by Tracy Kay
With a huff, Joselyn finally consented to her great aunt’s request. “Fine. I will go as long as you promise to be careful, and at the first sign of trouble, you send for Lord Kenrik.” Joselyn did love her aunt and didn’t wish her any harm.
“Agreed, my dear.” Beatrice patted her great niece’s hand. “Would you boys like something to eat?”
“We are fine, Lady Beatrice,” Brandon replied. “But I do have some questions to ask. It shouldn’t take long.” He sat down in one of the empty chairs with Nicholas following suit before Brandon began his questioning. “Lady Beatrice, is there anyone who may hold a grudge against your family?”
“Why do you ask, my dear?” Beatrice questioned as she sipped her tea.
Brandon smiled at her. A year ago, Beatrice wouldn’t have asked that question, but lately she wasn’t as sharp as she once was. “I am not certain that Aaron Farrington, Lord Brumley, had anything to do with Zachary’s death.”
“Certainly, he did. He sent the note,” Joselyn huffed, irritated that Brandon didn’t believe her.
“Perhaps he did, Lady Joselyn, but . . .” Nicholas began.
“What note?” Henry wanted to know. It was the first he heard about it, and he was a bit confused about the whole affair, only having been informed today that Farrington was a threat to the Parkers.
Madeline answered him. “The Parkers received a note that indicated she was next and it was signed A. Farrington.”
“How dreadful. But Lord Kenrik, you think it was someone else who sent the note?” Henry inquired with a perplexed expression on his face.
“As I said, I am not certain. It could have been Farrington, but it could have been someone else.”
“Why do you think it was someone else, Brandon?” Madeline questioned curiously.
“Nicholas and I visited Farrington today and he denied having anything to do with it. He admitted to wanting to buy land from your brother, but that it was only business,” Brandon explained.
“But if it wasn’t Farrington, who was it?” Beatrice wrinkled her brow. She was distressed that there was someone who hated her nephew so much he was murdered for it.
“I don’t know, Lady Beatrice, which is why I want to know about every person who may hold a grudge or a dislike for your family,” Brandon answered.
“Hmm, there is Sheila Fuller. She has hated me all our lives, but she would never do such a thing. It is quite beneath her. And there is Geoffrey Kerns. He wasn’t particularly fond of Zachary, but I don’t think he hated him, at least not to the extent of murder.” Thinking hard, Beatrice tapped her chin with one long finger. “Hmm, perhaps John Stevens. He has wanted to marry Joselyn for years, but Zachary always said no. He is not good husband material, gambling problem you see.” Beatrice thought a little more, but could think of no one else. “There is no one else. Joselyn, dear, can you think of anyone?”
Joselyn stared at her aunt, searching her face for any clue that her aunt may have knowledge of her secrets. She could think of many who had reason to hate her, maybe even kill her, but she doubted that they dared. In any case, she had no intention of revealing her secrets. “I am sorry, Aunt Bea. I can’t think of anyone.”
“Jeremy?” Brandon asked, bringing the young man, who sat across from him listening quietly, into their conversation.
“That is ludicrous,” Joselyn scoffed with a huff. “Who would Jeremy know that would want us dead?”
Ignoring her, Brandon looked pointedly at Jeremy, waiting for an answer. He knew what trouble a boy could get himself into, especially one without a decisive parent or guardian to keep a close watch on him, and Zachary may have been a good man, but he hadn’t filled that role.
Jeremy fidgeted in his chair as all eyes centered on him. He hated attention. He preferred to blend in with the crowd and go unnoticed. He stuttered, “I . . . I don’t know anyone.”
Brandon only nodded at him, realizing that the boy was uncomfortable with the attention and decided to wait until later to question him further. Standing up to leave, he said, “If you think of anything, let me know.” He placed a hand on Madeline’s shoulder. “I want you, Joselyn, and Jeremy home in two hours.”
Madeline only nodded as she watched him and Nicholas say their goodbyes and depart. “Joselyn, Jeremy, we need to get you packed.” She got up from her chair and nodded to Henry. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Lord Henry.” She couldn’t explain it, but she simply didn’t like the man. He seemed insincere and too casual, as if he didn’t want anyone to think he was concerned with what others thought of him. Joselyn’s opinion of him was way off target. He was not as dull as toast, but more like a bad fruit tart, plain and tasteless on the outside, and messy and sour on the inside.
