Lord of Fates: A Complete Historical Regency Romance Series (3-Book Box Set)

by K. J. Jackson

  Wynne—

  The ceremony will take place tomorrow at 11 in the morning. I will come for you at the dowager’s home. —Rowen

  That was all. No news about the art gallery—if he even visited the place. No endearments. No love. Just another order.

  An emotionless order.

  This was the man she was going to marry? For all that he had been everything she ever needed him to be the night of the masquerade ball, his actions since then left a lot to be desired.

  Toe stubbing hard on a cobblestone as she crossed the street, she hopped, shaking the pain from her foot and swearing at herself. She stopped at an iron fence lining the front of a townhouse, leaning on it as she lifted her foot to rub her big toe through her boot.

  She shook her head, taking a deep breath.

  Of course she was going to marry Rowen. She loved him. Down to her blasted toe that was throbbing. Even if his current actions were driving her mad. Even if he was still so clearly mad at her as well.

  But for two days—even though it had irked her to do so—she had stayed away from the gallery that held her paintings. Solely to appease Rowen’s request, whether he knew it or not.

  But this note—no information on the shop, no information on if he had even gone there himself, on if he had even seen her paintings or questioned anyone.

  Not a word.

  And her mother could very well be here, in London. Still alive and still missing her daughter. Alive and able to see her daughter wed.

  Wynne sighed, eyes closed and face to the sky. A mistake, as Rowen’s face instantly popped into her mind. His face when he demanded she stay out of that shop. The exact same look as was on his face when he was pulling Wynne away from her landlady in Tanloon.

  She had seen it in his eyes in Tanloon, and she saw it again that morning in his bedroom—it was a look that questioned her sanity. A look of trying to protect Wynne from herself.

  But why shouldn’t he question her sanity? She still couldn’t remember what happened during the days in the woods. The landlady didn’t recognize her. There was no evidence of her living in that Tanloon home. So why should Rowen look at her like she was sane?

  Maybe she wasn’t.

  Ever since Tanloon, she could not help but question her own sanity—her own memories at every turn.

  Maybe she had imagined her paintings in that shop. Maybe that was what Rowen was trying to protect her from. Herself.

  Eyes opening, she squinted in the midday sun, hazy behind a bank of clouds. She looked around. She was only six blocks from the art gallery. She could walk by. Quickly. Just to prove to herself she wasn’t crazy. Walk by and not go in. Rowen had asked—demanded—she not go into the shop. He had said absolutely nothing about walking by the shop.

  She started off.

  Minutes later, her footsteps slowed as she approached the gallery. She could see it before she was even in front of the shop, the empty space where the painting of her grandfather had been.

  Hell. She was crazy.

  Her steps quickened.

  She had planned just a casual walk-by. Just a glance. But the glaring empty spot in the window made her stop right in front of the store, staring inward, searching.

  Maybe they had just moved the painting. Her eyes scanned the interior walls.

  None of her paintings were hanging. Lots of empty wall spaces, but not a single one of her paintings. There were at least twenty displayed the other day, and now, none.

  She pressed her nose on the glass, cupping her hands around her eyes to cut the glare of the day on the glass.

  Nothing. Not one painting from the other day.

  Her chest tightened in panic. She hadn’t truly believed she was crazy. But now. Now everything she had thought she’d seen had disappeared.

  Maybe she was mistaken about the shop. She stepped back from the window, looking at the storefront—it was the same as she remembered.

  Nose to the window again, she scanned the interior, looking for the clerk from the other day. Had she imagined her as well? Wynne didn’t see her inside, only two men standing, facing the now mostly empty wall of paintings.

  In discussion, one of the men kept motioning to the empty spots on the wall, pointing.

  Wynne could only see their profiles, but it was quite clear one of them was of lower class, his clothes a mess and slightly dirty around a round belly, with long, stringy hair pulled back in a low ponytail. The other man was dressed impeccably, fine tailored coat, crisp cravat, and neat trousers. The man’s neat brown hair did not move as he talked, frozen into place somehow.

