Always Mine

by Cheryl Holt

  Millicent was mulishly defiant, but she bit her tongue, and Clayton asked her, “What’s this about you and Shawcross?”

  “It was nothing. He simply took me on a carriage ride.”

  “He invited you?”

  Clayton couldn’t fathom it. His sister was pretty enough, but with Shawcross being so rich, he could have any female he wanted. Why would he notice Millicent?

  Then again, he’d given her those blasted earrings. Clayton still couldn’t figure out why, and he’d been pondering how he might convince Millicent to hand them over so he could sell them.

  She never went anywhere fancy. Why did she need a pair of diamond earrings? But he always needed money, and suddenly, there were creditors around every corner. While usually he gamboled with a reckless abandon, he was being barraged with demand letters, and debt collectors were hounding him on the street.

  Previously, he’d carried on like an aristocrat who never worried about his bills, but recently, his situation had altered drastically. He couldn’t delve down to what it was, but he sensed peril swirling on his horizon. It was why he’d agreed to accept that silent investor. The extra fiscal cushion would be a blessing.

  “Yes, Mr. Shawcross invited me,” Millicent snottily said. “Don’t look so surprised. You’d never admit it, but I’m beautiful and pleasant, and I would be a stellar matrimonial catch.”

  “Trust me, Millicent, Raven Shawcross could wed any woman in the kingdom. There’s no reason he would set his sights on you.”

  “What a horrid comment,” she complained. “Why don’t you trot off and find some of your awful friends? I’m certain they’d be delighted to put up with you, but Mother and I shouldn’t have to.”

  “I just meant that Shawcross is out of your league.”

  “Yes, I understood you, and I happen to concur. He’s much grander than I am, and I like his brother better anyway.” She flashed a caustic glower at Beatrice. “But Mother has already trampled that notion, so don’t fret. I’m not gearing up to provide you with a wealthy, famous brother-in-law.”

  She was being so snide that he wondered why he ever came home. He tossed down his napkin and rose to his feet. “I’m weary of listening to the two of you whine.”

  “We’re not too keen on listening to you either.” Millicent gestured to the door. “Go drink yourself into a stupor. We’re quite sick of having you in here with us.”

  His mother tried to smooth over Millicent’s bitter words by saying, “I’ll track you down later to tell you about my appointment at the shipping office.”

  “As if I care, Mother! Stop nagging about it!”

  He stomped out, his temper sparking as he strolled through various downstairs parlors. He liked to gamble in the afternoon, before his head became too addled by alcohol. He didn’t lose as much money that way, but no one was loafing.

  He wandered out to the rear verandah, and Raven Shawcross was sitting by himself at a table and staring across the park toward the ocean.

  He’d only known the man for a few months. Apparently, Shawcross had been dying for an introduction, and his brother—who was a regular at some of Clayton’s favorite haunts—had made sure they met.

  In reality, Shawcross had been the one who’d urged Clayton to host his birthday party at Carter Crossing. If it had been Clayton’s choice, he’d have celebrated in town, but Shawcross had gushed over how he’d like to see Clayton’s property, so Clayton had instantly offered the rural venue.

  While Clayton had many lofty acquaintances, none of them tipped the scales with the sort of weight Shawcross exhibited. For him to have glommed onto Clayton, it was so fantastical as to be nearly unbelievable, but here they were.

  “Shawcross!” He marched over and pulled up a chair. “I was just discussing you with my sister. She informs me you took her on a carriage ride.”

  “Yes, but you shouldn’t read much into it. I had considered engaging in a flirtation with her, but I’ve changed my mind.”

  Clayton’s spirits sank. “Why?”

  “She’s too young for me.”

  “I told her the very same,” he hurried to say. “I told her you could never be intrigued by such a silly, frivolous girl.”

  “You’re correct. I never could be.”

  Shawcross focused his gaze on Clayton, and he had such a potent manner of grinding a person down. Clayton squirmed in his seat, as if he was once again standing in front of the headmaster at school and about to be paddled for an infraction.

