The Duke Redemption

by Callaway, Grace

  “When money and survival are at stake, friendship may become a luxury that few can afford,” Knighton said.

  She lifted her brows. “That is rather cold of you, Your Grace.”

  The duke’s broad shoulders moved up and down without disturbing the crisp lines of his charcoal jacket. “Where I come from, that is merely a fact of life.”

  His words stirred her curiosity for she’d never met a duke raised in the underbelly of London. She had other questions for him as well. Heading to the tea cart, she poured them both a cup.

  “How do you take it, Your Grace?” she inquired.

  “Cream, please.”

  Handing him his cup, she led the way to the settee by the fire. Knighton sat beside her.

  “I apologize that we haven’t had the opportunity to finish our last chat,” she said.

  “You’ve had a full plate.” Knighton sampled his tea. “Please know that I would be honored to assist you in whatever way I can.”

  “I would not dream of involving a guest in such unpleasant business.”

  Nor would she ever want to be indebted to a man like Severin Knight. While she liked him, she did not trust him. Especially since she did not fully understand his connection to her brother.

  “Murray has a different take on the situation,” Knighton said.

  She frowned. “I beg your pardon?”

  “He asked me to look out for you in his absence. Given that he and I do not see eye to eye on certain issues,” the duke said dryly, “he must indeed be concerned about the danger you’re facing.”

  Knowing that Wick had enlisted his rival to protect her warmed her insides like a drink of hot chocolate. She was touched by his care for her, by the fact that he’d set aside jealousy and competition for the sake of her well-being. At the same time, she was a bit exasperated at his highhandedness: as she’d told him countless times before he’d left for Stoke, she could take care of her own affairs. She’d had plenty of practice at it, being an independent woman of five-and-twenty and not some miss fresh out of the schoolroom.

  “On that topic, I am curious to know the exact nature of your differences,” she said.

  “Murray didn’t tell you?” Knighton gave her an impassive look.

  The truth was that Wick had been rather evasive about his dealings with Knighton. He’d said that the two had faced off over various negotiations, resulting in bad blood when he’d repeatedly trounced the other. In essence, he’d painted Knighton as a sore loser.

  “I’d like to hear your perspective,” she said.

  “We’ve found ourselves in competition on numerous occasions.” Knighton smiled thinly. “Murray does not enjoy losing.”

  “The way he told it, he wasn’t the one who lost.”

  “Murray was always prone to delusions.” Knighton raised his brows. “Are you certain you wish to keep company with a man like him?”

  “I am.” As she was not a woman to play games, she wanted to make that point clear. She set her cup down on the coffee table. “Mr. Murray and I have an understanding, Your Grace.”

  Knighton’s gaze flicked pointedly to her bare ring finger. “How firm is this understanding?”

  “You will have to find yourself another duchess.”

  “That is a pity because you happen to be the one I want.”

  His intensity gave her an odd, shivery feeling. She attributed it to the strangeness of having not one, but two men after her hand when she’d believed that no one would want her after her scar.

  “The more I know of you,” he went on, “the more convinced I am that you possess the rare wherewithal to manage my unique situation.”

  “As delightful as shepherding your illegitimate half-siblings through Society sounds, I’m not the lady for the task. I have no interest in making a reappearance in the ton or London for that matter.”

  “What do you want from marriage then?”

  The question took her aback. But it was easy to answer: all the things that she didn’t think she’d find and that she was finding…with Wick.

  “Honesty, respect, and a passionate connection.” She met Knighton’s gaze with a hint of defiance because while he might want to use her as a mother hen, Wick desired her for who she was.

  “And you think you will find all of that with Murray?”

  She didn’t like his bland tone. “What are you implying?”

  Knighton placed his cup down next to hers. “There are things you might not know about your suitor. Murray is well-known for his ability to achieve his ends, particularly with the gentler sex. I wish for you to be in full possession of the facts before making any final decision.”

  “He has been honest with me,” she said stiffly.

  “Has he? He’s told you he wants your land—nay, needs it to build his railway? His company has invested a great deal of money in this project, and shareholders will not wait forever.”

  “We have discussed the issue of his railway at length, and he and I have reached an agreement. As you see, I am in possession of the facts.”

  “Did he tell you what happened to his mistress?”

  She felt the first shiver of uncertainty. “Are you saying Mr. Murray has a mistress?”

  “Not currently, that I know of,” Knighton said calmly. “The mistress I’m referring to was a famous French acrobat with Astley’s Amphitheatre and the business occurred some years ago. However, the woman’s death does give one pause.”

  “She’s dead?” Bea stared at him. “What happened?”

  “According to rumor, she and Murray had been engaged in a torrid affair for months. She, like so many women, fell madly in love with him, even though he was known to leave a trail of broken hearts in his wake. He soon ended their affair, leaving her in such a state of despair that she threatened to kill herself. They ended up at a house party together, where she was found dead.”

  “Did Wick…have anything to do with her death?” Bea asked over her thudding heart.