“The pleasure was mine, Lady Madeline.” He smiled briefly at her, and standing, faced Beatrice. “Thank you for a lovely meal, Lady Beatrice.” He gave her a light kiss on the cheek.
“You don’t need to leave, Lord Henry.” Beatrice grasped his hand and gave it a squeeze. “Stay and keep me company while the others are packing.”
“I would love to, Lady Beatrice, but I must be going. My mother is still distraught over my brother’s death and I don’t like leaving her alone for long,” he explained with worry in his voice.
“You are such a good boy, Lord Henry. Give your mother my regards,” Beatrice patted his hand in parting.
“Lady Joselyn, always a pleasure.” He gave her hand a brief kiss and nodded to Jeremy before he left.
“Such a good man,” Beatrice sighed. “If I was only younger, I would snatch him right up. Joselyn, you should marry that man.”
“We will talk about it later, Aunt Bea. I need to get packed,” Joselyn evaded and gave Madeline a long-suffering look. Madeline suppressed a giggle as she followed Joselyn to her room.
CHAPTER FOUR
The tall, black-haired man strolled into her office without so much as a knock, casually leaned against the door jam, and carefully observed the woman behind the desk with concern. He tilted his head and took note of the dark circles shadowing her expressive, but tired, bright blue eyes, the unkempt, shoulder length, golden blond hair, and he noticed she had lost a little weight which further displeased him. “What were you doing at Farrington’s?” he demanded.
Cassandra Bradford, Countess of Ravenleigh, Captain of the Jester, co-owner and manager of the Ravenleigh Shipping Line, looked up from her account books and studied the handsome man before her. He appeared to be relaxed and at ease, but she knew better. Filling the room with his sensual prowess, his power emanated off his imposing figure, ready to spring into action. It was only because of men like the one before her that she had the kind of power she had. Women simply didn’t own businesses and managed them, nor were they captains of their own ships. She didn’t ever want to show she couldn’t handle the power she wielded. She had worked hard to gain it, but with this particular man, she could show her weaknesses, her vulnerabilities. She tru`im without him deceiving her, belittling her, or taking away her power. After all, he was the one who gave it to her.
Cassandra caught the narrowed glint of his observant, green eyes, and her stomach dropped because she knew what that intense gaze meant. He wasn’t happy with her. After a long pause, she sighed. “Discussing business.”
“Try again,” he ordered with a stern look.
“It is none of your concern.” She dismissed him with a wave of her hand.
“None of my concern?” He raised one perfectly sculpted, black brow.
“Cat, drop it.” She sighed again, standing so she didn’t have to look so far up at him.
“Give over, my sweet,” he commanded, not willing to drop the subject.
She gave him a long look before answering him. “If you must know, he has been trying to destroy our company again,” she explained in displeasure.
“Why do you think that?” He questioned as he easily slid away from the door and into the room, never taking his eyes off her.
“Farrington
informed our buyers that our company is run by females and our goods are stolen. Now, no one will buy from us. I have a dock full of rotting cotton and a warehouse filled with spices and silks no one will touch. He is the most despicable, evil . . .” She trembled with frustration and anger. Trying to compose herself, she took a deep breath. “He denies it, but I know it is him.”
“Ssh, calm down, puss.” He walked over to her and gathered her into his arms. “I will look into the matter.” He kissed her brow and ran his hand up and down her back in a soothing motion.
“When will he leave me alone? When will the threats stop?” She begged desperately, already knowing the answer.
“When he is tired of it or dead, sweetheart.” Cat softly caressed her cheek with the back of a long finger.
“Cat, what am I going to do? This is our home port. I don’t want to have to leave.” She leaned her forehead on his chest, wrapped her arms around his waist, seeking his warmth and comfort, and breathed in his spicy, masculine scent.
“I will not permit you to leave, Cassie,” he stated authoritatively.
Cassandra lifted her head to meet his green eyes. “Cat, if I have to leave, I have to leave. Farrington is not giving me much of a choice.”
