His Favorite Mistress

by Tracy Anne Warren

  “Liar!” she declared, “I know it was you. My mother told me what you did, how you drove my father to ruin, then lured him into the countryside so you could finally finish him off.”

  Pendragon stared at her. “Gabriella, did you say? Good God, I should have known straight away.”

  “Known what?” Wyvern questioned.

  “That this girl you’re holding captive is Burton St. George’s daughter.”

  Chapter Two

  A NTHONY BLACK, twenty-third Duke of Wyvern, felt his mouth drop open.

  In the normal course of things, Tony considered himself an unflappable sort of man—calm under pressure, insouciant at the most astonishing of news. But given the magnitude of what Rafe had just revealed, he supposed he could grant himself a bit of latitude for the slip. After all, it wasn’t every day a man found himself holding the daughter of his friend’s most hated enemy.

  Lowering his gaze, he studied her anew, searching for signs of resemblance to the deceased Viscount Middleton. Around the eyes perhaps, he decided, though the color wasn’t the same at all. True, the viscount had possessed blue eyes, but Gabriella’s were far more than mere blue—their petal-soft hue was a unique and unforgettable shade of violet. Instead of sandy brown, her hair was a dark sable, satiny and thick, the wavy locks straining against their tie as if begging to be set free. As for her face, it was nothing short of exquisite, her features framed in a perfect oval with an elegant nose; soft, full lips; and a translucent pink-and-white complexion that more than rivaled the finest porcelain. As for her body, well, he’d already had time to explore that for himself in close detail, finding her slender frame was lushly feminine yet surprisingly lithe and toned, as if she were used to a variety of athletic pursuits. In that, he supposed, she shared a trait with her father, since Middleton had never been a slouch. As for whether she possessed any of his other, less appealing, qualities, that remained to be seen.

  Careful to maintain his hold, he shifted Gabriella to his side before turning his attention toward Rafe. “I did not even realize Middleton had a daughter. How did you know?”

  “I made it my business, once upon a time, to be apprised of everything concerning St. George. It seemed safer that way.” Rafe’s gaze moved to Gabriella. “I knew of you, but very little more than your name. He kept you well hidden, so much so that I doubt even his closest cronies realized. Your mother is an actress, is she not?”

  “Was,” Gabriella tossed back, her chin coming up as she shot Rafe a glare. “She is dead as well, because of you.”

  Rafe drew in a long breath. “I am sorry for her loss, but you cannot lay her death at my doorstep.”

  “Why not, since you are the cause!” she accused. “After Papa died, Mama grew despondent. She began to drink, and see men she would never, ever have considered entertaining in the past. One night, one of them beat her to death, and she let him. They said she barely put up a struggle, as if the effort was simply too much for her. Her heart was broken because of Papa’s loss, because you killed him and left us with nothing.”

  “My sympathies as well,” Tony interceded in a calm voice. “But you are blaming the wrong man. Rafe isn’t the one who left your mother with nothing. He isn’t the one who left you with nothing, making no provision for your future care.”

  “My father would have done so had he known,” she defended, a sliver of doubt creeping into her voice. “He was still young. He had no reason to expect he might die.”

  Tony shook his head. “We, all of us, may die at any moment. A considerate man takes care of those he loves. Had Middleton not been a selfish bounder and heartless bully, he would have done so for you and your mama. As for accusing Rafe of murder, he is not the one guilty of that particular crime.”

  “Tony—” Rafe interrupted.

  “If you want to know about murderers,” he continued, “you have only to look to your own—”

  “Tony, enough.”

  He shot Rafe a look. “She needs to be told, not go on laboring under falsehoods and delusions. Gabriella, you strike me as a bright young woman. Do you not wish to know the truth? Do you not want to have the veil of lies lifted from your sight?”

  Her face hardened at his words, her gaze moving between the two men. “I know the truth. He murdered my father, stabbed him in the chest with a knife. You are simply trying to protect him because he is your friend.”

