by Cheryl Holt
He’d been rude and condescending, constantly making snide remarks about Georgina and Edward’s marriage to her. Mr. Dane had found fault with their small cottage, with their docile, rural existence, with their marital bliss. He’d viewed it all as being very funny, as if Georgina was beneath Edward and not worthy of Edward’s attention.
Grace hadn’t understood Mr. Dane’s derision. She and Georgina had assumed Edward to be a traveling merchant. Apparently, Mr. Dane had known Edward’s true position in the world and had been greatly humored by how he was consorting with Georgina.
Why had Edward invited Mr. Dane to Cornwall? Had Edward been playing a malicious joke on Georgina? Had it been some sort of rich man’s lark?
There were always stories circulating about the horrid behavior of the wealthy, idle sons of the aristocracy. Was Edward’s relationship with Georgina an example of their wicked antics?
Perhaps Edward had brought Mr. Dane to Cornwall as a boast, as if to proclaim, Look what I did, and I got away with it, too! But Georgina had loved Edward. She’d gone to her grave loving him. How could he have been so cruel?
If he’d been engaged in a prank, the consequences were very, very real.
The couple had wed in the local church, even placing their signatures in the Bible in the church’s vestibule. The vicar who had performed the ceremony was still ministering to his flock. He was a witness to the validity of the union, so what had been Edward’s ploy?
Grace couldn’t begin to guess, but she had no patience for a bounder like Duncan Dane.
He was incredibly handsome—blond hair, blue eyes, and tall, lanky physique—but he knew he was attractive, and he was overbearingly obnoxious because of it.
According to Edward, Mr. Dane had no family or prospects. He spent his time gambling and trying to attach himself to rich widows who would tolerate his bad habits.
How typical that he would show up at Milton Abbey when the loathsome Jackson Scott was in residence. They were probably chums.
During her abbreviated encounter with Mr. Scott, he’d called for Duncan. He had to have been summoning Mr. Dane to toss her out.
They were both scoundrels; they were both insufferable.
Grace whipped away, intent on continuing to the village, when he said, "I never thought to see you again."
"I could say the same," she curtly replied.
"What brings you to Milton Abbey?"
She’d die before she’d tell him. "We came on a private matter, but it’s resolved so we’re leaving."
She gestured for Michael and Eleanor to proceed, but they were staring at Mr. Dane. He was staring at them, too, his focus riveted on Michael.
His scowl deepened, and he inquired, "May I be introduced to your companions?"
"I’m sorry, but no, you may not."
"Grace!" Eleanor scolded, stunned by Grace’s discourtesy.
Michael stepped forward—without Grace realizing she should prevent him—and motioned to Eleanor. "This is my very dear friend, Miss Eleanor Bennett, and I am Michael Scott."
Mr. Dane sucked in a sharp breath. "What is your name?"
"I am Michael Scott. We traveled to Milton Abbey to—"
"That’s enough, Michael," Grace interrupted. "We don’t need to waste Mr. Dane’s time."
Mr. Dane inserted himself between Michael and Grace. "You traveled to Milton Abbey to what?"
"To meet my father’s family," Michael said, "but they are not at home."
Mr. Dane sucked in another sharp breath. "Who is your father?"
"Edward Scott," Michael responded. In his innocence, he didn’t grasp that Duncan Dane was the very last person who should be apprised of anything.
"And who is your mother?"
"Georgina Scott."
"How old are you?"
"Nine."
Mr. Dane paused, calculating the dates, then he whirled to confront Grace.
"Where is Georgina?"
"She passed away."
He pointed a trembling finger at Michael, his furious gaze locked on Grace.
"Is that boy who I think he is?" Mr. Dane demanded.
"No," Grace said as Eleanor said, "Yes."
"Edward is his father?" Mr. Dane was almost wheezing with shock.
"No," Grace insisted. When Eleanor might have piped up with the truth, Grace shook her head, silencing her with a glare.
An awkward, fraught interval festered, where a thousand secrets flew through the air. Finally, Mr. Dane murmured, "We didn’t know. No one told us."