  Watching them for a moment, Wynne debated about going into the shop to ask them about the clerk. Maybe she was on a short errand, and would be back soon. If Wynne could talk to her, maybe the clerk could tell her what she really had seen the other day. Maybe she could calm Wynne’s panic.

  The finely tailored gentlemen glanced out the window, and his eye caught sight of Wynne. He paused for a moment, staring at her.

  His full face to her, it took Wynne a long second to place that she knew him.

  But then recognition hit her, and Wynne’s legs almost buckled.

  The man from Tanloon.

  The poker. The man that had chased her. Killed her mother.

  Wynne pushed back from the window, stumbling, her satchel falling forward across her chest. Staggering down the street, she fumbled to open the flap on her bag. Her hand went in, searching for her knife.

  A quick glance over her shoulder. He was behind her, running after her, pushing people out of his way.

  Wynne swallowed a scream and sped, knife in hand.

  Two blocks she sprinted, dodging people in the street, and then she spied a cross street that led to Carnaby Street. If she got there, her paint supplier had a shop just up the block. Safety. Wynne cut the corner, running up the side street.

  She could see it in front of her, the busy thoroughfare, people to put between her and that man. Just a few steps further.

  Fingertips ripped into her shoulder, yanking her backward at that moment and spinning her sideways into an alleyway she hadn’t even seen.

  She slammed into a brick wall, her upper arm taking the brute force of her momentum. It sent her to her knees, but she managed to keep a grip on the knife.

  Shit. An empty alley.

  Grasping the brick, she righted herself, feet running before her balance came back.

  She wasn’t fast enough.

  A forearm wrapped around her neck, jerking her to a stop. Her feet flew out from under her.

  Clamped against his chest, Wynne flailed the knife backward over her shoulder, trying to hit flesh. He snatched her wrist before she could make contact and then shoved her forward, hammering her hand against the brick wall.

  Her blade dropped.

  A grunt in her ear, and his palm gripped the back of her head, tearing her hair. One brutal slam, and her forehead met brick.

