Too Wicked to Love

by Debra Mullins

  “The same.”

  “My goodness.” A hint of excitement flickered across Tim’s very ordinary face. “That man is a hero.”

  “He is indeed.”

  “He has been decorated by the queen. Twice.”

  “Has he? How impressive.”

  “I hope I do not stumble over my words when I greet him. I am a solicitor, and while my clients are often men of means, I do not believe I have ever met an actual hero before.” He cleared his throat, straightened his tie. “I expected only a casual luncheon with Lord Gunston this afternoon. And while he is certainly of the peerage, his holdings are rather small and his consequence somewhat unremarkable. Indeed, that is why he took the position of magistrate, to lend himself prestige, at least locally.”

  John kept the polite smile on his face with some effort. He had forgotten Tim’s tendency to gossip about others like an old woman at a quilting bee.

  “The admiral seems to be a man of great tolerance,” John said. As relief relaxed the other man’s features, he realized this could be an opportunity to distract Timmons from trying to recall his memory. “But the one thing he dislikes intensely is tardiness. I am certain he is wearing a path in the carpet right now, wondering why we are keeping him waiting.”

  “Oh!” Tim’s eyes widened, and he swallowed. “I should not wish to offend him. As a solicitor, I have made it a point of pride always to be on time for appointments with my clients. Punctuality is a virtue.”

  “I am certain your clients appreciate that.”

  “Oh, yes. Some of them are very strict about it.”

  “We should no doubt put that virtue into practice now.”

  “Indeed.” Timmons started forward then stopped, grabbing John’s arm. “One more moment while I regain my composure.” He gave a nervous laugh. “I thought this would be an afternoon like any other. You know, have lunch with Gunston, visit a client, go home to my wife. I never imagined I might be meeting someone of the admiral’s stamp today.”

  “Allow me formally to introduce you,” John said, taking a step towards the door.

  “Yes, yes. That would be very fine.” He swiped a hand over his mouth, then rubbed his palms against his trousers. “To think, if I had not decided to go to Evermayne today instead of Thursday, I would have missed this opportunity.”

  John froze, the breath seizing in his lungs. “Evermayne?”

  “Yes. Certainly you have heard of the Duke of Evermayne. Oh, but perhaps not, being from America.”

  “His Grace is your client?”

  “Yes, I am handling his estate.” Tim smiled at him. “Thank you for distracting me with conversation, Mr. Ready. I feel calm enough to meet the admiral now.”

  “Of course.” John started for the door. “I thought dukes had estate managers to handle their affairs,” he said, reaching the doors.

  “Oh, they do for the day-to-day. But this is a different kettle of fish. You see the Duke of Evermayne is dead. I am overseeing the execution of his will.”

  Chapter 7

  The Duke of Evermayne is dead.

  The words froze John where he stood. Timmons gave him a puzzled look. “Are you all right, Mr. Ready?”

  “Yes.” John forced himself to answer, even to smile, though his face felt as if it would crack when he did so. His world had just tilted sharply on its axis. The Duke was dead. The unexpected news sent his careful plans into chaos, leaving him floundering. “Come, let me introduce you to the admiral.”

  The two men entered the drawing room and headed to the chair where the admiral sat. John performed the introductions by rote, then glanced over the shorter Tim’s head to find Genny. She watched him with a tiny frown line between her brows, puzzlement in her green eyes. Even worry.

  She knew something was wrong.

  He gave a small, negative shake of his head. She frowned a bit more, her gaze intent. Her hands lay in her lap, and she curled her fingers into her skirts as the tension rose between them. Beside her, Helen flipped through a ladies’ magazine and chattered about fashion, oblivious to the undercurrents in the room. Genny managed to reply to her mother’s conversation, but it was obvious the majority of her attention was on him. She tilted her head, her expression clearly asking a question. Are you all right?

  Her perception surprised him, and her genuine concern warmed his battered heart. This was not the time or the place to examine the riot of emotion ripping through him, especially not in front of others. Perhaps later they could find a moment alone. Later, when his world made sense again.

