultan might choose when entertaining his harem. Not that she’d ever imagined such a thing, but if she had, this was precisely the type of decadent scene that would have presented itself.
This depraved devil was Michael’s uncle? This corrupt wretch was brother to charming, witty, amiable Edward? How could it be possible?
She thought of the desperate months recently passed, of the dreary miles they’d traveled, and her temper boiled over.
How dare he disappoint her! How dare he be so utterly and completely ill-suited to her purpose!
"Excuse me," she said, but no one noticed her. She could have been invisible.
"Excuse me!" she shouted, and she clapped her hands for good measure.
Mr. Scott frowned, then glanced over to where Grace stood in the entry. On observing her, his fury was palpable, and she should have fled, but she was impaled by his magnificent eyes. She couldn’t move, which was aggravating in the extreme.
She had nursed every kind of patient with every sort of illness and condition. Maiming. Dismemberment. Birthing. Dying. Nothing fazed her, and she wasn’t about to let Jackson Scott be the first to succeed.
"Hello, Mr. Scott," she brazenly said. "I’m sorry for the interruption, but there was no butler to greet us."
"So you just barged in?" he asked.
"Yes. My mission is dire, and I couldn’t return later."
His gaggle of admirers tittered with amusement as his hot, angry gaze slithered down her person. Compared to the women who were salivating over him, he definitely found her lacking, and he smirked, wanting her to know that he wasn’t impressed.
Clearly, his taste ran to willowy and fawning, so she shouldn’t have been upset by his overt disdain, but she was. She could have defended herself to Mr. Scott, could have told him all the ways she was remarkable, but why would she?
She couldn’t help it if she was short—only five foot four—and much too thin at a hundred and twenty pounds. But work and worry could make a female waste away from fretting.
Her hair, the bane of her existence, was a rusty auburn, pulled into a tidy chignon. It highlighted her expressive green eyes, and she was secretly proud of it—not that she’d ever admit to having one small vanity.
At least she was fully dressed. Her gray gown, the best she owned, covered her from chin to wrist to toe, and she wouldn’t apologize for modesty. Not when modesty was so obviously a trait he despised.
"Who the hell are you," he snapped, "and why are you in my home?"
"I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t curse in my presence."
"It’s my house. I’ll speak however I damn well please. If you don’t like it, you don’t have to stay."
She gnawed on her cheek, keen to argue, but castigation would be pointless. Jackson Scott was a rude fiend. Debate was futile.
"I am Grace Bennett, Mr. Scott."
"Bully for you. Now go away. You annoy me."
"I can’t leave until we’ve conferred on a matter of the utmost importance."
"I’m busy, and I don’t wish to talk to you. Go away!"
"No."
"Are you deaf? Are you thick-headed? What part of go away don’t you understand?"
She brushed off his snide comment and used her best schoolteacher voice, the one that soothed patients. "Put on a shirt and follow me into a room where we can have a private discussion."
"No."
"Yes."
Apparently, she’d flummoxed him, and it dawned on her that it was probably a rare occasion when his commands were ignored. He would be accustomed to barking orders and having them instantly obeyed. In dealing with her, he would be exceedingly frustrated.
She thought all men were fools. She thought all men were ridiculous.
"Duncan!" he suddenly called, and he peered into the hallway, expecting someone to rush to his aid.
She peeked over her shoulder, seeing naught but empty space.
"There’s no one to rescue you, Mr. Scott. You’ll have to speak with me."
The doxy was still perched on his lap, and he pushed her away. For a moment, she looked as if she might protest his rough handling, but his irked glower prevented any pouting. She slinked behind the chair with the others.
They glared at Grace, visually warning her that they deemed Mr. Scott to be their own, and they didn’t intend to share.
You can have him! she nearly told them, but didn’t. She wasn’t about to bicker with a group of half-dressed trollops.
"What’s it to be, Mr. Scott?" she asked. "If you’d like, I can mention my quest he
re in front of your…friends, but I’d rather not. When you hear my story, you’ll be glad that it’s between the two of us."
"You think so, do you?"
"Yes."
"You’re awfully certain that you know my preferences."
"Men are simple creatures. It’s not that difficult to figure you out."