  Blackness.

  ~~~

  Rowen watched Wynne disappear into the Southfork residence, her leather satchel bumping along her backside. The red double-doors closed and he turned. If he hurried, he could get to his townhouse to oversee the delivery of all of Wynne’s paintings from that art gallery, and be back before she was done with Lady Southfork for the day.

  Trailing after Wynne the last two days had given him precious little time to arrange a wedding and investigate the lead at the art gallery.

  But Wynne’s safety was more important, and Rowen refused to let her tromp about London on her own. Not when her paintings had mysteriously appeared out of nowhere.

  He wasn’t about to allow a possible threat on his future wife to manifest. So if that meant following her at a discreet distance everywhere she went for a few days, so be it. He could investigate the paintings more fully once they were married and Wynne was safely protected inside his house.

  To his surprise, Wynne had not visited the art gallery in the last two days. She had never promised she wouldn’t do
so, so Rowen had assumed it would be the first thing she did.

  Instead, she had gone about her business, visiting clients for sittings. Staying with the dowager in the evenings. She had not made one step in the direction of the shop.

  Adhering to his request, even if she was not about to admit it to him. Stubborn one.

  Rowen, on the other hand, had visited the shop the first moment Wynne was safely ensconced with a client—even before going to get the special marriage license.

  He recognized all of her works the second he saw them at the gallery—her style was so unique—and immediately bought all of them, playing the part of an enthusiastic collector.

  Now it was time to revisit the gallery and start interrogating that clerk for more information on the origins of the paintings. But he first wanted to see Wynne’s artwork secure at his townhouse.

  Several hours later, Rowen hurried back to his spot down the street from the Southfork home, eyes on the front door. He figured he had another half hour to spare, but he didn’t want to chance missing Wynne on her way out of the Southfork residence.

  Leaning on a railing, he waited.

  Pocket watch checked six times, he waited, eyes not veering from the door.

  An hour passed, and he waited.

  Another half-hour, and Rowen stood, starting to the home. Damn trying to keep himself hidden from Wynne. Trying to avoid raising her ire even further. She should have been out of the Southfork residence by now.

  He was just about to cross the street when a carriage pulled up in front of the Southfork home. Rowen stopped. Stairs came down and the carriage door opened, and Lord and Lady Southfork stepped from the coach, going up their front stairs.

  Blast it.

  Rowen ran across the street. “Southfork.”

  His hand on his wife’s waist, Lord Southfork turned just before he entered his house. “Duke, what can I do for you?”

  “It is your wife, actually, that I need,” Rowen said, stopping at the bottom of the stairs.

  “And why would that be?” Lord Southfork said.

  “Stop.” Lady Southfork put her hand on her husband’s shoulder, rolling her eyes as she stepped in front of him. “Do not mind my ridiculously over-protective husband, your grace. What can I do for you?”

  “Miss Theaton—you had a sitting for your portrait with her today?”

  “Oh.” She looked back at her husband, then back to Rowen. “Yes, I had one scheduled earlier, but I had to cancel. I did not know you knew Miss Theaton.”

  “I do. Have you seen her since you cancelled?”

  Lady Southfork arched her eyebrows, perplexed. She shook her head. “No. She left after I talked with her.”

  Dammit.

  Rowen inclined his head, trying to hide the grimace crossing his face. “Thank you.”

  He spun, breaking into a run, leaving the Southforks to their bewilderment.

  Wynne had been free for hours.

  Rowen racked his brain. Where had the dowager’s footman said Wynne was going after Lady Southfork? Lady Pogelten’s home next?

  Rowen veered left, scampering between passing coaches as he took off down the closest side street.

  { Chapter 24 • Worth of a Duke }

  Five hours later, darkness had set.

  Rowen stood on the doorstep, wishing he was anywhere but where he stood. This was the last place he wanted to show himself, but he was out of options, out of ideas.

  Wynne had not shown up at Lady Pogelten’s home at their appointed time, nor sent word to her. Hearing that, Rowen had gone straight to the dowager’s back door to talk to the footman, Thomas—the one he had been utilizing to trail Wynne when Rowen couldn’t. But Thomas hadn’t seen Wynne since earlier when Rowen took over Wynne-watching duties. Rowen had even waited while Thomas searched every room in the dowager’s house.

  But no Wynne.

  By the time Rowen got to the art gallery, it was dark inside, door locked. Nothing new had appeared yet in the spots where Wynne’s paintings had hung. No one to even interrogate.

  So Rowen had continued on to every one of Wynne’s current clients. She had not visited any of them that day. He had even stopped by his own home on the off-chance she had appeared there. Nothing.

  So that left Rowen with one option. One despicable option. The dowager.

  His hand heavy, he lifted the brass knocker, letting it fall.