"That’s because there was nothing to tell," Grace asserted. "Goodbye."
She clasped Michael’s wrist and stomped off. As she noticed Eleanor hadn’t followed, she snapped, "Eleanor, come!"
Eleanor was grinning flirtatiously at Mr. Dane, and Grace’s command had her yanking away.
"Goodbye," Eleanor said much more civilly than Grace had.
They had marched several strides down the drive when Mr. Dane called, "Wait! Where are you going?"
"None of your business," Grace rudely retorted.
"Grace! Honestly, what is wrong with you?" Eleanor smiled at Mr. Dane. "I apologize, Mr. Dane. My sister never acts like this."
"I’m sure she doesn’t," Mr. Dane courteously replied.
"We’re going to the village," Eleanor explained, "but then…I’m not certain where we’re headed. We were hoping to stay at Milton Abbey, but I guess it won’t be possible."
"Have you talked to Jackson Scott?" Mr. Dane asked Grace. "Is he aware this boy is here?"
"No," she lied again.
"Come back inside then," he coaxed. "He has to be notified."
"There’s no need to bother Mr. Scott," Grace firmly stated. "Even if he was at home—which he’s not—I can’t think of a single thing I’d like to hear him say."
She spun away, grabbed Michael and Eleanor by a wrist, and pulled them down the road. When Mr. Dane called to them again, she kept on.
DC
"Jackson! Where are you?"
Jackson Scott—explorer, expatriate, cad, bounder, and libertine—paid no heed to the shouted question.
Duncan was approaching and showing much more animation than he’d likely exhibited in his entire life. He was the most carefree, indolent rogue in the kingdom, and he had elevated sloth to a fine art. What could have pushed him into such an excited condition?
"Jackson! I must speak with you. Now!"
"Ignore him," Jackson told the beauty who was stretched out on his bed.
They were in his bedchamber, the other three lovelies left behind in the parlor to entertain themselves while he sought a more personal type of amusement.
The previous evening, the ribald quartet of females had arrived from London, but he’d been too intoxicated to fully enjoy them. He planned to rectify the lack by spending the day sampling the charms of one after the next until he’d had his fill.
He hadn’t set foot in England in a decade, and he wasn’t happy to have returned. Edward’s death had been the lure that dragged him back. For reasons unknown to any sane man, Edward had appointed Jackson as guardian to his son Percival. It was a bizarre and ludicrous designation that confounded Jackson enormously.
He knew nothing about children and had no desire to oversee Percival or his property and fortune. He had no desire to linger at Milton Abbey or to socialize with his mother Beatrice and sister-in-law Susan.
He intended to choose a reputable boarding school, place Percival in it, and hire some accountants to manage his money. Then he’d leave for Egypt as quickly as a trip could be arranged.
In the meantime, he’d wallow in iniquity, and he’d do it so blatantly and so publically that every coarse rumor would float to London.
He wanted his bitter, miserable mother to hear them all. She would fume and roil with distaste, would rue the fact that he was an adult with his own fortune. She couldn’t threaten or punish him, which would gall her tremendously.
He smiled, relishing the notion of his putting Bea
trice in a temper. His childhood had been a slog of dodging her rages and wrath, and he savored the realization that he could now act with impunity, and she could extract no revenge.
He grabbed his partner by the waist and shifted her so she straddled his lap. She was very buxom, with large pendulous breasts, and she was blond, and thus, a delectable change from the brown-haired mistresses who warmed his foreign bed.
He was stroking his thumbs across her nipples when Duncan burst in without knocking. He was an immoral wretch and completely unfazed to stumble on Jackson and his doxy, naked and lounged together, their limbs entwined.
"There you are." He was very exasperated. "I’ve been searching everywhere."
"Why would you have?" Jackson snidely retorted. "I told you I was spending the day in bed. Did you think I was joking?"
"We have a problem."
"No, you have a problem. I have a bedmate, and I’m busy. Pester someone else."
To Jackson’s astonishment, Duncan seized the woman and hauled her to the floor.
