by Cheryl Holt
Don’t do this to me, he’d beseeched. Please don’t hurt me this way.
But their mother was like a force of nature, like a hurricane with winds that couldn’t be resisted. Edward had been kind and easy-going, and he’d hated discord. He never could stand up to Beatrice, not as a beleaguered boy, then a beleaguered man.
He’d accepted her decree with the same resignation he’d accepted every other of her dictates, but Jackson had continued to fight her. So she’d cut off his funds, hoping a dose of poverty would bend him to her will, but she was a fool. She’d never been able to manipulate him, which was the reason they’d always battled so fiercely.
The night before Edward’s wedding to Susan, Jackson had left England on a freighter, had worked to pay his fare to the Mediterranean, arriving in Alexandria without a penny in his pocket. Yet he’d thrived there, being completely determined to succeed despite how his heart had been broken, despite how he’d been betrayed.
He’d never corresponded with any of them again, although British acquaintances occasionally mentioned that Edward was trying to locate him, to arrange a reconciliation. Jackson had ignored all overtures and had received no pertinent news until a letter had notified him of Edward’s death and that Jackson was needed at home to oversee Percival and the estate.
Curiosity had brought him back—as well as his enormous pride and conceit. He’d wanted Susan and Beatrice to realize how he’d flourished. And as the oldest male in the family, he now held the purse strings so he held all the power. At least until Percival grew up and Jackson’s guardianship was over.
Beatrice and Susan were at his mercy, were relegated to subservient roles and could only engage in an expenditure if he allowed it. They’d be fretting over their fates, stewing and pondering his attitude and willingness to be generous.
He’d been in England for weeks, having come straight to Milton Abbey without calling on them in London. They’d be in a dither, terrified over his lack of deference and what it might indicate.
He enjoyed having them anxious and off-balance, but he really had no designs on either of them. He didn’t care how they conducted themselves—so long as they didn’t pilfer Percival’s fortune. Jackson planned to hire stringent fiscal managers, choose that boarding school for Percival, then leave for Egypt. He had a full and fulfilling life there, and he was eager to return to it.
But if Duncan’s story was true, if Grace Bennett wasn’t a liar, if Michael Scott was Edward’s first-born son and Jackson’s nephew, Jackson would be trapped in England for ages.
He saw months—nay, years!—of legal wrangling and conflict. Susan would never blithely submit to the notion that her marriage to Edward was invalid, that Percival wasn’t the earl. Beatrice would never admit that Edward had defied her by marrying a commoner.
Jackson would be stuck in the middle, forced to fix the mess Edward had made. By the time he was back in Alexandria, he’d probably be a hundred years old.
Just then, if Grace Bennett had been standing in front of him, he’d have wrapped his fingers around her slender throat and throttled her for causing so much trouble.
He stood and approached Duncan again. They were the same height, but Jackson was more brawny, tougher, stronger.
"I’m going to find your Miss Bennett," he said.
"She’s not my Miss Bennett."
"You lucky dog; you get to claim her."
"I don’t want anything to do with this—or with her."
"Too late. You’re at the center of the entire debacle."
"I kept Edward’s secret. Don’t I get credit for being a loyal friend?"
"No." Jackson snorted with disgust. "I have to stop Miss Bennett before she reaches the village. I’ll bring her to the Abbey so she can’t spread any of her malicious mischief."
"It won’t help. People will take one look at that boy and will instantly—"
"Shut up, Duncan!"
"Yes, I suppose I should."
"Since Edward is no longer with us, I hold you fully responsible."
"Me! How is this my fault?"
"You told me your version of events."
"It’s the truth!"
"Exactly, and I’m thinking of killing the messenger."
He whipped away and stormed to the door, bellowing for a servant and waiting an eternity for one to appear.
He gave hasty instructions to have a horse saddled, to have a carriage prepared, then he went to his dressing room to tug on a shirt and boots.
