by Cheryl Holt
Sophia banged the table again. It tipped over with a loud crash. “Where is Georgina! I swear, if you don’t tell me, I will rip this room apart.”
“She went to live with her father’s relatives,” Portia blandly stated.
“She…what?” Sophia stammered.
“She went to live with her other family.”
“Why would she? This is her home, and we have no information about them.”
“Your mother has always known where they are,” Portia said.
Portia was so cool and composed, Sophia yearned to walk over and slap her silly.
“Why did she have to leave?” Sophia demanded of her mother, but Portia answered.
“She disgraced herself with Mr. Drummond.”
“Portia!” Augusta admonished. “Let’s not get into the details. They’re not fit for Sophia’s ears.”
Sophia advanced on Portia. She was seated in her chair so Sophia towered over her, and for a moment alarm flashed in Portia’s eyes. Was she afraid Sophia might attack her? Good! In her current mood, she might enjoy a brawl.
“What was Georgina’s conduct with Mr. Drummond that you found so shocking?” Sophia asked.
Portia smirked. “I have to agree with your mother. As you are still unwed, it’s simply not appropriate for you to be apprised.”
“She had an affair with him after all,” Sophia murmured.
Portia shrugged but didn’t reply.
“You sent her away because of it?” Sophia asked.
“Your mother and I deemed it for the best,” Portia said.
“You and mother decided?”
“Of course. I keep telling you, Sophia. I’m about to be mistress of Kirkwood. It’s my choice who stays and who goes. I will not have that…that…harlot residing under the same roof as me.”
“Portia!” Augusta sharply said. “That’s enough.”
“I’ve barely started, Augusta,” Portia retorted.
“You sent Georgina away,” Sophia murmured again. She couldn’t believe it. “You had the gall, the audacity!”
“Yes,” Portia bragged, “and I’d do it again too.”
Sophia glared at her mother. “You let her! You were complicit!”
“Georgina was eager to depart, Sophia,” her mother claimed. “I mentioned the idea and she was happy to have the chance.”
Sophia studied them, feeling sick to her stomach. She reflected on all the years she’d listened to her mother, obeyed her mother, watched her harass kind, wonderful Georgina. Why had she? What had been the point of all of it?
Her mother was a bitter, malicious person, and Portia was no better. They deserved each other.
In light of their perfidy toward Georgina, she was so upset she couldn’t breathe. After this ignominy, how could she remain at Kirkwood? Why would she remain? She loathed her brother, detested her mother, and absolutely abhorred Portia, and with a sudden spark of brilliant insight she realized she had a perfect alternative.
“So…Georgina is a harlot,” she said, “and she had to be kicked out.”
“Exactly right,” Portia smugly responded.
“Then I guess I have to be kicked out as well.”
Her mother scowled. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, Mother, that I’ve disgraced myself with Kit Roxbury.”
Her mother gasped. “You what?”
“I’ve lain with him as a man lies with his wife.” It wasn’t precisely true, but it was sufficient to push them into a dither.
“You haven’t!” her mother wailed.
“I have.” Sophia grinned. “I liked it too.”
“Sophia!” Portia groused. “Don’t say so!”
“Guess what else?”
“What?” both women said together.
“He’s asked me to marry him, and I’ve decided I will. I’d much rather be his bride than spend another day in this insane asylum.”
She stomped out as her mother shouted, “Sophia!”
She didn’t stop, and Augusta shouted again, “Sophia! What are you planning?”
“I’m off to pack a bag, then I’ll be at the coaching inn in the village. I’ll wait there for Kit so he can take me away from here.”
“You will not embarrass me by staying at an inn!” her mother said.
“Then let’s hope he returns very soon so I won’t be there long.”
“Mr. Roxbury won’t be back,” Portia snidely insisted. “Miles swore he won’t. He and Mr. Drummond are gone for good.”
“If that’s what you assume, Portia,” Sophia replied, “then you’re as stupid as I always imagined.”
Sophia started out again, and when her mother called to her a final time, she ignored her and continued on.
Damian at 25…
There’s no reason to stay another minute.”
Damian gazed at Anne, and she nodded in agreement.
Their dream had come true.
As he’d vowed he would, he’d grown wealthy in the gold fields, but not from honest endeavor. He’d been a highwayman, robbing the greedy dolts who carted their gold to the coast so it could be shipped to more stable locales.
Because they were idiots and misers, they never hired sufficient guards, and Damian had taken full advantage of their stupid practices, being too smart and too daring to ever be thwarted or caught. And of course, he’d covered his tracks so it seemed his fortune had been built through diligent work in the mines. No one had questioned his rise in stature or prosperity.
His sentence was completed, and the authorities believed he was a model case: a boy who’d been educated, forced to pray, toiled at hard labor, and tortured by a maniac, and thus altered into an exemplary citizen.
When he reflected on how he’d fooled them all, he laughed with derision.
He was rich now, richer than any man had a right to be, and it was interesting how that affluence could purchase whatever a fellow required. First and foremost, it had purchased a pardon for Anne. With Lt. Butler having sailed off in disgrace, the new administrator had been only too happy to show her some mercy.
