“What do you want?” the marquess repeated. There was a faint entreaty there that matched the desperation Nick’s father had shown all those years ago.
He found strength in that. “Why, I already have everything I need, Rutland.” He motioned to his spacious office that could fit the whole of the Home Office inside it. “I’m obscenely wealthy, not because I bankrupted other families to build my power,” A muscle jumped at the right corner of Rutland’s jaw, “but because of work I actually did with my hands.” He turned his palms up, revealing the callused flesh, marked by years of toil. Nick folded his arms and rested them at his chest. “And do you know what else I have?” He took a perverse delight in taunting the other man with the retribution at his fingertips.
Rutland remained stonily silent. Questions, however, snapped in his brown eyes.
“I have your father-in-law’s unentailed properties as well as his son’s.” The remaining color leeched from Rutland’s cheeks. “I own every vowel both men have ever held outstanding. Not a creditor will extend them a line should they sell their soul for that coin.” Where was the sense of victory? The thrill of triumph? Everything had changed. A cinch was cutting off his airflow. Making it impossible to draw breath. For not only was there Justina, but also the trusting, always affably smiling Andrew Barrett.
The marquess slid his eyes closed.
Checkmate.
Only, with his stomach twisted in agonizing knots, it felt very much like he’d lost everything all over again.
Chapter 18
“I swear you are the only newly, happily married woman who’d go off to see to matters of business.” Gillian’s mutterings were nearly lost to the busy Lambeth Streets.
Justina carefully picked her way over a murky puddle. “Ah, but as long as I claim control of my life, I’ll always know happiness,” she pointed out, echoing the gypsy Bunica.
The cryptic gypsy.
Following her and Nick’s visits to Lambeth, she’d alternated between worrying about the eerie prophecy gleaned from her palms and chastising herself for worrying about something that moved far beyond the logical. When Justina prided herself on her clear thinking.
It was that which drove her out into the streets of Lambeth today, with Gillian dragged along for company.
“Will you slow down?” Gillian implored, her breath coming in quick, little gasps.
Justina abruptly stopped and her friend mumbled her thanks. Pushing her bonnet back, she surveyed the shops lining the streets, reading the signs. And then she found it. It was a small sign. Wooden, crooked, and but for that slight tilt, otherwise nondescript. A slow smile pulled her lips at the corners. The sign called her forward. Ignoring Gillian’s lamentations, she quickened her pace. For nearly three years, she’d lived in a largely uncertain state. The only freedom she’d known from her father’s machinations had come from Edmund’s frequent intervention and rescue…and her own furtive attempts to avoid those machinations.
In the weeks she’d known Nick, she’d found not only the ability to use her voice but, now, also the ability to take control of all aspects of her life. She stopped outside the white stucco establishment and peered up at the sign.
“Winslow’s?” Gillian read as she stopped at Justina’s side. Her friend scratched at her brow. “What is Winslow’s?”
Justina pulled her gaze away from that hated name. “They are creditors,” she said quietly. Understanding lit the other woman’s eyes.
These were the men who’d filed into her home and marched off with their arms filled with her belongings. And her mother’s. And Andrew’s.
But now, she was no longer Justina Barrett, impoverished daughter of a wastrel. She was a duchess. And with that title came power. With that, Justina pressed the handle and stepped inside.
Sunlight streamed through the two small front windows, bathing the room in light. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected of the place. Mayhap because she’d not allowed herself to think of the bounders who made their fortunes off other families’ misfortunes. But this was certainly not it. As modest on the inside as the outside, the hardwood floors were coarse and marked, with two desks set almost haphazardly, with no uniformity, at opposite ends of the establishment.
Footsteps sounded at the back entrance of the building and, as one, Justina and Gillian looked over.
Mr. Johnson, with his monocle at his eye and pursed mouth, had the same distasteful look he’d worn each time he’d stepped inside her family’s residence. “May I help you?” he asked. By his tone, the only help he wished to render was guidance to the door and out of his establishment.