Within minutes, he was stomping down the stairs, Miss Bennett directly in his sights and on a collision course with his temper.
CHAPTER THREE
Grace heard a horse approaching. From the sound of the hooves whisking across the gravel of the road, the rider was cantering at a fast clip. She glanced over her shoulder just as their pursuer came into view.
"Hold it right there, Miss Bennett!" Jackson Scott called.
Michael and Eleanor spun to see who had hailed her.
"Keep going," Grace told them.
"Who is that?" Eleanor asked.
"No one, at all," Grace grumbled.
"Grace!" Eleanor’s role for the day was that of perpetual scold. "What is wrong with you? You’re behaving like a lunatic."
"Keep going!" Grace repeated more sternly, but Mr. Scott was upon them.
He reined in and leapt to the ground with the agility of a circus performer. Then he stomped over so they were toe to toe. He jammed his fists on his hips and glared down his imperious nose.
He looked completely different from the lazy hedonist who had so thoroughly offended her. Now, he was attired as the rich, spoiled gentleman he was: velvet riding coat, white cravat, tan breeches, black boots.
The blue fabric of the coat set off the blue of his glorious eyes, deepening the hue, making them spark with temper.
"What do you want?" she sneered.
"I’ve had a chat with Duncan Dane."
"Bully for you."
"I must insist you return with me to the Abbey."
"No."
"I won’t allow you to proceed on to the village."
"You won’t allow me?" Grace sputtered with outrage. She didn’t like to be ordered about. Especially by an overbearing, pompous lout. "I am not your sister or your wife or your employee. You’re in no position to command me, and you are possessed of an enormous amount of gall if you suppose I would heed a single word that spews from your rude, obnoxious mouth."
"Grace!" Eleanor wailed.
"Stay out of this, Eleanor," Grace warned.
"You can’t just…talk to him like that."
"Trust me," Grace replied, "he’ll get over it."
As to Mr. Scott, he was totally flummoxed. Obviously, no one ever spoke to him as she had. He was rendered speechless, and she used his bewilderment to escape, pushing Eleanor and Michael down the road ahead of her.
"Who is he?" Michael begged to know. "Is he my uncle?"
He was gaping at Mr. Scott, and Mr. Scott was gaping, too. Grace grabbed Michael’s arm, attempting to drag him away, but he wouldn’t move.
Mr. Scott marched over and yanked Grace away. He squatted, his troubled gaze assessing Michael’s attractive face and black hair, the blue, blue eyes that were an exact replica of his own. He reached out as if he might touch Michael, but at the last instant, he thought better of it and dropped his hand to his side.
"What is your name?" he asked Michael.
"Michael Scott. And what is yours?" Michael asked in return.
"Jackson." Undone by the introduction, Mr. Scott had to clear his throat before he could continue. "Jackson Scott."
"Are you my uncle? Mr. Porter told us you were, but Grace claimed you weren’t at home when we visited." Michael frowned up at Grace. "Why would you lie, Grace? He must be my uncle, don’t you think?"
Mr. Scott’s brows rose as he tried to figure out how to respond to the question. If he answered yes, that he was Michael’s uncle, he was admitting Edward’s paternity, which
he wasn’t prepared to acknowledge.
Instead, he stood and whirled on Grace.
"We need to talk," he muttered.
"I believe you said everything that needed to be said in your parlor."
"Miss Bennett, you and I have scarcely begun to communicate."
He led her away from Eleanor and Michael, pulling her down the lane and around the bend where they would be shielded by the trees.
"Do you treat all females so discourteously?" she fumed. "Or is it just me?"
"It’s just you."
"I have no idea why you’d deem it appropriate to manhandle me."
"If I’d asked politely, would you have come with me?"
"No."
"I rest my case. You deserve to be abused."
"You are a swine, a dog, a ruffian, a—"
"Miss Bennett?"
"What?"
"Be silent."