“You are not leaving and that is final.” He gripped her chin in his hand. “It is time we put an end to this charade, my sweet.”
“No. Cat, we cannot.” She pushed him away, putting distance between them. “He will go after the boys if he finds out they exist.”
“Cassandra, we can’t keep our sons locked away at Ravenleigh. It is time, sweet,” he proclaimed, stalking towards her. “Way past time.”
“Please, Cat, give me a little more time.” She put out her hand in supplication and to ward him off.
“This grows tiresome, Cassie. I want my sons. I want my wife. I want you where I know you are safe.” He pulled her into his arms, put a hand on her belly and crooned in a soft, sensual voice, “I want to see your belly grow with my seed again. I want to see us grow old together, raise our children and grandchildren. Do you not want this, Cassandra?”
Breathless and very aroused, Cassandra looked up at him, falling under his magical spell again. Several years ago, he had made her want him, and then, he made her give him her heart. Gazing into his cat-like green eyes, the cause of the name his closest friends call him, she lifted her hand to run her fingers through his silky, sable hair. He was the most compelling, intriguing, sensual, beautiful man she had ever met and he was the most dangerous man to her. She sighed, wanting him so much it hurt. But for her children’s sake, she would deny herself the pleasure of being with the only man she would ever love. “Not until Farrington is out of our lives,” she responded determinedly.
He captured her hands between his. “Regardless of whether he is or he isn’t, Cassie, one day I will claim you, and I will put an end to this game you play. I should have long ago. I should now, but I will give you a little more time. However, so you don’t forget who you belong to . . .” He pushed her against the wall, her hands pinned above her with his. He leaned his hard body against hers, and she caught her breath at the feel of him. He bent his head and ravaged her mouth with his. He overwhelmed her. His scent and touch filled her senses to where there was nothing else but him. Her response was instant and she arched against him in an attempt to get closer. She wanted to crawl into his skin, become one with him. She never needed anyone or anything as much as she needed him.
When he let her hands go, she clutched him to her and his kiss turned soft and more sensual. His tongue invaded her mouth, circling the tender regions within until the pleasure sent shudders through her. As his hands roamed her body, his lips moved from hers to gently suck and pull on the sensitive skin of her neck, leaving his love bite on her. Those hot, searing lips slowly moved up to nibble on her ear and a hand stroked and squeezed her breast until she moaned deep in her throat. She wrapped her legs around him and dragged him closer to her. As she trembled with need, she barely felt her skirt being lifted or noticed him preparing himself. She was clutching him tightly to her, mindless with passion, until she heard him whisper, his mouth close to her ear. “Always ready for me, aren’t you, Cassie?”
Cassandra gasped at his words and his forceful entry. He was brutal. He gripped her hips tightly as he slammed his thick, long shaft into her over and over again. Each hard, deep thrust emphasizing his point that she belonged to him, and Cassandra loved him for that. She gasped at his strength and the exquisite pain of his ruthless strokes, her body open and accommodating of his rough possession of her. She clung to him, accepting his ownership, cherishing it, desperately wishing there could be more than these stolen moments.
“Come for me,” he commanded in her ear.
Cassandra climaxed upon his order, her inner walls clenching him tightly. She felt his hot release pumping into her and she cried out with a second climax, throwing her head back in ecstasy. Cat always waited for her before he allowed himself his own climax, and she marveled at his control. An ordinary man never would have such control over himself. An ordinary man never would have such control over her, sending her senses reeling, imposing his will over hers, consuming her.
Cat savored her wrapped around him, running his hand through her hair and guiding her head against his chest. He kissed the top of her head and breathed in her sweet scent. He treasured her, knowing she was precious to him, and he would not give her up without a fight.
Giving them a few moments to calm their breathing, Cat held her close, then pulled away from her, slowly untangled her from him, and wiped away the tears she didn’t know she was shedding. He adjusted their clothing, cupped her face with both of his hands, and gazed deeply into her eyes. He softly kissed her lips and sighed. “Soon, Cassandra.” He caressed her cheek and strode out the office door.