  Tim’s conversation with the admiral drew his attention, though he remained aware of Genny’s gaze steady upon him.

  “As I was telling Mr. Ready,” Timmons was saying, “I was in the area to visit the estate of my client, the late Duke of Evermayne. I ran into Lord Gunston this morning, and he asked me to lunch at his residence before I set out for Evermayne.”

  “So you have not been to Evermayne yet?” John asked.

  “No, my appointment is for three o’clock. I hope that Lord Gunston concludes his inquiries in time so I will not be late. We took his lordship’s carriage to come here.”

  “I had heard Evermayne died,” the admiral mused, stroking his silver beard. “What was it they said? His heart?”

  “Yes, Admiral. It was very sudden. He always seemed in perfect health, considering he was nearly seventy.”

  John walked over to a chair and slowly sat down. “When did he die?”

  Timmons squinted and pursed his lips as he searched his memory. “About a month and a half ago.”

  “And you are still untangling the will?” The admiral harrumphed and gave Timmons a sour look. “Seems like you should have the right of it by now, with the man in the ground some weeks already.”

  Timmons tried a placating smile, but John could see the sweat misting on the balding man’s forehead. “As you can imagine, Admiral, the estates of a powerful man like His Grace will take a while to sort out.”

  “Perhaps,” the admiral said.

  Footsteps sounded in the hall, followed by the appearance of Sir Harry. “Thank heavens that is over.” The baronet made his way to the last empty seat in the room and eased himself down into it, resting his cane against the arm of the chair. “Well, everyone, you will all be glad to know that Gunston has solved the case.”

  “Already?” John asked.

  Sir Harry peered at him over his spectacles. “My dear Mr. Ready, it is clear as day to Lord Gunston that Black Bill is the culprit.”

  “But that is not true!” Genny said. “Annabelle has seen Black Bill, spoken to him. She says this was a different man.”

  “And she said the same to Gunston.” Sir Harry gave a wry smile. “He was not inclined to believe a female.”

  “Surely you told him the truth,” Helen said. “You were there.”

  “I was, but Lord Gunston has determined that my eyesight may not be at its best—spectacles, you know.”

  “So he does not believe Annabelle because she is a woman, and he does not believe you because you wear spectacles?” Genny shook her head. “But he does believe the culprit is Black Bill.”

  “He does,” Sir Harry confirmed.

  “Timmons!” The roar echoed up to the drawing room from the floor below.

  “I believe Lord Gunston is ready to depart.” Timmons shoved his hand toward Genny’s father. “Pleasure to meet you, Admiral.”

  “Timmons.” The admiral pumped his hand once, then released it.

  Timmons dug into his coat pocket and withdrew a card. “If you are ever in need of legal advice, sir, here is my direction.”

  “Thank you, but no,” the admiral said. “We have been using the same solicitor in London for some years now.”

  “Oh.” Timmons deflated a bit. “Very well. Still, an honor to meet you, sir.”

  “I will be glad of your card,” John said.

  “Of course.” Smiling, Tim handed it to him.

  The roar came again. “Timmons!�
��

  “A pleasure to meet you all,” the solicitor said in a rush, with a bow just as hasty. He scurried out of the room.

  “Good heavens,” Helen said, after he had left. “I do not care if Lord Gunston is a viscount. That does not give him the right to flout all rules of society and shout through the house like a wild man!”

  “Clearly the man has no sense of leadership or civility,” the admiral said.

  “Mr. Timmons seems quite cowed by him.” Sir Harry remarked.

  “Didn’t like him either.” The admiral scowled at the empty doorway. “All that blathering on about Evermayne’s estate. No solicitor worth his salt would spread that kind of gossip about a client! Clearly the man has no sense of discretion.”

  “What is this about Evermayne?” Sir Harry asked.

  “He’s dead,” the admiral replied.

