by Cheryl Holt
When faced with bad choices, he glommed onto them. Why not? Life was hard, and most of what had been inflicted on him in the past hadn’t been fair or just. Why not seize what he craved and damn the consequences?
It was so much fun to walk onto a moral cliff, to balance precariously, then topple over the edge. He’d never been the sort to plod forward like every other miserable oaf, and he was smarter than other men—men like Clayton Carter—whose dreadful habits overwhelmed their instincts.
His instincts were fine, and he noticed danger approaching, but he rarely jumped out of the way.
He grinned at her, recognizing that he was about to roll the dice and see where luck would land him.
“I might permit you to come,” he said, “but what’s in it for me?”
“What would you like to be in it?”
“I’ll consider my answer and let you know.”
“I have some money. You can have it.”
“I’m filthy rich. I don’t need money.”
“Then what might I have that would interest you in the slightest?”
His torrid gaze wandered down her curvaceous torso. “I’m certain you’ll think of something, and here’s a hint: It will be shocking and salacious, but it will give us a chance to discover how desperately you yearn to escape. And if you don’t realize what I want on your own, I’ll be happy to show you what I mean.”
“Will I like it?”
“Deep down, you have the heart of a harlot, so I’m positive you will.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
“It’s about time you staggered in.”
“I’m here now, Mother, and you’re lucky I am. Don’t nag.”
Clayton glared at Beatrice, his head pounding and stomach roiling from his hangover. It was two in the afternoon, and he might have stayed in bed and not risen at all, but his valet had roused him with the message that Beatrice demanded a conversation.
He’d gamboled in Frinton until dawn and had lurched to the estate as the eastern horizon was beginning to lighten.
With Shawcross manhandling him the prior afternoon, he’d been in no mood to return. The chums on his nocturnal bacchanal hadn’t mentioned the incident, but he supposed those who’d remained behind were aware of the encounter. The servants probably were too.
When he’d still been sober enough to ponder his dilemma, he’d tried to figure out how to kick Shawcross out, but it didn’t seem possible. Wasn’t it better to leave for town himself? After significant reflection, he’d decided it was the perfect solution. He’d declare his party a dull bore and suggest they all go.
Once he announced his departure, his guests would accompany him. If Shawcross chose to dawdle after everyone left, who cared?
He had to sever ties with the mad African explorer, and after he was in the city, he’d spread quiet stories about Shawcross being deranged and that Clayton had dissolved their association because of it.
“Why are you hiding in your bedroom suite?” he asked his mother. “Why aren’t you down in the dining room like a normal person?”
“I can’t show my face down there.”
“Why not?”
She was seated at a table by the window and stuffing herself with muffins. She waved to an empty chair, indicating he should join her, and he trudged over and eased down. He dished up some food and took small bites, wondering if he’d be able to keep any of it down.
“Will you tell me what’s wrong?” he said when she didn’t begin her tale of woe. “Or am I to guess?”
“I went into Frinton yesterday, for my visit to Carter Imports.”
“Yes, yes, and if you intend to regale me with how horrid it was, this discussion will be finished before it’s started.”
“Mr. Shawcross was there—with his brother. He claims he’s your silent investor.”
Clayton froze, his fork suspended halfway to his mouth, as he frantically grappled with the information. Was this good news or bad?
Definitely bad. Considering how Shawcross had abused him, Clayton couldn’t abide the notion of their being partners—silent or otherwise.
“Shawcross is?” he asked. “Are you sure?”
“He served me with some papers.” She pointed to a folder on a nearby table. “We don’t own the business any longer. He owns it now, and he’s shutting it down.”
Clayton scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous. How could Shawcross have purchased my company? I never offered it to him.”
“He fired all the employees.”
“We have ships coming and going. We have cargo and contracts to honor. We can’t simply close our doors.”
“We can’t do anything. It’s none of our affair.”
He felt completely bewildered. “This is absurd. You have to be mistaken.”
“Have you been borrowing money?”
“Maybe some here and there. It’s hardly a crime.”
“Have you arranged mortgages on Carter Imports?”
“A few.”
She gasped with alarm. “Have you encumbered the manor too? Is the house imperiled?”
“I recall a loan or two on the house, but calm down. They’re tiny. We’ll pay them back like that!” He snapped his fingers, the sound echoing off the ceiling.
“How will we pay them?” she asked. “You don’t seem to grasp that our sole source of income has vanished.”
“What source has vanished?” he inquired like a dunce. In his hung-over state, he couldn’t concentrate.
“Focus, Clayton! The business was how we earned our money. If it’s not ours, how—precisely—will we generate any revenue?”
“You’re making a mountain out of a molehill.”
“I don’t think so.”
A niggle of dismay slid down his spine. From the time he’d first moved to town at age eighteen, he’d spent more than he had. There were simply so many intriguing activities to enjoy, and he had to keep up appearances. The minute it became known that a fellow couldn’t afford to revel, his social status imploded, and he began to be ostracized.
It occurred to him that there were spurious forces at work he hadn’t noticed. He sensed he’d been duped and hadn’t realized it.
