by Kelly Bowen
“Well, you can’t win them all, Your Grace. At the very least, you still have Haverhall.”
August shook his head. That didn’t make him feel any better. And probably not for the reason Duncan would think. “What about the other bit of information I asked you for?” he said, changing the topic.
“Mr. Mathias Stilton.”
“Yes.” August kept his expression stony. He hadn’t told Duncan why he had asked for information on the dandy, only that it was a business matter.
Jealousy does not become you, Your Grace.
He wasn’t jealous. He was thorough. If this man was in Clara Hayward’s life, he wanted to find out how. And why. There was no such thing as too much information.
“I would have thought you’d heard enough of Stilton when you bought that damn lace factory,” Duncan mumbled as he strode over to the leather case resting near the portmanteau and rummaged through it, coming up with a piece of paper and what looked like an aged newspaper sheet. His face was mercifully blank as he straightened. “Mr. Mathias Stilton. Age forty-one. Originally from Southwark, only child of the late Jerome and Ellen Stilton. You know the part about his dismal business acumen, so I’ll skip that bit. Moved to London after that and married a woman of means named Emily Livet.”
“He’s married?”
“Widowed. She died two years after they wed, leaving him the substantial parcel of land she’d brought to the marriage, which kept him in fine style before, and certainly after, her death. Though from what I hear, he’s no longer popular with the merchants on Bond Street. He has a great number of outstanding debts, the least of which is to his tailor.”
August felt his fingers tighten on the edges of the sign. An unpleasant sensation curled through his gut. “How did his wife die?” he asked.
Duncan unfolded an aged and somewhat brittle page of the Times. “According to the paper, she drowned in a boating accident.”
“Witnesses?” August couldn’t believe he was actually asking this, but his instincts were demanding his attention, and he always paid attention to his instincts.
“Just her distraught husband. Though it says a good Samaritan pulled him out of the Thames half-drowned himself after trying to save her. A picnic and punt on an idyllic afternoon turned tragic. Or at least that was what the account said.” He passed the sheet to August. “You don’t think it was an accident.”
Duncan was reading his mind again. “I don’t know. Either way, it left him a man of property and free to marry again, should he wish it.”
“May I inquire why you are asking about him now?” Duncan asked, his brows drawn together. “Is he—”
The sound of the knocker on the heavy front door silenced the rest of his question, and the same footman who had disappeared with August’s coat reappeared almost instantly to open the door.
August blinked as Anne strode in, handing her gloves to the servant. She stopped short in surprise. “Good heavens. Mr. Down?”
“Lady Anne.” Duncan offered her a bow. “Good afternoon. You look radiant.”
“Thank you.” Anne smiled at Duncan, a genuine smile that caused her eyes to light up and made her radiant indeed. “I didn’t know you were coming to Dover.”
“Nor did I until very recently. But I’m very glad I did.”
August stared at the two of them. Bloody hell, was his sister blushing?
Anne’s gaze turned abruptly to August, and some of that radiance faltered. “Good afternoon, August. I was hoping to catch you here so that we could talk—” Her words died suddenly as her gaze fell on the large sign August still gripped. “Oh.” Her hand went to her mouth.
Duncan took a step back as Anne approached, her eyes fixed firmly on the tavern sign. “That’s my sign,” she whispered, her brows drawn together. “The one I drew.”
“Yes,” said August, feeling suddenly uncomfortable. His sister had the most peculiar expression on her face.
Anne reached out a hand and traced with her finger the carved curlicues that ran along the top. “I don’t understand.”
August cleared his throat. “What is there to understand? The current sign is in deplorable condition. I thought to have a new one made, and I rather liked your design. It was…expedient.”
“Expedient.” Anne looked up at him, her eyes brimming with what looked like unshed tears. Holy hell, was she going to cry? He wasn’t sure he had ever seen Anne cry.