He stopped and jerked Grace around to face him. The abrupt movement happened too quickly, and without warning, the entire front of her body was pressed to his.
The contact was so thrilling that, for a fleeting second, she froze, held rapt by sensation. He felt it, too, and was extremely disconcerted. He scowled down at her as if he couldn’t recall who she was or why they were together on the lane.
Then she remembered herself and leapt away.
A memory flashed—of his harem of loose women—and her cheeks flushed bright red. He was a man who fondled naked trollops as a hobby, who consorted with undressed doxies in the middle of the day.
She was embarrassed to her core.
"Why have you traveled to Milton?" he demanded.
"Why would you suppose?"
"What is it you’re requesting? Is it money?"
"No, it’s not money."
"What then? What will it take to make you go away?"
"Nothing. We’ll depart at once. Now that I’ve met you, there is absolutely no reason to linger. Goodbye."
She spun to stomp off, but he grabbed her again. Her furious glare could have lit him on fire.
"Do you ever behave in a way that’s not rude and offensive?" she seethed.
"Do you ever curb that barbed tongue of yours?"
"I’m a very friendly person," she spat, "when I’m in friendly company."
"And I’m a very civil person when I’m dealing with rational people."
"Ha! I’ve spent two minutes with you, and I’m questioning my sanity. If I appear befuddled, it’s because you’ve driven me mad with your ridiculous posturing."
"You’re not leaving with that boy."
"His name is Michael," she snapped, refusing to let him pretend he didn’t know.
"Fine. You and Michael—and your sister?"
"Yes, my sister."
"We’re all going to Milton Abbey."
"As I believe I previously mentioned, you are in no position to boss me."
"I’m not ordering you. I’m…asking you to come."
The word asking stuck in his throat, as if he never made polite appeals, and she was sure he never did. He told people to jump and they said, how high?
But she’d never been submissive, and she wasn’t about to start with him.
It was on the tip of her tongue to scold him, to bicker and fight and insult, but suddenly, she was overcome by the worst wave of despondency. The sky seemed to press down, the weight of the world on her weary shoulders.
She was floundering and out of options. She’d pinned her hopes on the Scotts of Milton, and even though she shouldn’t have expected a good ending, she felt utterly betrayed.
She was sad and drained and still mourning—Georgina’s death, the loss of their home, their fleeing Cornwall and all that was familiar. She just wanted to scurry away, to huddle in a ball and lick her wounds, and she couldn’t bear having him watch. He was too astute, his probing eyes not missing a single detail.
"Thank you for asking us to attend you," she courteously said, nearly choking on her manners, "but we shouldn’t have visited without an invitation. I’m sorry to have bothered you."
"I wasn’t bothered. I was merely taken by surprise."
"I understand, and I apologize for imposing. You won’t hear from us again. I swear it."
She would have huffed off to join the children, but a carriage rattled into view, approaching from the direction of the Abbey. He pointed to it.
"I arranged for a groomsman to fetch you so you wouldn’t have to walk."
He stared her down, his steely gaze confirming that he wasn’t about to let her leave. Not until they’d hashed out every despicable, poignant fact.
She could have refused, could have argued and shouted and stamped her feet, but she truly imagined he might pick her up and toss her in the vehicle against her will.
Her shoulders sagged with defeat. "We’ll come to the Abbey."
"A wise decision," he pompously retorted.
"I’ll show you my documents and provide you with all the pertinent information. Then we’ll be on our way."
"We’ll see about that."
"Yes, we will."
She went to the bend in the road and gestured to Michael and Eleanor.
"What’s happening?" Eleanor called.
"We’re going to Milton Abbey for a bit," Grace explained.
"Really, Grace?" Michael said.
"Yes. Mr. Scott has brought a coach."
Michael grinned from ear to ear.
DC
"You’re claiming my brother was Michael’s father?"
"I’m not claiming anything about your brother. I’m telling you that Michael’s father was Edward Scott and that his family lived at Milton Abbey. How many of your male relatives are named Edward?"