In a daze, Cassandra whispered under her breath, “It better be, Brandon Percival Cathcart.” She shoved herself off the wall, smoothed her skirt, went to her desk, opened a drawer, hauled out the bottle of whiskey, and poured herself a drink. She took a long swallow, dropped herself in her chair, cradled her head in her arms and cried.
“My dear, Charles!” Joselyn rushed into his arms after he had led her into the parlor of his townhouse. “I am afraid I have horrible news,” she wailed dramatically. She had to convince Charles that there was no hope for them.
“What is it, my love?” Charles Penwich questioned, covering her hands with kisses. Charles was a man in his thirties with a stocky build and sandy blond hair, which had begun to recede off his forehead. He had light brown eyes and a nose too big for his face. What Charles lacked in looks, he made up for with his easy-going nature, sharp wit, integrity, and good business sense.
“Charles, please,” Joselyn pleaded as she extricated herself from his embrace, wringing her hands in distress and pacing around the opulent room.
“Come sit down, my darling.” Charles took her hands and drew her down onto the settee next to him. Kissing her hands between his words, he urged, “Tell me this news of yours. I am sure it isn’t as dire as you think.” Charles knew that Joselyn over-reacted to get attention, and after some soothing words, she would usually settle down for him.
“But it is, Charles,” she sobbed, jerking her hands out of his to cover her face.
“Now, darling,” Charles began, removing her hands from her face and wiping away her tears. “You know you can tell me anything.”
“I . . . I have to break it off with you, Charles,” she sniveled fervently, once again jerking her hands out of his.
“Break it off?” Charles stared at her in confusion.
“Yes. I have no choice, Charles.” She moved out of the settee and began pacing again. She had to convince him that it was over. “I am so sorry.”
“I don’t understand.” He watched her from where he was seated, waiting for her explanation and trying to stay calm.
“With my brother’s death, everything has changed.” She paused to dab at her
tears with her handkerchief. “I was hoping my brother would have approved of our match. I was so close to getting his consent, Charles. But now . . .” She allowed a fresh wave of tears to stream down her face. Fortunately, tears came easily for her and she hoped he would believe her story. She simply couldn’t allow the affair to continue. It was too risky with her living with the Cathcarts. Someone was bound to discover her affair with Charles and her duplicity if they began asking questions. Madeline, the fool that she was, actually might believe that Joselyn had an interest in this buffoon. No, it wouldn’t do at all for her to continue her plans with Charles. She had to convince him the affair had to end.
“My darling, I am sorry for your loss, but I am sure everything will work out.”
“You don’t understand, Charles,” she cried. “My aunt contacted Brandon Cathcart, the Marquess of Kenrik, the Duke of Warlington’s eldest son.” Joselyn gave Brandon’s title, and his father’s, with the hope that it would intimidate Charles, a simple commoner. “His mother was my mother’s cousin, you see.” The lie slipped easily off her lips. She knew that Charles would not dare to challenge her story. “We suspect that my brother’s death wasn’t an accident, and with the threatening note Jeremy received, Lord Kenrik felt it was best to have us move into the Cathcart home. Aunt Beatrice agreed and no matter what I said, I couldn’t convince her otherwise. My brother and I moved in there earlier this afternoon. I was barely able to get away to come to you.” She twirled away from him to fiddle with the curtains, not wanting him to see her satisfaction in her performance.
“I am sure if I spoke with Lord Kenrik, he would understand our situation, my love.” Charles stood up and moved to her, turning her to face him and taking her hand in his. “Surely, he won’t mind my calling on you. I will conduct myself properly, I assure you.”
“No, you can’t,” Joselyn protested adamantly, tugging her hand out of his and stepping away from him. She hated his touch. Actually, it was a good thing she was breaking things off. Charles was turning out to be more intelligent than she had anticipated, and that wasn’t something she could afford, particularly now. “I am sorry. I don’t mean to snap, but Lord Kenrik is very formal and traditional,” she lied. She had no idea if Lord Kenrik was formal or traditional, but she believed Charles would not dare to meet a man so above him. She believed he would be intimidated by the nobility as were the other men she had deceived. “And besides, my aunt has her mind set on my marrying into the family. I need time to convince them that I wish to marry beneath me and that I am not being forced.”