“Mr. Down brought it with him,” August rushed on. “I thought perhaps you might like to see it hung.”
“Yes,” she whispered.
August suddenly found himself in an awkward hug, his sister embracing him over the top of the sign. He slid an arm around her back and squeezed.
“Thank you, August,” she mumbled into the front of his coat.
“You’re very welcome.” He cleared his throat again because it seemed to have thickened inexplicably.
Anne drew away and turned to Duncan, wrapping him in an impulsive embrace as well. “Thank you, Mr. Down.”
“It was my pleasure,” Duncan said, his eyes darting to where August stood. “You’re very talented.”
Anne extricated herself and turned back to the sign, crouching down and running her hand over the polished surface. “No more bats,” she said with a shaky laugh.
“Or flamingoes,” August muttered.
She looked up at him, almost shyly. “I have some other ideas for the Swan,” she said. “Maybe later I could show them to you?”
August would have agreed to almost anything at that point, if only to keep the smile on her face. “That would be nice.”
“This is the best present you’ve ever given me,” she said with a sniff.
“But it’s not even something for you,” August protested. “I didn’t really give you anything.”
Her eyes were shining. “That’s not true. You made me your partner. And there is nothing in the world I value more.”
August opened his mouth to say something, but words escaped him. There was so much joy emanating from Anne right now that he just wanted to take a moment to bask in her happiness.
“I’ll just head upstairs,” Duncan murmured tactfully from where he still waited.
“Very well,” August replied, still distracted.
“Was there any other information regarding Stilton that you needed before I go?”
“Stilton?” Anne stood up from her crouch and put a hand on top of the sign. “Mathias Stilton?”
“Yes.” August frowned at her. “How do you know him?”
“I just met him. Not a half hour ago. He came to collect Miss Hayward for a drive.”
August’s eyes met Duncan’s over her shoulder, and those dark suspicions that had been brewing bubbled up again.
“Land titles are public records, Your Grace,” Duncan said, telling August that his mind had fallen down those dark paths too. “And they wouldn’t have been changed that fast.”
“Where did they go?” he asked Anne.
His sister shrugged, her forehead creasing in confusion. “I’m not sure. But there was a hired carriage waiting out in front.”
“I have to go.” It was absurd, he knew. It was likely nothing. August would probably find Mathias Stilton nattering away in the sunshine, waxing poetic about the breathtaking views of the cliffs and the sea. Because even if Stilton believed that Clara still owned Haverhall, that knowledge did him no good. If the man was angling to gain control of the land, he would have to marry her and convince her not to convey the property to trustees before he did. Which seemed wildly far-fetched. Didn’t it?
Mr. Stilton is a friend. One whose honesty I value, Clara had said.
Marriages had been built on far less than that. Forget the land, the purported wealth behind the Strathmore name was still legendary. And very desirable, especially when attached to a beautiful woman.
August ran an agitated hand through his hair. He was overthinking this, and he needed to temper his paranoia and jealousy. But he couldn’t. N
ot where Clara Hayward was concerned.
“August?” Anne’s beautiful blue eyes were full of concern. “Is something wrong?”
“No,” he said. “Just something I need to check on. I’ll come and find you when I return,” he said. “I shouldn’t be more than an hour.”
“I’ll probably be in the art studio, then,” she told him.
He bent and gave his sister a brief kiss on her forehead before he stepped away, leaving the tavern sign in her grasp.
“Would you like me to accompany you, Your Grace?” Duncan asked.
“No,” August said, already headed for the door. “I’ll take care of it myself.”
Chapter 15
What do think of the view?” Stilton asked her.
Clara stepped sideways, as the man was just a little close for her liking. They were standing on the edge of the cliffs, the castle looming behind them, the carriage left up on the narrow, snaking road above.
Stilton had insisted that they walk down the sloping land, following the thick outer wall that led away from the castle proper and down toward the sea, and Clara had agreed, if only to pass the time before she could ask to return without appearing rude. To her right the town sat far below them, nestled at the edge of the ocean in its nest of rolling green fields and jagged white cliff faces. Above them gulls wheeled and cried.