  “Tell me about your cousin, Rebecca,” Shawcross said.

  “Rebecca? Why would you be curious about her?”

  Shawcross’s gaze sharpened. “What type of relationship do you have with her?”

  “We’re just…kin.”

  “You haven’t ever tried to seduce her?”

  Clayton suffered a fleeting vision—of a dark hall, a late night—when he’d been especially drunk. He had vague memories of attempting to drag her into a deserted parlor, but he wasn’t positive it had occurred.

  “I would never seduce her,” he firmly stated, and he laughed. “If I was brave enough—which I’m definitely not—she’d steal of knife afterward and castrate me in my sleep. She has the tendencies of a harpy.”

  “Here’s the problem I’m having. She has bruises on her arm. Would you like to explain to me how they got there?”

  Clayton frowned. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Don’t you?” Shawcross let the question hang between them, then he said, “Don’t ever touch her again. If you dare, you’ll have to answer to me.”

  “Now see here, Shawcross”—he huffed with genuine offense—“I won’t be accused of nefarious conduct right on my own verandah. You’re a guest in my home. Have a care for the insults you level.”

  “Leave her alone.”

  “I’ve never laid a finger on her, so I don’t appreciate your insinuations.”

  He glanced away, certain he looked incredibly guilty. Had he accosted Rebecca? With how incensed Shawcross was, he must have.

  Throughout his life, he’d viewed her as a kind of lesser sister, a second sibling who wasn’t as annoying as Millicent. But she was very beautiful, and recently, he’d been noticing her in a whole new way. Clayton had supported her forever, so didn’t she owe him some repayment? Why shouldn’t he seize what he craved?

  It wouldn’t be the first time he forced himself on a woman, and it wouldn’t be the last. If he proceeded, what could she do about it? Complain to Beatrice?

  Any protest would be futile because his mother would never intervene.

  Shawcross relaxed, evidently deeming the difficult conversation to be over. The man’s gall was infuriating, and Clayton yearned to kick him out, to apprise him he was no longer welcome at Carter Crossing, but he couldn’t guess how to accomplish it. What if he ordered Shawcross out, but he refused to go?

  And Shawcross was much more popular with the other guests than Clayton was. If Shawcross left, they might all flee with him.

  “You have another cousin,” Shawcross said. “A boy of ten or so. Alex Carter?”

  Clayton could barely swallow down a gasp. The boy was supposed to keep himself hidden for the duration of the party. Rebecca had promised he would.

  “What about him?” he inquired. “I hope he didn’t upset you.”

  “No. He was very polite. I ran into him by accident out in the stables. He asked about my adventuring.”

  “I’m sorry you were bothered. I’ll deal with it. You won’t have to fuss with him again.”

  “It was no bother. I liked him. He reminded me of myself at that age.”

  “Well…good. I’m glad he wasn’t a nuisance.”

  “Who were his parents? I believe he’s an orphan, but he seemed to be quite remarkable. Who sired him?”

  Clayton was thrilled to have the little prick described in such glowing terms, and he was anxious to impress Shawcross. He puffed
himself up and said, “We’re both worldly men, so I don’t imagine I’ll shock you if I declare that he’s one of my bastards.”

  “One of your bastards?”

  “I met his mother years ago in London. She was a debutante, but you’re aware of how they are.”

  “No, I’m not. How are they?”

  “If a fellow pays them the slightest bit of attention, they start to hear wedding bells.”

  “Where is she now?” Shawcross asked. “What became of her? How did he end up living with you?”

  Clayton wasn’t about to admit that the stupid tart had died in childbirth. It wasn’t the sort of news that would amuse Shawcross, so he said, “I didn’t keep track of her, and her family didn’t want him, so we took custody of him. My mother and I are magnanimous that way.”

  “Are you?”

  “Look at Rebecca! We let her stay, and it’s worked out swimmingly. She watches the boy for me.”

  “Alex,” Shawcross said. “His name is Alex.”

  Clayton scowled. “I know that.”