Why would Shawcross seek to ruin him? Why would Shawcross want his paltry shipping company? Due to Beatrice’s inept management, it was a shell of what it had previously been. Why would Shawcross bother with it?
“I’m certain this is just a misunderstanding,” he said.
“You need to find Shawcross and talk to him. I tried, but he wouldn’t listen to me. It has to be you.”
The words were frightening. It was Clayton’s specific intent to never speak to the wealthy bully ever again. “That’s not necessary, is it?”
“It’s absolutely necessary. You have to approach him, for I’m afraid—whatever his scheme—he’s not finished with us.”
Clayton’s lungs squeezed in his chest. “What can he have in mind?”
“I can’t guess, but we have to learn what it is, then prepare to fight him. I threatened him with legal action, but he laughed and told me I don’t have the funds to hire a lawyer.”
She looked smaller all of a sudden, as if Shawcross had sucked out some of her spite and malice. Clayton had always viewed his mother as the toughest shrew in the kingdom. She ran roughshod over any idiot who stepped in her way, so how had Shawcross bested her?
Well, he wasn’t like any of her prior adversaries. He’d traveled the Dark Continent with Sir Sidney, had seen sights and done deeds that would make ordinary men quail in fear. To him, Beatrice Carter would be like a buzzing gnat. He’d swat her away without breaking a sweat.
How could Clayton fare any better?
He was again mulling the prospect of heading for London. If he could just shift the party there, if he could just get Shawcross out of Carter Crossing, he was positive he could regroup and devise a plan to thwart him.
“How much have you borrowed, Clayton?” his m
other asked.
He frowned. “I can’t give you a solid number.”
“Is it an amount sufficient to bankrupt us?”
“No. Don’t be absurd.”
“I’ve been pondering him. When I met with him in Frinton, he seemed to hate me, and I’ve been thinking…”
Her voice trailed off, and he said, “About what?”
“Rebecca told me a story about him. She claimed his surname isn’t Shawcross, that it’s Stone. Raven Stone.”
“So? Why would I care if he’s changed his name?”
“Your father had…ah…some issues with a man named Stone. It was long ago, but what if Shawcross is related to Mr. Stone somehow? What if he’s plotting revenge over that old quarrel?”
Clayton wasn’t interested in an ancient spat. “When did it happen?”
“Oh, it’s been at least twenty years.”
“Then I’m sure it’s not that. Who would carry a grudge for twenty years?”
Even as he uttered the remark, dread swamped him.
Raven Shawcross was precisely the sort who would carry a grudge forever. Of all the men on Sir Sidney’s expedition team, he was renowned as the harshest, shrewdest, and bravest. He was rumored to have killed dozens—perhaps hundreds—of enemies and malcontents, and he’d handled every dirty task that had vexed Sir Sidney, but that the great hero wouldn’t stoop to handle himself.
Raven Shawcross wasn’t the type to forget a single thing. Everyone said that about him.
“How should we proceed?” she asked.
“You expect me to have an answer?” He rubbed his throbbing head. “I think I’ll declare the party to be over. I’ll depart for town and take the guests with me.”
“You can’t leave me here with Shawcross! Don’t you dare! The fiend terrifies me. His brother too.”
“Well, I can’t loaf in the country. Not with catastrophe festering. I’ll return to London and hire a lawyer. I’ll retain the most expensive one I can find too. I’ll have him deal with Shawcross—so we don’t have to.”
“You’re not paying attention, Clayton. Shawcross says we don’t have the funds to hire a lawyer.”
“Shawcross is an ass.”
Clayton had had all the doom and gloom he could abide for one afternoon. He had to get downstairs and convince the guests that it was best to ride out in the morning.
After he was in the city, he’d track down new lenders and borrow a bit of money to tide them over. He’d use new money to square some of the older debts that were the farthest in arrears. It would stave off any argument with Shawcross.
Yes, that was the ticket! He’d borrow—and he’d gamble too! Maybe his luck would change, and he’d win some of what he required. He’d send a big, fat bank draft to Beatrice, and she could give it to Shawcross and repurchase the company.
He’d never have to talk to Shawcross, and everything would be fine.
He pushed back his chair and started out.
“Where are you going?” his mother asked.
“I have to prepare for my departure to London.”
She sighed. “Your fleeing won’t fix this.”
“It won’t make it any worse either, and for pity’s sake! Stop moping and wringing your hands. You look like a defeated milksop. It’s so unlike you.”
He strolled out and hurried down to the front parlor, desperately in need of a few stiff drinks. Yes, the hair of the dog would definitely improve his mood.
* * * *
Preston maneuvered his gig up the driveway at Oakley, although he wasn’t positive it was still called Oakley. The sign over the gate had been torn down.
He always liked to welcome neighbors, but he wasn’t keen to have the Shawcross brothers move in. In his view, they were scoundrels, and their continued presence boded ill for the young ladies in the Frinton area. For two young ladies in particular.
He’d been visiting Carter Crossing in the evenings, joining in Clayton’s revelries. On each occasion, Millicent had been flirting with Lucas Shawcross. The prior night, she’d even snuck out into the garden to be with him.
He was worried about her, but worried about Rebecca too.