“It’s very lovely,” she said, trying to keep her smile from slipping. Anne had been right. She should never have agreed to come. While she enjoyed Stilton’s company in small doses, an entire afternoon of his nonstop talking was starting to wear thin. He meant well, she knew, and she couldn’t really blame him for her lack of enthusiasm or her distraction. That was solely on the shoulders of one Duke of Holloway.
“I’m so glad you accepted my invitation,” Stilton said, sidling closer once again. “There is a matter I wished to discuss with you.”
“Oh?” Clara asked, wondering what he would say if she insisted that he take her back to Avondale now.
“We’ve known each other for quite some time,” he started. “And I have enjoyed your company immensely.”
“And Rose and I have enjoyed yours, Mr. Stilton—”
“Mathias.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I think we’ve known each other long enough that we can dispense with the formality, don’t you think? I’d like to call you Clara, if I may.”
Clara frowned. “Mr. Stilton, I don’t think that is entirely appropriate. While I value you as an acquaintance—”
“And that is something I’d like to change.”
“I beg your pardon?” Clara felt alarm start to slither through her. Surely Stilton wasn’t about to suggest what she thought he was going to—
“I’d like you to be my wife,” he hurried on, reaching for her hands and clutching them in his.
Clara stared at him. This was not happening. “While you flatter me, Mr. Stilton, I am going to have to respectfully decline.”
“But why?” He looked genuinely confused.
“Because I don’t wish to marry you.”
“It’s not like you’re going to get a better offer,” he said, and there was an edge to his words now. “Especially at your age.”
“Mr. Stilton, I can assure you that even as a younger woman, I—”
“No one wanted you when you were younger,” Stilton told her. “Even your family’s wealth wasn’t enough to buy you a husband then. Do you honestly think anything’s changed?” He drew their hands up to his chest. His palms were cold and sweaty, and Clara resisted the urge to yank her hands from him in revulsion.
“Again, Mr. Stilton, I do not wish to—”
“No one else wants you,” Stilton continued. “But I am prepared to make you my wife.”
Clara felt a familiar anger rise, tempered with disgust. “I am not prepared to have you as my husband.”
“Is it because I’m not a duke?” he hissed. “You think you’re too good for me?”
“That’s not it at all.” She tried to extricate her hands, but he tightened his grip.
“You won’t do better than me,” he told her coldly. “With your wealth added to mine, we could live in grand style.”
Clara tried pulling away again, but Stilton held fast, his fingers digging into the flesh of her hands painfully. “Mr. Stilton,” she said through clenched teeth, “you must understand that I have no desire to marry anyone. Yourself included.”
“You know nothing of desire,” he said, yanking her closer. “But you will soon.”
His strength caught Clara off guard, and she stumbled into him. Stilton let go of her only to dig the fingers of one hand into her hair and use the other to grasp her underneath her chin, pressing it against her throat. He made a sound of satisfaction and dragged her mouth to his. His kiss was wet and slimy, and Clara struggled to wrench herself away, but he only twisted her hair more painfully in his fist.
“Stop,” Clara snapped, letting her fury overwhelm the very real fear that was starting to thrum through her. If she screamed, there would be no one to hear her. There had been no one in sight when they had walked down to the cliffs’ edge. She pushed on his chest with her hands, managing to shove herself back a few inches, even though his fingers still held fast in her hair and against her throat. “This isn’t what I want. This isn’t what you want,” she grated.
She’d never seen this coming. Looking back, she wondered if she’d missed the signs. Perhaps she simply hadn’t been paying enough attention. Today, or at any point in the last two years that she’d counted him an acquaintance. And now she was paying for that lack of vigilance.