  “Ah, yes.” Sir Harry leaned back in his chair and nodded. “I’d heard that . . . maybe a few weeks ago?”

  “Something like that. Blathering fool,” the admiral grumbled. “Felt like I was at a tea party.”

  “Hello, everyone!” Annabelle appeared in the doorway. “Sir Harry, Mama’s not feeling well. She says her nerves are frazzled from this morning, and she doesn’t think she’ll be able to rehearse for the play. Pa is taking her to her room.”

  “I cannot say as I blame her,” Sir Harry said. “Her only child was nearly abducted on her own land!”

  “I wish everyone would stop fussing,” Annabelle grumbled. “We got away. We didn’t need anyone to come rescue us.”

  “That does not negate the fact that there is a real threat,” Sir Harry said. “You need to take precautions, Miss Bailey.”

  “I know, I know. But you saw what I did. You saw how I was able to get away from him.” She lifted her chin. “Anyone else who comes after me has a surprise waiting for him.”

  “You did very well,” Sir Harry said. “However, the rest of us are somewhat unnerved by the incident. I believe a quiet afternoon is in order.”

  “But I was so looking forward to rehearsal.” Annabelle worried her lower lip, clearly disappointed.

  “Perhaps we can rehearse just the first scene,” Sir Harry said. “Where Frederick and Bella speak of their pain in being parted.”

  “I regret I cannot participate,” John said. His emotions pushed and tugged inside him like two cats in a sack. “I must speak to Mr. Bailey about posting more guards on the grounds.”

  “Oh, that can wait, can’t it?” Annabelle wheedled.

  “No,” John said. “It cannot.”

  “I, for one, am completely unsettled by the whole thing,” Helen said, closing her fashion book.

  “Now, pet, calm yourself,” the admiral said.

  Helen stood. “I am going to walk around the garden to soothe my nerves. Will you come with me, Robert?”

  The admiral heaved himself out of his chair. “Of course, my dear. Consider me your private guard.”

  Helen looked at her daughter. “Are you coming, Genny?”

  “No.” Genny stood and smoothed her skirts. “I think I will go to my room and rest. This has been a harrowing morning.”

  Annabelle looked from one to the other, dismay creasing her pretty face. “But who is going to rehearse with me?”

  “I will.” Sir Harry stood and grasped his cane. “We will read through the scene, and you can help me decide if any of the lines should change.”

  “Really?” Annabelle clapped her hands. “I would like that. I would be an author!”

  Sir Harry shook his head. “One of the authors, Miss Bailey. I did pen the first draft, you know.”

  “One of the authors.” Annabelle grinned at the others. “You will all be thrilled with the results, I promise you!”

  “Undoubtedly,” John said.

  “Well, we are off to the gardens. We will see you all at luncheon,” Helen said, as her husband offered his arm. “Genny, do not leave the house. Not with this brigand running about!”

  “I promise,” Genny said.

  The admiral crooked his free arm at his daughter. “Come, kitten. Allow me to escort you to the staircase.”

  Genny pinkened a bit at the nickname, and with a swift, sidelong glance at John, she moved to take her father’s arm.

  “Behold the luckiest man in the world, gentlemen,” the admiral said, “to have two such beauties on my arm!”

  The admiral left the room, flanked by his two ladies, and Sir Harry turned to Annabelle. “And where do you keep your writing materials, Miss Bailey?”

  “Over here in the desk.” Annabelle hurried over to a rolltop desk and shoved it open. Sir Harry followed slowly, his limp more pronounced than usual.

  “I will see you all later this afternoon,” John said, then headed out the door with a relief that nearly felled him. Finally, he could be alone to absorb the news that might change the very direction of his life.

  The Duke was dead. Dear God, he had thought the old bastard would live to be a hundred. That such a powerful figure from his childhood should succumb to the human frailty of death stunned him.

  And changed everything.

  Even as he grasped the concept in his mind, he noticed Genny waiting for him at the top of the steps.