"Ouch!" she complained as she righted herself.
"I need a few minutes with Jackson," Duncan said. "Alone."
"But we just started," she mulishly protested.
"Precisely," Jackson agreed, assessing her full bosom, her slender waist.
"Go," Duncan insisted. "Now."
He retrieved a robe that had been pitched on the rug and thrust it into the woman’s arms. He steered her out the door.
"Don’t let me catch you eavesdropping," he warned.
"Or what?" she sneered.
"Or I’ll send you to London on the first available coach. You’ll miss the rest of the party, and you won’t have any juicy stories to tell your friends."
"Prick," she hurled, but she marched down the hall.
Duncan waited until she flounced down the stairs, then he spun to Jackson.
"Get up," he said.
"Really, Duncan, you’re being rather tiresome."
"Get up dammit!" He cast about, seeing Jackson’s trousers on a nearby chair. He tossed them on the bed. "Make yourself presentable."
"Not possible. I’m on holiday, remember?"
"Yes, I remember, but it’s about to end."
"Not bloody likely," Jackson grumbled, but he slithered to his feet and pulled on his pants.
Duncan declined to observe as Jackson strutted about in all his nude glory. He went over to the window and stared out, peering down the long drive that led to the lane and the village beyond.
Jackson ignored him and walked to the dressing room to splash cold water on his face. The swift, bracing bath couldn’t cool his aggravation. He was drying himself with a towel when Duncan called, "Are you decent?"
"As decent as I intend to be." Jackson reentered the bedchamber—trousers on, shirt and shoes off. "What is it? And please be brief. Your color is high and your demeanor inflamed. I have no idea what has you in such a state, but I don’t need a detailed explanation. The bare facts will be sufficient."
"Did Edward ever mention a woman by the name of Georgina?"
"No, but I’ve heard of her recently." Jackson scowled. "Where?"
"There was a woman here. Grace Bennett. By any chance was she allowed to speak with you?"
"A petite red-head? Annoying? Pushy? Bossy?"
"Yes, that’s her."
"She barged in, and yes, I spoke to her. Why?"
"What did she say?"
Duncan was a bit green around the gills, but it wasn’t from any imbibing of alcohol. Duncan cheated at cards, so he rarely drank spirits because liquor interfered with his devious mind.
Jackson watched—fascinated—as his old friend squirmed and stalled. Clearly, he had a tale to tell, and Jackson was in no mood for it. He tried to recall Miss Bennett’s comments. She’d been so pompously infuriating that he’d hardly listened to her rant. She’d spun a preposterous account of Edward and a secret marriage and a son that he’d supposedly…
What the devil!
"You’re asking me what she said?" Slowly, he advanced on Duncan. "Why do I suspect that you know the topic of our discussion?"
"I might."
Duncan gulped with dismay, looking unsettled in a manner Jackson had never previously witnessed from him.
They’d been together since they were very young—he, Edward, and Duncan. Jackson and Edward had only been a year apart in age, with Duncan born in between. He’d fostered with them for so long that he’d seemed like a third brother.
He’d been closer to Edward than to Jackson, but the three of them had been like triplets, the most troublesome trio of boys to have ever lived under one roof. Their antics had nearly killed his stern, unbending mother a dozen times over.
Jackson approached until they were toe to toe, and he poked a finger in Duncan’s chest.
"Miss Bennett told me," Jackson seethed, "that Edward had married this Georgina woman." He paused and when Duncan didn’t fill the gap, he added, "I called her a liar and threw her out."
Still, Duncan was rendered mute.
"Say something!" Jackson snapped. "Start talking and don’t stop until I tell you I’ve heard enough."
"I don’t think she’s lying."
The pronouncement sucked all the air out of the sky. Jackson staggered away and plopped down in a chair. The stressful trip from Egypt, the shock of Edward’s death, the weeks of debauchery caught up with him all at once. His equilibrium vanished, and he couldn’t keep his balance.
They stared and stared, but Duncan had always been a cool customer, which was why he was such a good gambler. Nothing rattled him, and though Jackson could intimidate even the most obstinate person, his glower had no effect on Duncan.