She tipped her chin up. “My name is Justina Barr—Tallings,” she swiftly amended. “The Duchess of Huntly.”
The graying proprietor’s monocle fell and clattered noisily on the floor. Gillian smothered a giggle in her hand.
Yes, there was something heady and empowering in confronting the beasts who’d made off with her family’s most cherished belongings as a woman of power, now.
“Your Grace,” Mr. Johnson said quickly, dropping a deep bow.
Did he even remember her as the young lady whose copies of Miss Austen’s work he’d made off with? Or did a man such as him never give another thought to those people who dwelled inside the homes he pillaged?
“You have removed numerous articles from my father, Viscount Waters,” she said in steely tones as she handed her reticule over to Gillian.
Mr. Johnson flared his eyebrows and they nearly disappeared into his hairline. Yes, what must he think about her changed circumstances? She clenched and unclenched her jaw.
“I’ve come to see the restoration of my mother’s jewelry and my collection of books.”
The hated creditor frowned. “I’m afraid that isn’t possible.” With that dismissive pronouncement, he took up position behind one of the vacant desks and proceeded to study a ledger.
Justina wrinkled her nose. Well, apparently even the title of duchess wasn’t enough to impress this stony-faced creditor. She and Gillian exchanged looks. Bringing her shoulders back, Justina stomped over to the desk and placed her palms on the edge. “I’m afraid you did not hear me properly,” she said coolly. “I’ve come to see my family’s possessions restored.”
Mr. Johnson picked his head up from his book. A muscle ticked at the corner of his mouth. “As I said, I am afraid that is impossible.” He made to return his attention to that damned ledger and she shot a hand out, grabbing it. “I beg your pardon?” he cried, hopping to his feet.
Justina snapped the book closed and set it down neatly on the edge of his desk. “Have you already sold those items?” she demanded. It shouldn’t matter. Not truly. They were material possessions. And yet, this moved beyond the wealth or cost of those goods. This went to the powerless state she and Phoebe and her mother had all existed in these years. “Have you?” she repeated, when he remained stonily silent.
“I’ve not.”
Some of the tension went out of her. Gillian moved into position at Justina’s shoulder; a silent, but powerful show of solidarity. “Very well,” Justina said, holding her hand out. Her friend promptly returned her reticule. Fishing around inside, her fingers collided with a folded sheet of velum. She withdrew the note and slid it over the desk, finding a perverse delight in Mr. Johnson’s clear discomfiture.
“What is this?” he blurted.
Much the way her own governess had delivered her deportment lessons years ago, Justina spoke in those like tones. “That is a list, Mr. Johnson.” She pointed her index finger at the page, bringing his gaze briefly from her to the sheet and then back. “Those are all the items I’d like to purchase on behalf of my family. I’ll need the amount and then my husband’s man-of-affairs will see to the arrangements.”
“I’m afraid I cannot help you, Your Grace,” he said tightly, pushing the page back. “I suggest you return home and speak to your husband about…these particular items.”
Gillian’s gasp resounded around the roo
m.
Fury mingled with annoyance and Justina layered her palms on the desk once more. “Are you saying you’ll not deal with me because I am a woman, Mr. Johnson?”
The graying creditor had the ashen hue of one who’d consumed a rancid plate of kippers. “I’ve strict orders not to release these items for any purpose other than auction.”
Justina staggered back. “Auction?” she asked, her voice emerging breathless. She struggled to make sense of what he was saying. What manner of bastard did her father deal with that the man would bar anyone from giving fair coin for those possessions? And fury melded with pain and frustration that she should still be deprived of this control. Powerless once more. “But I can pay,” she blurted, hating the plaintive quality to that statement.
She dimly registered Gillian settling a comforting hand on her sleeve. “Come,” her friend murmured, giving a slight squeeze.
Justina shrugged off that touch. By God, she’d not leave until this man gave her a bloody answer.