  “He is my friend and I would gladly protect him with my life, but what I say is the plain truth. I will swear an oath on it should you wish. Your father, I am sad to say, was not a pleasant man. He killed people, murdered them.”

  “He did not! I don’t believe you!” Gabriella shot back, a defiant gleam flashing in her eyes. “My mother told me what happened, told me how Pendragon grew up hating my father because Papa was the viscount and the legitimate heir. How Pendragon let envy drive him to hound and torment my father, ruining him any way he could until he finally lured him to his death.”

  “And did your mother also mention that your father kidnapped Lady Pendragon?” Tony questioned. “That Rafe tracked Middleton out into the countryside in order to rescue his wife and the unborn child she carried? Did she know that your father demanded a ransom for her return, intending to use the money so he could flee the country? Or that he was desperate to recover journals that incriminated him in a number of crimes, the passages outlining many of his nefarious activities over the years? Acts that involved rape and murder, including the death of his wife, the brutal violation of an innocent girl, and even patricide.”

  She gasped, her eyes wide as blood drained from her cheeks.

  “That’s right,” Tony pressed. “Middleton murdered his own father—your grandfather!”

  Her lower lip trembled, a stricken expression on her face as though her whole world were being cleaved in two. And perhaps it was, Tony realized. She’d come here tonight seeking vengeance on behalf of a man she obviously loved, only to find out he was not the person she had believed him to be.

  “No, it isn’t possible,” she argued, struggling inside his hold. “He wasn’t like that. He would never have done the dreadful things of which you are accusing him.” Her voice broke on the last word, her tone husky with barely repressed emotion.

  “But he did do those things,” Tony said. “Then afterward he killed one of his oldest cronies in order to cover up his crimes.”

  “You lie! You must be lying,” she insisted, shaking her head in an effort to deny what she was obviously struggling not to see as the truth.

  “A respected barrister has the journals,” Tony continued. “I could obtain them for you and let you see.”

  “They must be false,” she countered.

  “The legal inquest into your father’s death judged them valid,” Tony stated. “Rafe fought with your father that day, and the two of them did grapple with a knife. But your father was the one trying to kill Rafe, not the other way around. He is the one who attacked first, then ended up being stabbed in the scuffle. Rafe did not murder your father.”

  “I have only your word. Why should I believe you?” Sudden desperation rang out in her voice.

  “Why should you not? Do you really think I would fabricate such an elaborate story as that? That I would offer to produce proof written in Hurst’s own hand?”

  “Hurst, did you say?” She grew still. “I…”

  “Yes. Did you know him?”

  She shook her head. “No, but…my father mentioned him once. I overheard him say the man was a drunken fool who might…cause him trouble one day. That he might have to…do something about him. I never imagined…oh, God.” She lowered her gaze to the floor, a single tear rolling over her cheek.

  “Have you heard enough, or do you need more to convince you?” Tony asked in a quiet tone. “So far Rafe hasn’t said a word in his own defense, but then he doesn’t need to since right is on his side.”

  “Stop! Stop speaking. I cannot hear any more. I cannot bear any more,” she exclaimed, turning her h
ead away as if wishing she could hide.

  “Yes, Tony, cease,” Rafe stated in an uncompromising tone. “I let you continue because the truth had to come out, but enough now. She has confronted more than anyone ought to be forced to face in so brief a span of time. Release her. She must be weary of being held against her will.”

  “If you are certain,” Tony replied, silently agreeing that Gabriella was unlikely to attempt any further violence at this point. As soon as he allowed her to go free, she bolted away, half-stumbling into a chair positioned near one of the room’s night-darkened windows. For a long moment, he watched her cry, wishing he hadn’t needed to be so hard on her. Then, remembering practicalities, he reached across the desk and picked up the gun, moving to set the pistol high onto a bookshelf, well out of her reach.

  Rafe crossed to her. “You probably do not wish to speak to me,” he said in a gentle voice, “but may I get you a glass of wine? Or some brandy perhaps, something to ease your distress?”