After stumbling on Shawcross kissing her in that secluded bedchamber, he was incredibly disturbed. It probably wasn’t any of his business if she misbehaved, but then again, wasn’t it exactly his business? He and Rebecca were friends, and she had no parent or relative to advise her in her choices.
He’d been endlessly debating his options. His initial idea had been to chat privately with Rebecca, but he’d quickly discarded the notion. He hadn’t the slightest clue how to address such a difficult topic, and—if he warned her to be careful—she likely wouldn’t listen anyway.
A conversation with Mrs. Carter was out of the question, so finally, he’d decided to confer with the obnoxious man himself. He’d remind Shawcross of the predicament he was creating for Rebecca. He’d point out the differences in their status and situation. He’d ask—no, he’d beg—Shawcross to leave her alone.
The door to the manor was wide open, and laborers were marching in and out, carrying in supplies, with renovation work already in progress.
He tied off his gig, climbed down, and went inside where it was organized chaos. Shawcross was standing in the middle of the foyer, holding what appeared to be restoration plans for the house.
Preston sidled over and waited quietly until Shawcross glanced up and noticed him hovering. Then he said, “Hello, Mr. Shawcross. May I speak with you?”
Shawcross could barely hide a grimace. “I’m busy, Mr. Melville, so no, I don’t have time.”
“Can you make time?”
Preston stared him down, ignoring his visible dislike. People thought Preston was an exhausting boor, and he never extended himself in a forceful manner. Generally, he was agreeable and courteous, but he could be extremely obstinate when stubbornness was necessary.
Shawcross was humored by Preston’s display of bravado. Well, let him laugh! Let him tease and joke! Preston liked Miss Rebecca very much, and he wondered what Mr. Shawcross’s opinion would be about her.
Somehow, he doubted Shawcross would have many kind remarks to share.
“Come with me,” Shawcross said. “I’ll give you ten minutes, then we’ll be finished discussing it—forever.”
He started down a deserted hall, guiding Preston away from the carpenters, hammers, and noise. Preston followed him into an empty parlor, and he shut the door, sealing them in.
Preston didn’t dawdle, but seized the initiative. He had ten minutes, and he was sure, when the interval expired, he’d be escorted out—bodily.
“First off, I asked you about this once before, and you lied to me, so I’m asking you about it again. I’d appreciate it if you’d be truthful.”
“Fine. What is it?”
“We briefly attended school together as boys, and your name is Raven Stone. You don’t remember me, but my recollection of you is very clear. Please admit your identity.”
Shawcross looked exasperated. “Yes, Mr. Melville, in another life, I used to be Raven Stone.”
“Then you have no secrets from me, sir. I’m aware of the stories about your father, and you needn’t clarify your early years. I’m certain it’s painful for you to recall them.”
“It’s not painful. Those old memories make me really, really angry.”
“Is your father’s downfall the reason you’ve concealed who you are?”
“Wouldn’t you have?”
“I can’t imagine how I’d have reacted.”
“My father had one acquaintance who stood by him, and he helped us stealthily, so the scandal wouldn’t ever attach to him.”
“I’m sorry to hear it,” Preston said.
“He suggested we distance ourselves from my father as quickly as we could, so we adopted my mother’s maiden name of Shawcross.” He shrugged. “I shouldn’t have, but I was only ten. What did I know?”
“Why haven’t you told Clayton and Mrs. Carter who you are?”
Shawcross smiled a grim, frightening smile. “I’ll let it be a surprise.”
Preston tamped down a shudder. “You have plans with regard to them.”
“Yes.”
“What will be left of them when you’re through?”
“Not much, I don’t suppose.” Shawcross announced it casually, nonchalantly, as if they were conversing about the weather.
“You’re remodeling Oakley,” Preston said. “Will you live here?”
“Probably.”
“Should you tarry so near the Carters? Is that wise? It might be a burr under your saddle to be in such close proximity.”
“They won’t bother me for long.”
Preston might have inquired as to what was coming, but the Carters’ problems were their own. He had other fish to fry. “May I be frank, Mr. Shawcross?”
“Isn’t that why we’re in this deserted parlor?”
“Yes, I guess it is. It’s about Millicent Carter.”
“What about her?”
“I realize you went riding with her that one afternoon.”
“I have no interest in her, so rest easy. She’s too immature and silly for me.”
“I’m glad of it, but what about your brother?”
“What about him?”
“He’s been flirting with her quite outrageously, and I’m afraid he’s leading her in a direction she shouldn’t go.”
“You’ve butted your nose into our business in a way that’s irking me.”
“I’m sweet on Miss Carter; I can’t deny it. I hope to marry her someday, but your brother is handsome and exciting. As you mentioned, she’s immature and silly. I’m sure he has no honorable motives toward her.”
“I’m sure he doesn’t,” Mr. Shawcross bluntly concurred, “but here’s the dilemma for us. My brother behaves however he likes. If he’s decided to trifle with her, and I order him to stop—which I already have—he’ll simply escalate his seduction merely to annoy me.”
“What can we do then? Will you twiddle your thumbs until he ruins her? Is that where you’ll allow this to end?”