He laughed, and it sounded rusty, as if it had been ages since he’d found humor in anything.
"So I’m simple, am I?"
"You’re a man. What more is there to say?" She shrugged as if that explained every mystery in the universe.
He studied her, his astute gaze digging deep. He was trying to rattle her, but he’d meet with scant success. She could carry out an amputation without flagging, so he could hardly frighten her by scowling.
She stared back, studying him just as meticulously.
The signs of his fast-living were evident. He had bags under his eyes from lack of sleep, and he hadn’t shaved. Stubble darkened his cheeks, making him appear dashing and dangerous. She wanted to glance away, but they were engaged in a battle of wills, and she wasn’t about to show any weakness.
He was the type who would pounce and gobble her up.
Finally, as he realized that he couldn’t shake her, a corner of his beautiful mouth curled into a lethal smile.
"Miss Bennett, is it?" he asked.
"Yes."
"You’re an interesting piece of work." He gestured to his adoring gaggle. "Ladies, would you step outside?"
There were groans and pleas that he reconsider, but a quick snap of his fingers had them scurrying to the hall.
Grace let them pass, then closed the door.
Once they were alone, he didn’t stand as a proper gentleman would, but watched her with that insolent, bored look that never left his handsome face.
As if he was a real king, he motioned for her to approach, and she walked over and halted directly in front of his throne.
"Would you put on a shirt?" she said.
"No. You have five minutes." He nodded at the fireplace, where there was a clock on the mantel. "Starting now."
"I really can’t talk to you when you’re in this condition."
"Four minutes and fifty seconds."
"I’m not used to dealing with a man when he’s in such a state of dishabille."
"Four minutes and forty-five seconds."
She sighed. "You are an obstinate ass."
"Yes, I am. Four minutes and forty seconds."
"Fine, I give up."
He grinned. "I knew you would."
She threw up her hands in exasperation. "I have traveled from Cornwall."
"I hope your journey was comfortable."
"Actually, it wasn’t."
"I don’t care to hear about it. Why are you pestering me?"
There seemed no way to ease him into the news. He was so haughtily curt and condescending. Wasn’t it better to bite the bullet and get it over with?
"I brought your nephew."
"Percival is here?"
"No, your other nephew, Michael."
"I don’t have a nephew named Michael."
"Up until this moment, you haven’t been informed. A decade ago, your brother Edward married my friend Georgina and—"
"You’re a liar."
The bald insult stopped her in her tracks. "What?"
He straightened in his chair, his posture alert and forbidding, like a dog on the hunt that had scented the fox. Suddenly, he didn’t appear quite so drunk or inept.
"You. Are. A. Liar," he hissed.
"No, I’m not. Your brother married Georgina. I have the records that—"
Furiously, he cut her off. "My brother did not marry some woman named Georgina a decade ago. He married his dearest Susan a decade ago. They have a son, Percival, who is his lawful heir. Quit wasting my time."
"No, he married Georgina. I have all the records to prove it, and Michael—"
He narrowed his gaze, his focus cruel and biting. "What game are you playing, Miss Bennett?"
"I’m not playing any game. Georgina passed away last year, and I am Michael’s guardian. I wrote to your mother, seeking an introduction, but she didn’t respond. We’ve lost our home and we’re desperate, so I’ve arrived unannounced."
"Why?"
"We need your help."
"Ah…" he mused. "As in money?"
"Well, yes. And a place to stay and perhaps some local employment if you could supply a recommendation for me."
He steepled his fingers under his chin, and an awkward interval ensued. She could see his mind working as he devised the appropriate reply.
He took so long that she’d begun to suppose she was making some headway, when he said, "Go away."
"No."
"Go. Away."
"Stop saying that. Your childishness won’t resolve the problem."
"I don’t want you here."
"I realize that, but you’re being ridiculous."
"I am being ridiculous? You, Miss Bennett, have waltzed in and interrupted my morning amusement. You’ve hurled spurious accusations about my brother. You’ve enraged and offended me, and I don’t have to listen to you."
"Yes, you do."
"Says who? You?"
He unfolded himself from his throne, sliding to his feet and stepping in so he towered over her.