  “He didn’t kill her, as far as I know. But as to whether he held any responsibility for her demise…that is a question best posed to Murray himself.”

  She would most definitely talk to Wick when he returned tomorrow. Knowing him the way she did, she couldn’t imagine that he was responsible for his mistress’s death. There had to be a reason why he hadn’t told her about this woman…just as Knighton had a reason for imparting this sordid piece of history.

  “Why have you told me this?” She studied the duke’s inscrutable features. “To further your own cause?”

  “I want you to understand your options, my lady. All of them.”

  She rose, and he followed suit.

  “I thank you for the information, Your Grace,” she said, “but it will not change my mind about your offer.”

  Knighton’s eyes darkened…with disappointment?

  “Then I see no reason to intrude upon your hospitality any longer.” He inclined his head. “I will take my leave tomorrow morning.”

  20

  After the meeting with McGillivray and the others, Wick decided to make the journey back to Camden Manor rather than staying another night in Stoke as planned. He travelled all day, arriving after dark. After a quick bathe to rid himself of the travel dust, he changed into his dressing gown and went to find Beatrice.

  Although they’d only been apart for one night, it felt longer to him. Strange, because he wasn’t a sentimental man, yet here he was rushing to her like an overeager bridegroom. It wasn’t just about lust, either. He’d missed everything about her: her conversation, wit, the scent of her hair. In her presence, he felt settled and…right.

  He knocked before entering. Zeus greeted him with a happy wag, and he scratched the brindle bull terrier behind the ears before letting him out. Seated at her dressing table, Bea had been combing her hair; she swiveled, her gaze meeting his as she set down her brush. He strode over, took her chin between thumb and forefinger, turning her head this way and that.

  “Can it be poss
ible,” he murmured, “that you’ve become even more beautiful in my absence?”

  A smile lurked in her peerless eyes. “Or that you’ve become more silver-tongued?”

  She was like a glass of lemonade, perfectly tart-sweet. He bent to kiss her, her lips soft and plush beneath his, yielding in a way that made his heart and cock pound with desire. Holding her delicate jaw between his palms, he feasted on the sweetness of her surrender…the surrender that only a woman with her strength and spirit could give.

  He ended the kiss. Her lips were swollen, her eyes glazed with need, and a primitive part of him wanted to scoop her up, carry her to bed, and have his wicked way with her. But he wasn’t a troglodyte…or not only that, anyway. He was experienced enough to know that talking was foreplay for them. And he simply enjoyed keeping her on her toes.

  He reached for her brush. “Turn around, angel. I’ll finish up for you.”

  He saw the surprised flash in her eyes; obviously she’d expected him to commence their lovemaking. Hiding a smile at the reluctant way she obeyed his command, he stood behind her and ran the bristles through her hair. He felt her intimate shiver in his balls, which were already pulled taut against his erection. It aroused him to do this intimate duty for her, to know that no other man would see her with her hair down thus. Possessiveness surged through him, his hands curling in those pale silken streamers.

  “How did you get back so early?” she asked him.

  “After the meeting, I headed straight back. I missed my lass.”

  Her cheeks pinkened. “How did the meeting go?”

  “Part of it went as I expected. I asked McGillivray and the Coalition if they were responsible for the barn fire, and they denied it. I believe them,” he said frankly. “They’re aggressive, cutthroat businessmen: they favor direct attacks and want their adversaries to know they’re responsible. Setting fire to a barn without claiming responsibility is not their modus operandi.” He paused. “In fact, McGillivray had an interesting piece of information to share.”

  Beatrice tilted her head.

  “A few days before the fire, he had a visit from a man claiming to be your former tenant. The man said his name was Randall Perkins. McGillivray described the fellow as brutish looking, with a prominent brow and red birthmark on the left side of his face.”

  “That description matches Perkins.” Her eyes widened. “What did the bounder want?”

  “According to McGillivray, Perkins offered to help ‘persuade’ you to sell your land in exchange for payment.”

  “The cad. When I think of how I took him in…grr.” Her indignant little growl was so adorable that Wick’s lips twitched. “How did McGillivray respond to Perkins’s odious offer?”

  “He told Perkins he wouldn’t give him a cent and booted the wastrel out of his office.”

  “Does he know where Perkins went?”

  “When McGillivray turned down the ‘partnership,’ Perkins tried to beg a few quid off him. Claimed he needed money to get back to London where he could stay with family.”

  “When Perkins first came to the estate looking for work, he said he’d come from London. He claimed that his parents lived in some cramped tenement in the Seven Dials, and he needed to get away,” she mused. “If he was the arsonist, I wonder if he went into hiding there. No one seems to have seen him since the fire.”

  “It’s a possible lead to pursue,” Wick agreed.

  “What else happened at the meeting?” Beatrice studied him. “You mentioned that only a part went as you expected. What happened during the other part?”

  That was his clever lass, never missing a beat.

  “When I told them in no uncertain terms that GLNR would not tolerate them harassing you about the railway, they issued a threat of their own.” He turned her back around so that he could continue brushing her hair. The soothing strokes helped to keep his anger at bay. “They said they would sell their shares of GLNR stock and tell the public they lost confidence in our company.”