“I know exactly what I want,” Stilton breathed. His hand slid from her throat to her breasts, and he shoved his fingers into the top of her bodice. She heard and felt some of the stitching give way.
His breath was hot on her face. “I want more. And you can give me that.”
Clara twisted her head vainly.
“You’ve teased me for long enough,” Stilton said, and his voice had a coldness that Clara had never heard before. “Years I’ve catered to you and your oddities. I’m done waiting. You will marry me. I’ll make sure of it.”
“She can’t marry a corpse.” It came from behind Stilton.
Stilton’s head jerked up, and his hands loosened in Clara’s hair enough for her to jerk herself away. She staggered back a few steps, out of his reach, her breath coming in harsh gasps.
The Duke of Holloway was standing just behind Stilton, his hands loose at his sides, his body perfectly still. But it was his expression that sent chills shuddering through her. His eyes were feral, his expression black, and there was a dark, barely leashed promise of violence rolling off his body in palpable waves.
“What are you doing here, Holloway?” Stilton spit.
“Deciding if I should just toss you off the cliff, or if I should kill you before I do it.”
“You wouldn’t.” Stilton was backing away from him now.
“You have no idea what I would and wouldn’t do.”
“Stealing my birthright wasn’t enough for you, was it? You need to steal my woman from me too?” There was utter hatred in those words. “She’s been mine all these years, not yours, Holloway. It’s been me who has put the time and effort into this. I know you think you can take whatever you want whenever you want it, but I came here to make sure you didn’t. To make sure I finally got what is mine.”
August moved faster than Clara would have thought possible. In a single second he had his hands fisted in the front of Stilton’s coat and was lifting and pinning the man against the thick curtain wall of the castle. Stilton’s boots twitched above the grass.
“I didn’t steal your birthright. I bought a business that had been ruined. And Miss Hayward has never been yours,” August growled.
“She damn well is.”
“The lady’s struggles beg to differ,” August said conversationally.
“She is to be my wife!”
�
��Your wife?” His eyes flickered to Clara, lingering on her neck and the redness that she knew would be visible where the man’s hand had squeezed. His gaze slid back to Stilton. “I didn’t hear her say yes.”
“She will.” Stilton struggled to no avail.
“Do you wish to marry this cockroach, Miss Hayward?” the duke asked.
“No.” Her voice was rough.
“I didn’t think so.” He pressed his forearm against the man’s throat. “Should I kill him?”
“That would be messy.”
“But satisfying. And the tide’s going out. It would be at least a day until they found the body, if they ever did.”
“Don’t kill him,” Clara said unsteadily. “He was just leaving.”
“He was? Well, then, I suppose that is a lucky coincidence for you, Stilton.”
Stilton was sweating, though his eyes were mean and hard. “You don’t want me for an enemy,” he spit.
Clara saw something shift in August’s eyes. “You should go now, Miss Hayward,” August said in a voice so chilling it made her shudder.
“No.” Clara took a step toward him.
“Go, Clara.”
“Don’t do it. He’s not worth it. Please.”
She saw August hesitate, every muscle in his body rigid. He suddenly stepped back, and Stilton collapsed in an undignified heap at his feet.
“Leave here. Leave London,” August snarled. “Or I’ll make sure you’re on the next hulk destined for Australia, provided I don’t just kill you first. If you dare show yourself to Miss Hayward, her family, or myself again, Miss Hayward’s words will not be enough to save you.”
Stilton struggled to gain his feet, stumbling like a drunken jester. He yanked on the front of his gaudy coat and fled past August, staggering up the incline and to his waiting carriage.
Clara watched him go, suddenly racked with shivers. There was a maelstrom of emotion swirling through her, and the individual feelings were difficult to sort out—fear, disappointment, anger, shame, regret, relief.
August closed the distance and wrapped his arms around her, and she leaned into his strength, hating how unnerved she felt. “I was so foolish,” she mumbled into the front of his chest. “I never should have come out here alone with him.”