He was very large, at least six feet in height, and he was very virile, very male. She’d stood next to many undressed men in her life, but she’d never encountered one like him. His nearness engendered the wildest swings of sensation.
"Let me show you out."
He clasped hold of her arm and started for the door. She tried to wrestle free, but escape was impossible.
"You don’t believe me," she glumly said.
"That would be putting it mildly."
"The truth won’t vanish merely because you can’t face it."
"A philosopher! How marvelous."
They’d arrived at the door. He yanked it open, and his harem was hovering, spying through the keyhole. They jumped back, feigning innocence, as if they hadn’t been hanging on every word.
"Miss Bennett is leaving," he announced. "One of you escort her out. If she refuses to depart, call Duncan to assist you."
"Mr. Scott!" Grace protested.
"Goodbye, Miss Bennett."
"Mr. Scott!" she complained more vehemently.
"If I’m very lucky—which I haven’t been so far—you’ll be smart enough to grasp that you should never again darken my day with any of your frivolous gibberish."
He pushed her into the hall and slammed the door. The key spun in the lock.
She was angrier than she could ever remember being, and she wanted to march over and pound on the wood, to shout and insult and reprimand, but why bother?
She whirled away and left, wondering how she’d ever tell Michael what she’d learned.
CHAPTER TWO
"Let’s go."
"What?"
Grace steeled her expression, being determined to shield her fury and disappointment from Michael and Eleanor.
She couldn’t describe what she’d witnessed of Jackson Scott, and she would never upset Michael by disparaging the family he’d been so excited to meet.
What now? What now? What now?
The question rang through her head.
They’d cut their ties in Cornwall, so she had no home to which they could return, and she’d spent every penny in her purse, bringing them to Milton Abbey. She didn’t have enough coins to buy them supper, and gallingly, she wondered if they dared beg for a few scraps of food.
They could knock at the kitchen and tell the servants they were indigent and starving. They’d likely be fed, but she refused to have Michael treated so shabbily.
"Let’s go," she said again.
"Why?" Michael asked.
"Your uncle isn’t here," she lied. "I spoke to a servant upstairs. Mr. Scott has left for London, and they’re not sure when he’ll be back
."
"Can’t we stay and wait?"
"No one has the authority to let us, I’m afraid."
"What are we to do?" Eleanor stammered.
"We’ll walk to the village"—Grace forced a bright smile—"and I’ll think of something on the way."
Grace couldn’t hold Eleanor’s searching gaze. Her sister knew they were in dire straits, but Grace had never explained just how dire.
Grace had pinned all her hopes on the Scott family, being utterly resolved that she could convince them to render assistance. But she hadn’t expected to encounter a scapegrace like Jackson Scott, so she hadn’t devised a back-up plan.
With Mr. Scott’s low morals revealed, there was no reason to tarry. Grace would never allow Michael to meet Mr. Scott, so their circumstances were particularly grim.
"Perhaps we can prevail on Mr. Porter," Michael said. "He seemed very kind."
"Perhaps we can," Grace agreed.
Mr. Porter had lived in the village all his life. If there was any employment or charity to be had, he would be the person who could inform her.
She waved to the door, and Michael and Eleanor rose and moved toward it. Grace followed, lagging behind so they couldn’t see her visible concern.
She’d always perceived herself to be extremely smart and pragmatic. How had she descended to such a miserable point? No money. No home. No job. No prospects. No…anything, and two children who needed care and support that she had no means to provide.
They trudged down the front steps and started down the driveway, and she was so distressed that she didn’t notice a man approaching on a horse. He reined in, dismounted, and marched by as if they were invisible.
Grace ignored him, too, their passing glances catching for the briefest instant as they proceeded in their opposite directions. Then recognition dawned for both. Frowning, they stopped and turned.
"Grace…Bennett?"
At the same moment, Grace murmured, "Mr. Dane?"
"Miss Bennett, it is you." He scowled as if she was an unwanted pest that should be stamped under the heel of his boot.
"Hello," Grace said with an equal amount of cool disdain.
Duncan Dane had been Edward’s best friend. On one unpleasant occasion, he had visited Georgina and Edward. Grace had suffered through a distasteful supper with him as Edward’s special guest from London.