  She shook her head, refusing to meet his gaze as her tears continued to flow.

  “A handkerchief, then,” Tony offered, joining them. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled forth a silken square. When she made no move to accept the cloth, he pressed it into her hand.

  Moments later, she raised the handkerchief to her face.

  “It’s late, and all this has been rather draining,” Rafe said, turning to address Tony. “My thanks for your help, but you might as well go home now. I can see to my niece.”

  Until Rafe spoke the words, the recognition that Gabriella and Rafe were related had not fully dawned upon him—though of course it should have, since he well knew that Rafe was Middleton’s illegitimate half-brother.

  “No, don’t go!” Gabriella said, raising her face from the handkerchief to gaze at him. Despite her reddened, tear-stained appearance, she was still beautiful, her eyes the dewy color of wild, rain-drenched violets. “That is…I…I suppose it doesn’t matter, since the runners will be here soon enough to take me off to gaol.”

  Tony scowled an instant before Rafe did the same.

  “What runners? And who said anything about sending you to gaol?” Rafe demanded, asking the same question that came immediately to Tony’s lips.

  With clear surprise, she glanced between the two men before fixing her gaze on Rafe. “But I thought…I just assumed that you would have me arrested. I came here tonight with the intention of shooting you. If Mr…. I mean, if Wyvern had not prevented me, I would have killed you.”

  “Perhaps,” Rafe said in a quiet tone. “Still, I don’t believe you would have gone through with it. You may genuinely have wanted to proceed, to take your revenge and shoot me, but in the end I do not think you would have done so.”

  “Why? Do you imagine I don’t have the gumption?” she retorted.

  One corner of Rafe’s mouth turned up. “You appear to have plenty of gumption, but I don’t believe you are a killer at heart.”

  Her lashes lowered for a moment. “According to the both of you, my father apparently was.”

  “Yes, but you are not your father. You are a distinct individual, who is entirely separate and unique from any other. From this moment forward, your actions and your path in life are your own to choose. So I grant you pardon, with no prison and no punishment for your aborted attempt to kill me.”

  Gabriella swallowed, her throat tight, almost raw, as she considered Pendragon’s words. She had broken into his home tonight with hatred burning like a brand in her chest, convinced he was the very worst sort of villain—someone who deserved to be cast violently from this earth. Instead, she had discovered he wasn’t at all the man she believed him to be, just as she had found out the same of her father.

  Even now, she could scarcely believe what they’d said about him. Surely the man she had known and loved could not have been capable of committing the vile acts about which she’d been told. And yet, had she really known her father, or had she only seen what she’d wanted to see? What she had needed to see, given his infrequent visits and casual displays of affection? Had that colored her view of the man? Had it influenced her mother’s perception of him as well? All she knew now was that Wyvern had given her serious reason to doubt the things she had always believed, his words ringing with a harsh yet convincing truth.

  And what of Pendragon, the man against whom she had planned to enact vengeance? If her father’s death really had been a case of self-defense, then she had no right to go on hating him. She considered his actions tonight and how he’d made no effort to come to his own defense, letting his friend speak for him as if he had nothing whatsoever to hide. More and more she was becoming convinced he did not—that he was the one innocent of wrongdoing, not her father.

  Then just when she’d prepared herself to accept punishment for her attempt against him, he had shocked her once more by showing her the one thing she had not expected at all—kindness. Forgiveness. Compassion. “But why?” she asked, her voice sounding low and strained even to her own ears.

  Her uncle met her gaze. “Because I know how it feels to lose everything and everyone you love. To find yourself alone in a world that suddenly seems very big and very cold. My parents died at an early age as well. I remember my own grief and rage, the sensation of wondering if life would ever feel right again.”

  Exactly, she thought with a kind of quiet surprise. She didn’t know how, but he understood, as though he had peered inside her head and read her emotions, her thoughts. Glancing toward Wyvern, she noticed that he’d stepped back as if to give her and Pendragon a bit of privacy. Her gaze met his, sympathy clear in his deep blue eyes.