  The dowager made him wait, as expected, a full hour before she appeared in the front drawing room. At least there was proper brandy available, and Rowen helped himself to several large splashes to help ease his pacing.

  She appeared silently, one moment an empty room, the next, Rowen turned to see her standing inside the doorway. Her face was already set to criticize.

  “I see your manners still lack.” She pointed to the glass in his hand. “I would have expected better from a man who has become a duke. Except that I know you, L.B.”

  Rowen had to stop his hand from throwing the glass in the duchess’s general direction. He didn’t have time for the dowager’s barbs.

  “Is Wynne here?” He already knew the answer from checking in with the footman again, but wanted to appease his sliver of hope that the footman was wrong.

  The dowager’s eyes narrowed to slits at him. “You swore you would stay away.”

  “She found me, Dowager.”

  “Bastard.”

  “We say it openly now?”

  “Yes, you bastard.” Her lip sneered at him. “You did it again.”

  Rowen’s guard flew up. “I did what?”

  “Wynne—you made her leave me again. I can see it in your eyes. You saw her and you made her leave me. Why must you ruin absolutely everything, L.B.? Once more, you have stolen Wynne away from me.”

  Rowen’s stomach sank, his last hope slipping away. “So she is not here?”

  “No, she is not. She should have been back hours ago. Lady Pogelten sometimes talks her to death, but Wynne is always back by nightfall to accompany me to functions. So where is she, L.B.?”

  She stared at him, waiting for an answer, until understanding dawned on her face. True worry suddenly set into the duchess’s eyes. “You do not know where she is, do you?”

  “No. No one has seen her since this morning.”

  The dowager’s worry flipped to fury. “What did you do to her, L.B.? On your honor you said you would stay away—but why should I have ever believed that?”

  Her arm swung wide in his general direction. “You have no honor. It is not possible. A bastard like you. What did you do? Did you ask her to be your mistress? She is too proud for that, L.B. Or did you rape her? Beat—”

  The glass cracked in his hand, shards digging into his palm. He dropped the pieces to the floor. “Another word, duchess, and I will finish you.”

  The duchess’s eyes flickered down to the broken glass on the floor, drops of blood splattering into the fallen brandy. Her gaze made it back up to Rowen’s face.

  Clearly recognizing she had gone too far, she still stared at him, not willing to back down.

  Seconds passed.

  The duchess heaved a sigh, acquiescing. “I apologize. But if Wynne is missing, and she is not with you, L.B., then the only explanation is that you have driven her away. You have crushed her once more, I imagine—do you know she suffered for months after you left? That you destroyed everything she thought she was?” Her words spit out at him. “It is no surprise she disappeared—it is the only way to avoid you. And who would not want to avoid you—you are nothing but poison to those you touch, L.B.”

  Bloody hand wiping across his buckskin breeches, Rowen held back words that fought to escape. Respect the duchess. The one thing his mother always demanded of him.

  Even on her deathbed—respect the damn duchess. If his mother had known this was what would come to pass, would she still have demanded this of him? That this would be his fate to bear—bear the duchess and her vileness for far too many years?

  Rowen’s head
tilted down, his eyes pinning the duchess, voice livid. “You do not know what you speak of, Duchess.”

  “I do not? Are you sure?” Her hands folded in front of her. Demure in posture, if not in words. “You did not see Wynne these many months, L.B. You did not see how she railed against your memory. How she forced herself to lay you to waste—to forget you even existed. If she found you, if she talked to you, then she had another reason other than be with you.

  Her head shook. “I know Wynne—for how hard she fought to forget you, she would not go down that path again—not without dire reason.”

  The duchess’s words sliced into Rowen. Far too close to the truth. Far too close to why Wynne found him.

  Wynne needed his help. That was why she had found him. Not because she wanted him.

  Rowen’s mind raced. Was he wrong? Had he imagined all of it? Had he forced Wynne into compromising herself in order to gain his help? Could she actually have left him? Decided to leave London?

  The pit in his stomach—the one that he always had to hold at bay around the duchess—expanded, a burning blaze suffocating his breath, choking his throat.

  Without a word, Rowen stepped around the duchess, striding to the front door.

  The pit in his stomach swelled. Blast it. Wynne could be on a ship at this moment headed to the Americas. And he would have been the one to send her there.

  His hand opening the door, his right foot on the threshold, Rowen stopped. Froze. And the fire consuming him exploded.

  He whipped around. “No.”

  The brutality of that one word made the duchess flinch, and go still, standing just outside the drawing room door.

  Slamming the door shut, Rowen stalked over to her, his chest nearly touching her face as he stared down at her.

  “No. You will not do this to me again, Duchess.”

  Her nose wrinkled. “Do what?”

  “Make me doubt. Make me question my own worth. Make me question the man that I am. The man Wynne wants.” He managed to move even closer, and she took a step backward, running into the wall.