She’d been a submissive prisoner and ran a thriving business. Numerous people had supplied statements of stellar character, but Damian’s donation to an important charity had sealed the deal.
They could both go whenever they were ready.
“He’s in India,” Anne murmured in her husky, painful way.
“Butler?” Damian asked.
“Yes.”
“We should pay him a visit on the trip to England.”
My thoughts exactly.
Butler had ceaselessly tormented them, but many others too. He’d bullied and abused scores of convicts who were smaller and weaker than he was. He’d reveled in his power, had wielded it in a cruel and arbitrary manner.
Then—in an action that was typical of the Crown—he’d been promoted and sent to inflict himself on British citizens living at an outpost outside Bombay. But he wouldn’t continue for much longer. He owed a large debt to Damian, and Damian intended to extract every farthing of vengeance that had accrued.
“I’ve sold your saloon,” he told her.
I’m glad, she mouthed.
It had originally belonged to Kit, but he’d signed it over to Damian once Damian’s sentence was served and he could own property. It had been Kit’s last act prior to his sailing for England years earlier.
He hadn’t seen Kit before he’d departed, but he’d provided a forwarding address at a boarding house in London. The moment Damian arrived, he would locate his old friend, would shower him with a portion of his fortune that Kit had definitely earned.
“It’s time to go,” he said.
Good.
“We’ll head to England to kill our enemies. Then—hopefully—we’ll finally find some peace.”
Yes. But…Bombay?
“Oh, yes, we’ll stop in Bombay and give our regards to Lt. Butler.” He stood and pointed to the stairs where she still kept an apartment on the second floor. “No
w pack your bags and don’t forget anything. We won’t be back.”
We’re done with this foul place forever?
“Yes, Anne. The tide turns at dawn, and we’re scheduled to sail on the first ship leaving the harbor.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Inow pronounce you man and wife.”
As the vicar spoke the final sentence of the ceremony, he smiled at Miles, looking magnanimous, as if he’d graced Miles with a huge favor. His superior attitude made Miles gnash his teeth. The old sot charged a fortune to perform a marriage service, and Miles could barely afford to pay him a farthing.
It dawned on him that he probably shouldn’t have let his mother send Georgina away quite so fast. Georgina would have known how to scrape together whatever money Miles required. She’d been good at that, but when his mother had broached the subject of evicting her, she’d been adamant. He’d agreed rather than fight over it.
Normally the vicar would have stayed for breakfast, but he had to officiate at a funeral so—to Miles’s great relief—he hustled out, which meant they wouldn’t have to put up with his sanctimonious bloviating while they were eating.
For a fleeting instant, he wondered if he should kiss his bride, but Portia wasn’t a demonstrative person, and his mother wouldn’t have approved. Instead he shook hands all around, but with the small number of people gathered it was a quick trip. The group was paltry and boring: Harold and Mother Bean, his own mother, Portia, and her parents.
Sophia had pitched a tantrum and left the manor, and Georgina had been thrown out. They were the only two he truly wished had attended, and the thought of dining with the assembled guests was irritating. He couldn’t stand any of them, not even his bride really, and he intended to depart for London just as soon as he could escape.
Georgina was gone though so he had to hire someone to manage Kirkwood for him while he was away. Dare he leave the task to his mother or Portia? No. Already Georgina’s exodus was vexing him. Clearly he had to be sterner with his mother and wife and tamp down any future nonsense.
Harold came over, and Miles hid his distaste. The man was getting so fat. Had he no pride in his appearance?
“Congratulations,” Harold said.
“Thank you.”
“I’ve always heard weddings are contagious.”
“I’ve heard that too.”
“I’ll likely be having my own before too long.”
“Have you found a new fiancée?”
“No. Mother and I talked it over, and we’ve decided I’m willing to have Sophia after all.”
The butler had been passing out glasses of champagne, and Miles had just downed a large gulp. At Harold’s comment, he swallowed wrong, and he coughed and pounded on his chest.
When Harold had jilted her, Miles had never seen Sophia so angry. She’d castrate the stupid oaf rather than wed him, but Harold was too stupid to realize it.
“You’re planning to marry Sophia?” Miles asked when he could speak again.
“Yes. With your difficulties solved, we’re glad matters have calmed at Kirkwood.” Harold patted Miles on the back. “Good show with ridding yourself of Drummond.”
“Yes, it was brilliant, wasn’t it?”
“Imagine such a dastardly criminal roaming the countryside. Mother has been in an absolute dither.”
“My mother was the same. After I learned Drummond’s true situation, I simply had to act.”
“The entire neighborhood is grateful.”
“As they should be. Who can predict what mischief the felonious villain might have brought to the area? I’m sure I’ve saved us all a tremendous amount of trouble.”
His mother interrupted their conversation. “The butler informs me that breakfast is ready.”
“We haven’t had time for a single toast,” Miles complained.
“We can have them during the meal.”
“I suppose,” he grumbled.
He was feeling terribly neglected. There simply wasn’t enough fawning and flattering, but with such a dreary crowd, what could he expect?
Augusta clapped her hands to get everyone’s attention. “Breakfast is served. We’ll let the happy couple lead us in.”