  She looked away.

  “Gabriella,” Pendragon said, recapturing her attention. “This may seem unexpected, but you are my blood relation—one of the few I have in this world—and for that reason I would like to make you an offer.”

  Wary suspicion rose inside her. “What sort of offer?”

  “A home, if you would like it.”

  “W-what?”

  “Come stay with me and my family. Even with the children, my wife and I have plenty of room, both here in London and at our estate in West Riding. I am unaware of your present living situation, but I assume it is not so comfortable as what we can offer you.”

  Her shoulders drew back. “I manage ably enough.” Actually she was barely managing at all these days, living on the last of the money she had obtained from pawning her mother’s jewelry and clothing. Soon, even that small amount would be gone, despite all the measures she and her roommate Maude took to economize.

  “Pray do not take offense, since none was meant,” he continued. “I know I can speak for Lady Pendragon when I say that you are most welcome.”

  A frown creased her forehead. “But you do not even know me, and from all accounts detested my father. We may be related, but I find it hard to believe you really want me in your home. Are you not worried I might try to do away with you in your sleep?”

  Pendragon laughed. “No, for the reasons I already gave you.”

  “And what would you expect should I agree? I have no wish to be a servant.”

  “Nor would you be. Should you accept the invitation, you would come to us as family.”

  “And should I decide to leave?”

  He shrugged. “If you find you do not like our home, you may depart at any time.”

  His proposal sounded wonderful—a bit too wonderful. Having grown up in a touring company of actors, she was used to making do with whatever came to hand. Being offered a home—and a luxurious one at that—sounded like something from a dream. Still, she had her pride, and no wish to be anyone’s poor relation. She rose to her feet. “Thank you, uncle, but I fear I must decline. I…um…have prospects of my own that I plan to pursue.”

  “The theater, you mean?”

  “Perhaps,” she evaded. “Now, if I truly am free to leave, I believe I shall do so.”

  Pendragon nodded. “That, of course, is your choice.”

&nb
sp; “Gabriella,” Wyvern interrupted, suddenly reentering the conversation. “Take his offer. Rafe is a good man and only means you well, even if I may think he is acting on foolish sentiment.”

  “Ah, now, Tony, you know I am never foolish and rarely act on sentiment,” Pendragon drawled.

  “You do since you married Julianna and had those babies of yours.”

  A contented smile moved over her uncle’s lips.

  For a moment she hesitated, silently reconsidering before forcing herself to discard the idea. “My answer is still no.”

  An expression that might have been regret passed over Pendragon’s features, then was swiftly gone. “As you wish. The offer remains open, however. You are always welcome.”

  She stared at him for a long moment. “You really aren’t at all as I expected, you know. I am sorry for trying to shoot you.”

  He smiled. “My sincere appreciation that you did not.”

  Turning, she glanced at Wyvern, then held out his handkerchief. “Thank you for this.” As for all the rest that had passed between them this night—including the scorching memory of his kiss that even now had the power to make her tingle—she decide it best not to comment further.

  She watched as his eyes landed for a second on the damp wad of silk in her hand. “Keep it, please. I have more than sufficient and shall scarcely miss that particular one. Now, if you will permit, pray allow me to escort you home.”

  Her heart picked up speed; ruthlessly, she willed it to slow. As tempting as the notion of allowing him to accompany her might be, she suspected it would be unwise to let him see where she lived. Plainly he was a gentleman, used to elegance in everything he did. Very likely he would be appalled should he view the shabby boardinghouse where she rented a third-story attic room.

  “I will be fine on my own,” she stated. “I know the city and how to reach home safely.”

  Wyvern’s raven-dark eyebrows moved together. “Don’t be foolish. It’s nearly two in the morning and whatever you may say, the streets aren’t safe, not even for someone as comfortable with the city as you claim to be. Come, we will go in my coach.”