  “I told my parents I would be going to my room,” she said in a low voice as he came closer. “I even started walking up the stairs, then came back down once they were gone.”

  For him. She did not have to say it; it was there in her eyes.

  Her concern touched him, yet at the same time, part of him wanted to howl in frustration. He needed to sort through these developments in his head. Instead, he was forced to do the dance of evasiveness around this perceptive young lady—even though his gut urged him to confide in her.

  But it was too soon to make such decisions, the shock too fresh. He needed to sort out his own emotions.

  “You are quite clever,” he said. “Was there something you needed from me?”

  She frowned. “You do not have to pretend, John. I could see that you were affected by Mr. Timmons’s news.”

  “I am not one to be captivated by idle gossip,” he said.

  “The Duke of Evermayne is hardly idle gossip,” she said. “Who was he to you? How did you know him?”

  “Know a duke?” He managed a laugh. “Miss Wallington-Willis, you are imagining what is not there.”

  “Formality will not make me go away.” She stepped closer to him, those green eyes of hers way too perceptive for his liking. “I can tell that the Duke of Evermayne means something to you.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “It is not nonsense when it puts that look in your eyes.”

  “What look?”

  “The one that says the ship is sinking, and your only lifeboat has a hole in the bottom.”

  Her accurate metaphor surprised a laugh from him. “You imagine things, Genny girl.”

  “I do not believe I am imagining anything. I know you have secrets, John, but I truly want to help you.” Her sincerity echoed in her voice, her expression, the way she leaned toward him.

  His heart clenched. When was the last time anyone had looked at him like that, like she genuinely cared about what happened to him? He was tempted to reach out to her, but matters were too chaotic just then. He needed to make sense of everything on his own.

  “Thank you for your concern,” he said, “but I do not have time to talk right now. I must speak to Mr. Bailey about the security on the estate. We cannot have Raventhorpe trying such a thing again.”

  “I have been wondering about that, about Raventhorpe being behind this abduction attempt,” she mused. “How would he accomplish such a thing from France?”

  “There are ways. He could have hired someone. I just have to find out who it was.”

  “I have every faith in you, John. People trust you.” She rested her hand on his arm. “Maybe I can use my social connections to help you with your own problem, especially if a duke is involved.”

 
; “An interesting offer from a lady who first accused me of pursuing Miss Bailey for her fortune and social connections.”

  She winced. “I apologize if my original estimation of you was less than flattering, but a girl like Annabelle has to be careful. I understand that you are honestly trying to protect her from a very real danger, which was brought home to all of us after today’s incident.”

  “Indeed?” His simmering patience snapped its frayed tether. “What about your suspicion that I was stealing from our hosts? That was only yesterday.”

  “You proved me wrong. I apologized.”

  “It seems your opinion of me changes from day to day.”

  “Well, your behavior is what creates those opinions! You are a man with secrets, John. I cannot help but wonder . . .” She stopped.

  “Wonder what? If I am honorable? If I am the rogue you apparently still think me?”

  “I do not think you a rogue! But you are secretive . . .” Her tone rose at the end as if she expected him to confide in her. The strange thing was, he wanted to, and he did not know why.

  Rather than question his compulsion to trust her, he turned the tables to deflect her. “As someone who keeps secrets yourself, you should understand.”

  Panic flared in her eyes for a brief second. “I have no secrets.”

  “You do.” He stepped closer, crowding her against the balustrade. “You told me.”

  “I did not . . . oh.” She looked relieved for a second, then raised her chin with a mulish glint in her eye. “Yes, I told you about Bradley only wanting to wed me because of my father. And since I told you, it is not really a secret any longer.”

  “It is from your father.”

  “Is that a threat?”

  “No.” He backed off a step. “I do not tattle the secrets of others. I was proving a point.”

  “A point?” She took a deep breath. “Is that why you kissed me yesterday? To prove a point? To prove that you have power over me?”

  Insulted, he leaned down. “Naturally. A man can want a woman without any emotion involved, and you were ripe for the picking.”