  Suddenly, Shawcross leapt up, his chair toppling over, and he grabbed Clayton by the throat. His palm was massive, and he was strong as an ox. He squeezed with his fingers, cutting off Clayton’s air.

  Then he bent down and warned, “If you ever discuss a female in such a foul manner ever again, I’ll kill you. Don’t make me. I’d love to rid the world of you, but I’m trying to avoid that type of violence.”

  He tossed Clayton away—as if he were a ragdoll—and Clayton landed on the patio stones in a stunned heap.

  He was struggling to breathe, was struggling to assert some aplomb, but was unable to find any. He wished he was tough enough to jump up and pummel Shawcross. At the very least, he should have given him a thorough dressing down. The man was a guest. How dare he act like such a barbarian!

  “I…I…think you should head for London,” Clayton wheezed.

  “I’m not ready to head to London, and besides, at the moment, I have business in Frinton with your mother.”

  “What business could you possibly have with my mother?”

  “I’ll let her inform you, but I’d best be off so I’m not late for my appointment.”

  Shawcross sauntered off, and Clayton lay on the verandah, his throat swelling, his body throbbing. Finally, after a lengthy delay, he pushed himself up to a sitting position.

  He peered around, praying there’d been no observers to the hideous incident, but he was very much alone. Praise be!

  On wobbly legs, he pulled himself to his feet. He was swaying and off balance.

  “I’d say this calls for a drink,” he mumbled to no one in particular. “Actually, this calls for several drinks.”

  He smoothed a hand down his coat, then went inside. Vaguely, he wondered if he should locate his mother and notify her about Shawcross joining her in Frinton, but he decided Beatrice could fight her own battles with the deranged lunatic.

  As to Clayton, he needed to calm down and figure out how to evict the sadistic madman. But Shawcross was powerful, vicious, and mentally unhinged, so how could Clayton ever force him to go?

  * * * *

  Beatrice approached the entrance to Carter Imports. It was situated on the wharf in Frinton, tucked in among the taverns and boarding houses where sailors could rent cheap rooms when they were waiting for their ships to sail.

  She would have liked to move to a different building on a better street, but Clayton refused to approve the expense, and their managers insisted they remain on the water so they could look out at vessels as cargo was being loaded and unloaded.

  It was a bone of contention between her and them, and she kept losing the battle.

  She was omnipotent at Carter Crossing, and it galled her that she had no authority at Carter Imports. It was all used up at home where women were allowed to rule the roost, and it was infuriating that she couldn’t make her male employees tremble in the same way she terrorized footmen and maids.

  Back when the company had been Stone Shipping, it had been a massive enterprise, and after Harrison Stone had been laid low by Charles’s embezzlement, they’d had a fleeting growth spurt. Charles had been hailed in the newspapers for saving Lord Coxwold from Harrison’s theft, so initially, people had rushed to become customers.

  Yet Charles hadn’t had the ability to administer such a large endeavor. Clients had gradually switched to other shippers, so the business was much smaller than it had been when Harrison owned it.

  Charles had held on as best he could, but after he’d passed away, Beatrice had had naught but problems. If it hadn’t been their sole source of income, she’d have chucked it all and walked away.

  She’d told her driver to return in two hours. Their chief clerk, Mr. Wilson, would beg her to stay longer than that, but she wouldn’t. For goodness sake! She visited once a month. What more could he expect from her?

  She opened the door that led into a big room that was crammed full of desks. Clerks were usually huddled at them, adding numbers and reviewing contracts, but the place was empty. Where was everyone?

  She headed for the stairs at the rear, as Mr. Wilson tromped down.

  “Mrs. Carter!” he said. “I’m so glad you arrived.”

  He tried to steer her to a corner where, no doubt, he would browbeat her over some non-issue she couldn’t abide.

  “Let’s proceed to your office, Mr. Wilson. Clayton is home to celebrate his birthday, and I have a house filled with guests. I have to get back.”

  She started up the stairs, and he flitted up behind her. He was always a nervous person, but on this occasion, he seemed overly anxious.

  “I thought you and I should chat first,” he said.