They were too well acquainted, had brawled extensively as children, and neither of them was afraid of the other.
Jackson relented first. "You don’t think she’s lying? Or you know she’s not lying?"
"I know she’s not lying," Duncan softly muttered. "Dammit! I can’t believe this!"
There was a decanter of liquor on the table next to him, and he picked it up and hurled it at the fireplace. It smashed into a dozen pieces, large shards flying across the floor and embedding in the priceless rug.
"Do you feel better now?" Jackson caustically asked.
"No, actually, I don’t." He went to the window and gazed out to the road again. He was miserable, lost in thought.
Jackson let him fume and worry.
When he turned, he said, "It was a joke. It was a…" He flung up his hands, unable to find the proper words. "No, it wasn’t a joke, but it was stupid and reckless, and he proceeded anyway. I couldn’t stop him."
"Couldn’t stop him from what?" Jackson furiously inquired.
"He met a pretty girl, fell in love, and married her."
"Don’t jest about this."
"I’m not, and it appears they had a child."
"Shut up," Jackson said.
"Did you talk to the boy?"
"The boy was…here?"
"Yes, and he’s the spitting image of Edward. Anyone who sees him will realize the truth. It will be impossible to hide it."
"What would I hide? She’s an imposter, spreading vicious rumors."
"No, she’s not, and the boy is bold as brass. He walked right up to me and announced that Edward is his father. They’re on their way to the village, and once they arrive, they will—"
"What’s his name?" Jackson cut in, weary of Duncan’s theatrics.
"Michael Scott."
Jackson gasped. "He’s taken our last name?"
"His parents were married!" Duncan spat as if Jackson was a dunce. "Of course, he’s taken your last name. Why wouldn’t he?"
"You’re claiming Edward wed this woman?"
"I’m not claiming. I’m flat-out telling you what happened. His wedding to Georgina was probably six months before his wedding to Susan."
"When he married Susan, he was already married? Michael was born first—before Percival?"
"
Most likely, yes. I was so stunned that I didn’t ask his date of birth."
"You’re the only one who ever knew. Is that what you’re saying?"
"Except for Grace Bennett. She wasn’t aware of Edward’s true identity, but she knew about the marriage."
"Edward lied in order to induce a common girl to wed him?"
"There was nothing common about her."
"Oh. I’m sure there wasn’t," Jackson scoffed. "With his society wedding to Susan quickly approaching, Edward totted off and wed the girl of his dreams?"
"Yes."
"Seriously? Perfect, honorable, dependable Edward behaved that way?"
"He pretended to be a businessman who traveled frequently."
"How did he explain his marriage to Susan? Georgina couldn’t have been too happy about it."
"He didn’t explain—he was too much of a coward—but guilt ate him alive."
"Guilt, really."
"He had me send her a letter, informing her that he…he died in an accident."
"An accident?"
"He had me embellish a bit so she wouldn’t expect to visit his grave—or your mother."
"Embellish?"
"I told her he’d been buried in France…and that Beatrice…well…"
"My brother did that to a woman he supposedly loved?"
"He wasn’t a total ass. He provided for her. She had a house and a stipend."
"How magnanimous of you both."
"You don’t know how it was," Duncan mumbled.
"Obviously."
"Edward was distressed over you and Susan and your mother, and he couldn’t figure out how to…to…"
Jackson’s scowl ended the pathetic sentence. He glared, a muscle ticking in his cheek.
When he’d fled England a decade earlier, he’d left because of Edward and Susan and their pending nuptials.
With the ardor only an immature swain can muster, he’d loved Susan for years, and he’d believed she loved him in return. They had often talked of marriage until Beatrice had decided Susan would be the ideal bride for Edward instead.
The moment Susan learned she could wed an earl—rather than the brother of an earl—she immediately noted that Edward would make a fine husband.
Jackson had pleaded with the three of them, had begged and debased himself in his attempts to stop the match. He’d been particularly strident in imploring Edward.