"In the past eighty years or so, there has been no Edward Scott except my brother."
"He must be the one then."
Jackson glared at Grace, wishing he could intimidate her, but she was immune to threats or displays of temper. She calmly observed him, looking bedraggled and weary, as if she’d like to snuggle down on the sofa and take a nap.
They were in the main receiving parlor, with Miss Bennett seated on a chair while he paced back and forth.
Her sister and Michael had been whisked off by servants, with instructions to feed them and prepare rooms for the night.
He and Miss Bennett were alone, and he kept firing the same questions at her, but to his great frustration and alarm, she kept supplying the same answers.
Edward had been a handsome and charming young man. True. He’d hailed from Milton Abbey, his father was deceased, and he had a difficult relationship with his mother Beatrice. True. He was a businessman who toured the countryside, seeing to his family’s factories. Not true.
He had fallen in love and wed Georgina. Apparently true. Miss Bennett had the marriage certificate, and Jackson knew Edward’s signature as well as his own. Edward had signed the blasted thing.
Then, evidently swamped by guilt, he’d feigned his death. According to Duncan, Edward had set up a complicated accounting morass that furnished Georgina with a house and allowance.
Jackson would never admit that he was responsible for the stipend ending and Miss Bennett being evicted. His first act as estate executor had been to review the books. A clerk had mentioned the odd, secretive payments in Cornwall, the ownership of a mysterious house.
Jackson had ordered the residence shuttered and sold, the stipend stopped.
What a mess! How was he to unravel it?
She pointed to a portrait that hung over the fireplace.
"That’s Edward, isn’t it?" she said. "That’s your brother?"
"Yes, that’s Edward."
"And I have a portrait of him, too." She reached into her purse and withdrew a locket on a chain. "Edward gave it to Georgina on their wedding day."
Jackson marched over and extended his hand. She dropped the locket into it, and he opened the clasp and peeked inside. He had the same miniature portrait tucked in a tiny frame in his bedchamber in E
gypt.
It had been painted the year Edward was twenty, the year he married Susan. The artist had made several copies, and Edward had distributed them to acquaintances.
Why would Miss Bennett have one unless Edward had given it to Georgina? How else could Miss Bennett have come into possession of it?
"I’ll just keep this—if you don’t mind."
He started to stick the locket in his pocket, but she jumped up and snatched it away.
"I do mind as a matter of fact. It’s Michael’s only picture of his father, and you may not have it!"
She plopped down in her chair, and she glowered at him, oozing such disdain that he nearly laughed aloud.
Women loved him and always had. Every one but Susan, that is, and she’d been smitten, too, until the title of countess had been dangled in front of her. They liked his tall, dark good looks, his wealth and status. Yet mostly, they were titillated by his masculine attitudes and habits.
After his bout with Susan, he didn’t have much patience with feminine nonsense. In his dealings with females, he was crass and brusque. He didn’t care what women thought, and he found monogamy to be tedious, so he was a challenge they were all determined to win.
They threw themselves at him, tolerating any behavior in case he turned out to be kinder than he seemed or more amenable to being shackled.
But he was who he was: a bored, vain, rich man with few redeeming qualities and even fewer positive traits.
Miss Bennett realized that about him, and she wasn’t impressed. The situation bothered him enormously, when he couldn’t figure out why.
She was a petite sprite who was too short and too thin, making her the complete opposite of the buxom, curvaceous blonds he preferred. Her hair was an odd shade of auburn, the likes of which he’d never previously seen on a female. It was probably quite striking, but she had it pulled into a tight chignon so he couldn’t tell for sure.
Only her eyes—big and green and expressive—gave any hint of beauty. They were shrewd and assessing, and they followed his every stride as if she was watching to discover if he ever made a mistake. He’d made plenty in his life, the most recent one being his decision to listen to her wild tale.