  “We will chat. As I am signing all your infernal documents, you can chat until you’re blue in the face.”

  “We have a dilemma to confront.”

  “You constantly have a dilemma,” she complained. “I’ve never stopped by when you weren’t in an absolute dither about some paltry crisis.”

  “Yes, but I hope you won’t blame me. The fellow has…has…legal papers! He fired the staff before I realized what he was about!”

  “What fellow? What papers? What are you jabbering about?”

  Wilson yipped and yapped, as she reached the second floor and marched down the hall to the end. The more senior clerks normally toiled away in the side rooms, and their desks were empty too. Was it a holiday? Had Wilson given them the afternoon off? Was it a meal break?

  If he’d been generous with the workers, there would have to be consequences.

  She plodded into his tiny, cramped office, planning to round the desk and begin wading through the contracts he’d have laid out for her. But to her great astonishment, Raven Shawcross was seated there instead. His brother was positioned next to him, appearing to be some sort of guard.

  They were tough and dangerous, and they studied her with steely expressions—as if she was in trouble.

  “Hello, Beatrice,” Raven Shawcross said. “May I call you Beatrice?”

  “No, you may not, Mr. Shawcross. I have no idea why you’re here, or why you’re sitting at my desk, but I’m tired and in a hurry. I don’t have the time or the patience for any nonsense. Move!”

  She stepped toward him as if she’d assume her rightful spot, but his brother stepped too and blocked her way. The blasted boy stared her down, practically daring her to push on by, and she received the distinct impression that—should she try—he’d push her back.

  Raven Shawcross hadn’t stood to greet her, but was rudely relaxed in the chair and looking very smug, as if he knew something she didn’t.

  “What is the meaning of this?” she demanded. “And show me the respect I’m due. Stand when you address me!”

  Mr. Shawcross didn’t react, but his brother said, “Sit down, Beatrice.”

  “You will not boss me, sir.”

  The cretin grabbed her, dragged her over to an
empty chair, and forced her down onto it. She’d never been treated so shabbily, and she could barely breathe from being so enraged.

  “Mr. Wilson!” She glanced over her shoulder. “I can’t imagine why you let these miscreants in here, but you will escort them out at once.”

  She paused, listening, but evidently, the disloyal toad had vanished. How had Shawcross scared him away? Well, Wilson was a glorified functionary. Beatrice was Mrs. Charles Carter, mother of Clayton Carter, who owned Carter Imports. She wouldn’t be bullied.

  “Speak your piece, Shawcross,” she fumed, “and talk fast. When we’re finished, I intend to have you arrested for trespassing.”

  He smirked. “That would be very hard to do because this business and property are mine now, so I can’t possibly be trespassing.”

  She frowned. “What are you babbling about?”

  “Clayton gambled it away,” he bluntly announced.

  Her heart literally skipped a beat. “You’re lying. We just discussed the company yesterday. He’s been in a bit of a financial slump, so he brought in an investor. Shortly, we’ll have an infusion of cash.”

  “There was no investor,” Mr. Shawcross said. “I had my lawyer tell Clayton that story so I could get my hands on your records. Are you aware that Clayton has a serious gambling problem?”

  “Clayton is a gentleman and all gentlemen gamble.”

  “Yes, but some of them gamble too much. Some of them keep on and on until they squander all their possessions. I’ve always viewed it as an addiction some men can’t shake. Take my brother here.” He pointed to Lucas Shawcross. “He likes to wager occasionally, and he’s grown very rich off it. Lucas, have you ever bet more than you could afford to lose?”

  “Never,” his brother replied. “Not even when I was eight and first held a deck of cards. I knew better.”

  “Your son didn’t know better,” Shawcross told her.

  They were the most frightening words Beatrice had ever heard, and she cocked her head as if he’d spoken in a foreign language she didn’t understand.

  “How could that be?” she asked.

  “It’s simple really. Clayton is an irresponsible wastrel. To cover his losses at the gaming tables, he’s mortgaged his assets over and over, and all of his notes were overdue. I purchased them at a bankruptcy sale.”