“The gentleman,” A ruddy blush stained Mr. Johnson’s cheeks, “has ordered these items to auction and no one possessing connections to the Barrett family will be permitted to bid.”
The air grew sparse in the office and Justina staggered back a step. Then another. And another. Hating herself for that weakness, she forced herself around. With slow, calculated strides, she stalked out of the office.
Gillian followed close at her heels.
Not a word was said between them until Dominick’s carriage bore Gillian home. “I am sorry,” she said softly, covering Justina’s right hand with her own.
“Why would anyone do that?” she implored, when she trusted herself to speak.
Her friend gave her head a slight shake. “Because there is no understanding people; men or women, lords or ladies.”
No, there wasn’t. And just like that, her legs had been cut out from under her once more by a damned gentleman. How different would that meeting with Mr. Johnson have gone if Nick has been at her side? Bitterness soured her mouth. The remaining journey to Gillian’s Mayfair residence continued in silence until the well-springed conveyance rocked to a halt outside the Marquess of Ellsworth’s townhouse.
Gillian lingered. “There is no shame in asking your husband to aid you in this,” she said gently.
No, there was no shame in it. She and Nick would be partners in life. This, however, had been about her seizing that control for herself and righting a wrong done to her and her mother and Phoebe without anyone’s influence but her own. “Thank you, Gillian.”
Her friend gave her an encouraging smile and then accepted the hand of a footman.
As the carriage took Justina on the remaining trip to her new home, she peeled the curtain back and stared out at the fashionable townhouses. Despite her friend’s opinion, it wasn’t that she was too proud to seek out help. She’d accepted assistance countless times from her sister and Edmund, and even her husband who’d married her to keep her from the likes of Tennyson. She arrived a short while later and entered the front doors as they were thrown open. She shrugged out of her cloak and turned it over to the servant.
“My husband, Thoms?” she asked, handing off her reticule.
The butler swallowed loudly. “He’s in his office, Your Grace.”
She took two steps.
“His Grace doesn’t welcome interruptions while he’s conducting business.”
And froze.
Once more, another person ordering her about. Determining for her what she could and could not do. With a winning smile for the old butler, she continued onward, without a word, for Nick’s office.
She reached for the handle when two voices carried out into the hall. Both familiar. But it was one that held her frozen. Edmund. A loud humming filled her ears. Nothing would take her devoted brother-in-law from his wife’s side. Nothing and no one. With trembling fingers, Justina tossed the door open. “Edmund,” she managed to squeeze out past the fear holding her in the doorway.
Phoebe’s husband blanched. “Justina.” Her name emerged as a strangled plea and the sound of his misery propelled her into movement.
Shaking, she pulled the door closed and leaned against it. “Phoebe,” she rasped. “Is she…?”
“She is well,” Rutland hurried to assure.
She pressed her palms over her eyes and sent a prayer skyward. And yet…what had brought him here in such haste?
Nick had gone from complete control of his fate and future to an outside observer on an intimate exchange between his wife and her brother-in-law.
“You are certain Phoebe is well?” Justina demanded as she came forward.
Phoebe. The sister. Odd, until now, he’d not allowed himself to think of the woman Rutland had bound himself to. The woman he’d come to love who’d cracked his armor and made Nick’s plan all too easy. Until Justina. She’ thrown it all into upheaval.
Rutland gave his head a forceful shake. “Phoebe is well,” he repeated gruffly.
“Garrick?” Justina asked on a rush.
“The babe is doing well.”
Some of the tension left his wife’s shoulders. Garrick. Lord Rutland’s son. A little babe. Fragile and frail and dependent upon Justina’s sister and this man he had dedicated his life to hating. Once again, that small detail made Rutland more man than monster.
Nick stood behind his desk, removed from the exchange, an observer to a discourse between family members. And worse, in a way that spoke to the forged bond between his wife and the man before him. A bond that would not be severed.
Only mine will be.
He struggled to draw in a breath, staggered by that truth.