  “How would that impact your business?” she asked in a troubled voice.

  “The factory owners are significant investors, but we have others and could manage the fiscal side of things without them. The larger problem is their threat to go public,” he said starkly. “If the Coalition begins to cast doubt on our project, then the other investors might start to panic and start selling. Then, like dominoes, the entire venture might fall.”

  “Wick, if you can’t find a way to build the railway while preserving the farms…” She turned in her chair again, her throat working above the frilly collar of her nightgown. “It will be my fault if your company fails.”

  “No, angel. It would be my fault for not finding a solution, but that won’t happen.”

  A furrow formed between her brows. “How can you be sure?”

  “Because this is the most important deal of my life.” He set down the brush, placed his hands on her slim shoulders. “I’ve received a reply from Mr. Norton. He’s dealing with a problem with a viaduct in Sussex but promises to be here in a week or so. He will come up with a viable alternative. Trust me, sweetheart.”

  He refused to give into doubt. He would find a way to make things work. He wouldn’t fail her, his future bride, and he needed to know that she believed in him.

  “Wick…there’s something I have to ask you.”

  At her uncharacteristic hesitancy, his nape prickled. “What is it, love?”

  “It’s about your mistress. The one…who died.”

  His insides turned to ice. Of all the things he’d been expecting, it had not been this. How had she found out about Monique? The answer slammed into him like an opponent’s right hook—which this was, in a manner of speaking.

  Bloody Severin Knight. I’m going to beat him to a pulp.

  “Knighton told you about her, I presume?” he bit out. “What did he say?”

  “That she was an acrobat, and she was in love with you. When you ended things, she said she wanted to…hurt herself. And then you were together at some house party, and she died. He said you didn’t kill her, but you were involved?”

  Her gaze was searching. Many women would have taken such revelations and turned them into accusations. Or hidden them, not speaking of them at all, letting them fester in suspicion and secrecy. But not his Beatrice. Her forthright nature would not allow anything but the truth between them, and her honor deepened his shame.

  He exhaled. “All of that is true.”

  “But there is more to the story, isn’t there? I want to hear it.”

  He gave a terse nod. “Shall we sit by the fire?”

  They headed to the hearth beyond the bed, sharing the settee there. Taking a breath, he began the story that he had told twice before. Once to his brother and sister-in-law. A second time to the magistrates when he’d been taken into custody.

  “The affair took place a decade ago. Her name was Monique, and she was the star acrobat at Astley’s. We met after one of her shows, and she became my mistress.” Remembering the terrible pride he’d felt securing such a celebrated lover, he felt his gut knot. “It was a purely physical relationship, at least on my end. I thought I had made the expectations clear, but apparently I was wrong. A few months into the affair, I had to break things off; I believe I’ve told you about the debt I incurred with Garrity. My only means of paying it off was to marry an heiress, and thus I couldn’t keep things going with Monique.”

  “She didn’t like that,” Bea said.

  He smiled grimly at the understatement. “I’d never seen her like that, simultaneously weeping and enraged. She said she’d…kill herself if I left her.”

  The memory of that sliced through him: her agitated threats and frenzied tears, his own helplessness and panic. He hadn’t known how to calm her; when she’d sobbingly asked for his signet ring as a keepsake, he’d gladly given it to her. The ring had later been recovered…from her dead body.

  “Eventually, she seemed to accept that our affair was over,” he s
aid, his throat dry. “But soon thereafter we were at a house party together; I’d had no idea she would be there. She engaged in some mischief—I won’t get into the whole sordid tale—and was killed because of it. At one point, because of our past, I was taken into custody as a suspect for her murder.”

  He swallowed, recalling being dragged from his horse by constables, the weight of irons clamped around his wrists. His dishonor had been witnessed by a houseful of party guests and now, dredging it all up again, in front of the woman he hoped to make his wife, he felt like the veriest scoundrel.

  “Oh, Wick,” was all Bea said. What could she say after all?

  He’d gone too far to stop now. Best to purge it all. “The situation was one of my own making. And even though I didn’t kill Monique, I acted dishonorably and failed her.”

  “How did you fail her?”

  He speared his fingers through his hair. “I was careless with her feelings and acted selfishly. If I hadn’t broken things off with her, maybe she wouldn’t have lost her mind. Maybe she wouldn’t have sought out trouble at the house party and ended up dead. If I hadn’t started the affair, maybe she would be alive today.”

  “That is utter claptrap.”

  Beatrice’s sharp reply cut through his self-condemnation.

  Blinking, he said, “Pardon?”

  “Your reasoning lacks logic. What does your affair with Monique have to do with her murder?”

  Since this was a painful subject he avoided talking about, he’d never had to justify his belief before. “It…just does. She was my lover, and I failed to protect her.”

  “First of all, she was not your lover at the time of her murder. Second, your affair, no matter how acrimoniously it ended, had nothing to do with her death. Did you know that she intended to cause trouble at the house party?”