“Cease talking,” Whitney interrupted, his ire evident in his heavy drawl and the booming thunder of his voice. “Do you think me a bumbling fool, Lord Ravenscroft? Do you think your protestations of love will ever be believed by me? Oh, I have no doubt that your silver tongue charmed my sweet Clara. But it has no such effect upon me. I can see a hog’s turd for what it is.”
The man was as pugnacious as a prize fighter. Damn it.
“A hog’s turd, am I?” He made a great show of looking down at his person. “And here I thought myself a peer of the realm. An earl.”
“Titles mean nothing to me,” Whitney growled. “They aren’t the measure of a man.”
Well. This certainly would not be the first or the last time that someone had found him morally lacking. Hardly shocking. “I’m a man of reason, Mr. Whitney. I shall count your remarks as those of an overset father. Regardless of your opinion of me, I am the man who will marry your daughter. Do let us try to remain civil.”
“Civil is me refraining from shooting you.”
“But we are here to discuss the marriage settlement, are we not, and the marriage itself?” His head had begun thumping, and no amount of brandy could cure what ailed him. Best to tie up this matter neatly. “I can secure a license as quickly as possible. We will marry quietly. I propose a dowry of two hundred thousand pounds to refurbish the estates and provide your daughter with a standard of living to which she is accustomed and another hundred thousand pounds in stocks of North Atlantic Electric. Whatever else you decide to settle on her will be hers, free and unencumbered as the law states.”
“Son-of-a-bitch. You’ve been planning this, haven’t you?” Whitney’s hand was creeping back toward his revolver, which he’d holstered at his waist like a common outlaw.
Actually, his sweet little dove had planned it. Julian had merely turned the tables on her. She was a clever thing, he’d give her that, but no match for a man of his ilk. “Of course not, sir. But I do know what the estates require and what your daughter will require as my wife. Should you think it judicious to bless her with more, that is your choice.”
“You’re a cunning bastard, I’ll say that for you.” Whitney stood abruptly. “Before I agree to anything, I’ll need to speak with my daughter directly. I’ll send word to you in the morning. In the meantime, sleep well knowing I’m a merciful man who spared you a painful death tonight because I love my daughter. And never forget, Ravenscroft, just how much I love her. For if anything should ever happen to make her unhappy, retribution will be mine.”
Perhaps it would be best to allow the man to retreat, lick his wounds. Julian was fairly confident that Clara would maintain his ruse. She wanted her freedom. So too did he.
He stood and bowed to Jesse Whitney. “I will expect to hear from you tomorrow.”
“Four years in the hell of war, Ravenscroft. I know how to kill a man.” Whitney tapped the revolver-shaped lump beneath his jacket. “Never forget.”
Julian didn’t suppose he would any time soon. Fortunately for him, murder remained a punishable offense. But he knew a worthy foe when he’d met one, and Jesse Whitney was certainly that.
lara received the summons she’d been dreading just after breakfast.Her stepmother gently knocked at her chamber door, apparently the messenger.
“Clara dear? May I enter?” Lady Bella’s voice was tentative, worried, muffled by the wood separating them.
No, Clara wanted to deny.You may not.She eyed the window with dedicated purpose. It wasn’t the first time she’d contemplated an escape via the deep ledge and accommodating architectural effects adorning the front of her father’s stately home. But perhaps it would be the last. She’d cast her fate in Ravenscroft’s study, and she’d be lying to herself if she didn’t admit that decision had brought with it enough trepidation to shake an entire phalanx of soldiers.
She clasped her hands before her and took a staying breath. All night she had waited for someone to address what had occurred. Her father’s wife had said little as she’d escorted Clara from the carriage upon her return from the earl’s home.What have you done this time, Clara?A footman had promptly been stationed at her door as if she were a prisoner.
She’d waited, still dressed, until her father had returned home, having realized far too late that her buttons were one off and her bodice tellingly skewed. And still, nothing had happened. No one had come. No caterwauling, no hollering, no wildly waving revolvers. There had been instead a deep, troubling quiet.
The silence told Clara quite a lot, for she’d indulged in more than her fair share of scrapes and troubles over the years following her mother’s death back home in Virginia. There had always been remonstration, reprimands. There had never been such deafening, dread-inducing tranquility.
“Clara? I’m afraid I’m going to enter whether you’d like me to or not.”
Yes, she had supposed as much. No more procrastination then, though the sleepless night had rendered her a bundle of ragged nerves, bloodshot eyes and all. “Enter as you will.”
Bella breezed over the threshold, effortlessly beautiful and elegant as always with her raven hair styledau courant, high on her head with a fringe of bangs. She wore a silk morning gown of cheerful yellow trimmed with flounces. But her expression was that of a funeral mourner.
“Clara.” Her stepmother’s tone carried a visceral sense of disappointment, her mouth tightening into a pinched line of dread.
“My lady.” Clara performed a perfect curtsy. The occasion seemed to merit it.
“Your father wishes to speak with you.” Bella crossed the chamber and took up Clara’s clasped hands in a show of tender concern. “He has allowed me the favor of this tête-à-tête with you first.”
How wretched.
Clara didn’t want to talk to anyone. Not about what had happened. Not about her supposed ruining. Not about anything. She still wasn’t entirely sure herself what had happened, truth be told. As traces of dawn had stolen across the sky, she’d begun to wonder if she hadn’t been outmaneuvered at her own chess game. All she wanted was to leave for her homeland with enough money to pursue her cause of women gaining the right to vote. But she mistrusted the earl’s sudden capitulation. She mistrusted it very much indeed.
She struggled to tamp down her disquiet as she met her stepmother’s frank gaze. “Must we talk, Lady Bella? You are well-intentioned, I know, but I would prefer not to delay the inevitable.”
Her father waited, the agonizing hours of quiet at an end. He was a kind man, a fair man in most ways. But in the earl’s study, he’d been unhinged. Her fault. Guilt crept over her, mingling with the foreboding. Perhaps she had finally managed to produce her own stunning, inglorious downfall. And she’d thought herself so sharp. Alas.