Justina worried her lower lip. “Truly?”
The marquess glanced over the top of her golden curls. “I’d not lie to you.”
Of course, his clever wife would detect that slight emphasis placed there. Her brow creased. “Edmund, why are you here?” she asked slowly.
Silent as the grave, Lord Rutland looked to Nick. At last, with the black rage radiating from his brown irises, the marquess was transformed back to the same ruthless, lethal predator in Nick’s family’s cottage.
Despite himself, he flinched at that slight, mocking gleam in his brother-in-law’s eyes. Oh, God, he is now my brother-in-law. It had been his original intention to link them for life and, yet, this again moved them into a new, unfamiliar sphere. “The marquess was just leaving,” Nick said curtly.
His wife rotated her gaze between Nick and Lord Rutland. “What?” she blurted.
Except, the marquess remained fixed to the floor in a blatant display of insolence and arrogance.
Nick ignored his wife’s perplexed inquiry. “Lord Rutland was just leaving,” he said, his command coming out clipped, while frustration gripped at him. How eerily empty he felt with this bloody exchange. Where was the thrill of his victory? Where was his promised reward?
Justina moved in a whir of satin skirts, coming behind his desk. “Don’t be silly, Nick. Edmund has just arrived. We cannot be so rude as to send him away.” Not allowing him a reply, she looked to her brother-in-law. “Why are you here, Edmund?” She gave her head a shake. “Not because I’m not pleased to see you. I am. I…”
Over the top of her head, he and Rutland exchanged another lengthy stare. Which Justina, this time, saw.
“What is it?” Uncertainty laced that question.
Before either gentleman could respond, a commotion sounded in the hallway. The furious bellowing of Viscount Waters muffled through the door.
“I don’t care if he’s in with the goddamned King of England,” the man thundered. “I’ll knock down every bloody door until I see the bastard.”
Justina took a hurried step closer to Nick. That subtly trusting movement wrenched somewhere inside where his heart beat. That trust would die. As it should. He’d set out to beggar her family. Even as he’d saved her from a miserable fate as Tennyson’s wife, she was now bound to him, forever reminded of his treachery.
The marquess gave him a long, sad look and shook his head; that gesture pitying and knowing. Knowing that Nick’s tenuous and fleeting grasp on happiness had seconds left to live before Nick lost everything that truly mattered. The only thing that had ever really mattered—Justina’s love.
Viscount Waters hurled the door open and Nick shot his focus to the front of the room. His father-in-law’s bulging eyes did an inventory of the room, lingering briefly on Lord Rutland. Fear flashed in those blue depths and then he briefly shifted them over to Nick. Before settling on Justina. “You goddamned bloody twit,” he bellowed and she jumped. The viscount thrust a finger in her direction.
An unholy, red rage clouded Nick’s vision, as a primal growl rumbled low in his chest. “Shut your bloody mouth or I will do it for you,” he snapped.
Fear bled briefly from the viscount’s eyes, but then he looked again to his daughter. “This is your fault,” he seethed and charged forward.
The marquess quickly placed himself between the viscount and Nick’s desk, cutting off the path to Justina. “Shut your fool mouth, Waters,” the marquess commanded, squeezing the older man’s forearm. The viscount cried out.
For the first time, he saw that since Rutland had wed her sister, Justina had known some security because of his presence in her life. If it hadn’t been for the marquess, she would, no doubt, be wed to another man, sold off by her father. Who would have believed Nick would have felt anything other than disdain for the all-powerful Lord Rutland?
“You did this, gel,” Waters continued, surprisingly relentless in the face of his son-in-law’s fury. But then, financial ruin made a man do maddening things; like hang himself at the end of a rope or challenge a beast like the Marquess of Rutland.
His wife proved her strength, once more, and she stepped out of his protective shadow. “I have no idea what you are talking about.” She looked between the gentlemen assembled.
A Heart of a Duke Regency Collection : Volume 2--A Regency Bundle Page 137