“Here, here!”
Harold and Portia’s father hurrahed, and people lifted their glasses.
Miles nodded imperiously, accepting their accolades, then he went to Portia and she took his arm. She was grinning like the cat that had got in the cream, and he liked that she recognized the significance of being his wife.
“Shall we go in, Mrs. Marshall?” he asked.
“By all means, Mr. Marshall,” she replied.
They laughed and started out. The dining room was down the hall so they were able to have a nice procession, adding a bit of importance to the occasion.
“I hope the cook prepared all my favorites,” he murmured to her. “I’d hate to have to eat any awful dishes on my wedding day.”
“I picked the menu, and I only chose what you like.”
“I’m glad to have you in charge of the household so quickly.”
Portia preened at the compliment. “I was raised to this role.”
They arrived at the door, the butler there and gesturing for them to enter. Miles stepped across the threshold, but suddenly Portia was pushed away, and Miles was yanked inside, the door slammed shut behind him.
He staggered, then regained his balance, to discover Damian Drummond sitting at the table. He’d helped himself to Miles’s breakfast.
“Hello, Miles.” Drummond casually held up a fork, indicating a slice of roast beef he was about to shove into his mouth. “The food in this house isn’t very good. I believe I’ll have to fire the cook.”
Out in the hall, Portia was shouting, “Miles! Miles! What’s wrong? Let me in!”
His mother and the others were shouting too. He gaped at Drummond, completely perplexed as to how he could have reappeared. And so soon too! He felt as if he was seeing a ghost. Damian Drummond could not be back! It wasn’t possible!
“Drummond!” Miles snapped. “What are you doing here?”
“What does it look like? I’m eating.”
“You can’t be here! You can’t!”
“Why can’t I? It’s my property. It occurs to me that you’re trespassing. Why is it so difficult for you to realize that you are?”
“You bastard!” was all Miles managed. “I’ll show you! I’ll…I’ll…”
He was walloped with a heavy club, the blow so fierce that he was knocked unconscious. In his last cogent memory, he grasped that he was collapsing but was too discombobulated to prevent his descent.
When he awakened, his head was throbbing, his wrists and ankles tied with ropes. His entire body was encircled too so his arms were pinned to his sides. He was on the floor of a carriage and more uncomfortable than he’d ever been in his life.
The horses were galloping at a high rate of speed, the driver not even trying to make the ride less unpleasant. Each bump jostled him so he was tossed into the air, only to land very hard. Then he’d be tossed up again.
He struggled to take stock of his situation. He could see a man’s boots and legs, and as he focused in, Damian Drummond was there on the seat.
“Drummond!” Miles croaked.
Seeming bored, Drummond glanced down. “You’re finally awake. For a while there, I thought you’d died on me.”
“Where are we? What’s happening?”
“We’re on our way to London.”
“Why?”
“I’m having you arrested for kidnapping and attempted murder.”
“What? You can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“It’s my wedding day,” he absurdly pointed out.
“Yes, well, your bride will have to spend her wedding night without you. I’m betting she won’t miss you very much.”
“Who are you claiming I attempted to murder?”
“Me, you dolt.”
“I didn’t do anythin
g to you.”
“No, you simply hired the men who did. We have all their confessions. They’ve admitted how you planned to have them slay me in the woods before we reached town.”
“I never planned that!”
Drummond shrugged. “As I mentioned, we have their confessions. Are you aware that a rich man can buy any ending he desires? And I’m very, very rich.”
“You’re a criminal.”
“I was. Once. You shouldn’t have tried to harm me.”
“You deserved it.”
Someone was sitting on the other seat. He kicked Miles, and Miles yelped in agony.
“Shut up!” the violent oaf said. “I’m weary of listening to you.”
Miles peeked up to see that it was the dark-haired stranger who’d been with Kit Roxbury.
“If you do that again,” Miles blustered, “you’ll regret it.”
Miles was kicked even harder, and he cried out in pain.
“You’re deranged!” he protested as he panted to catch his breath.
“Yes, I always have been.” The brute sounded proud of it.
“Who are you anyway?”
“Don’t you know? I’m Michael Scott—although I use the name Michael Blair now. I’m certain you’ve heard of me.”
“Michael Scott of…of…Scotts gambling club?”
“The very one.”
Miles moaned with alarm. Michael Scott was London’s most notorious fiend. He was obscenely wealthy from owning a club that every man in London yearned to join, but he was so bloody selective. Miles had never gotten past the initial application for membership, and even if he had, he’d never have been able to afford the dues.
What was he doing with Drummond?
“I don’t want to go to London,” he wailed, terrified he was about to blubber like a baby.
“It’s not up to you,” Michael Scott said.
“Why are you taking me there?” he asked Drummond.
“I told you: You’re being arrested for several felonies. Then I’ll give you a choice.”
“What choice?”
“I should have killed you.”
“Killed!” Miles shrieked.
“We still can,” Michael Scott urged. “This is a deserted stretch of road. Who’s to know what happens to him?”
“I promised Kit I wouldn’t.” Drummond stared down at Miles. “My friend, Kit, saved your sorry hide.”
