Ah, at last, they were getting somewhere.
He drew a chair away from the table and sat, careful not to make any sudden movements. He was almost certain she wouldn’t dare shoot him, butalmost certainwasn’t quite good enough when it came to keeping one’s brains from splattering onto the kitchen table, was it?
He reached into his coat pocket, withdrew the letter, and waited with some curiosity for her to emerge from her hiding place, but when she detached herself from the shadows and passed in front of the window, the gray morning light fell on her face, and he nearly bit his tongue in half.
This was no robust kitchen wench with raw, red hands and the thick neck he’d been expecting, but a slip of a girl with luminous green eyes, silky golden hair hanging in a long, loose braid down her back, and the hems of a white nightdress swirling around a pair of trim ankles.
Thiswas his tormentor? This nymph, this woodland sprite, this dainty little pixie had threatened to put a ball between his eyes? He bit back a wild urge to laugh. Why, the chit couldn’t be more than twenty years old, and she appeared as delicate as the porcelain figurines his mother used to collect.
Who the devilwasshe? And what was she doing here, alone in this house?
Could she have been Ambrose’s lover? She was far too young for him, of course, but there was a certain type of man who allowed his cock to make decisions that were better left to his head. He wouldn’t have thought Ambrose was one of them, but then he’d only been a boy when he’d known him, and he’d revered him then with the sort of blind adoration of a lonely child.
God knew Ambrose had proved himself a scoundrel in the end.
So, Ambrose had taken a much younger lover, and then he’d gone and died on her, leaving her alone in a ramshackle house? Yes, that sounded plausible.
If he’d been a better man, perhaps he might have felt some sympathy for her, but hewasn’ta better man, nor did he aspire to be one. Whoever she was, she had no one to blame for her current predicament but herself. He’d save his sympathies for those who didn’t cause their own problems with poor judgment.
She held out her hand. “The letter, sir, if you please.”
He placed the scrap of paper in her hand, still taking care not to make any sudden movements. She might have an angel’s face, but given the ease with which she wielded that pistol, the celestial began and ended there.
The letter was a paltry thing, one line only.
Come to Fairford, and claim your treasure.
It was characteristically cryptic, but then Ambrose had always had a flair for the dramatic. He never did a thing plainly, but surely there was only one way to interpret such a message? After all these years—a decade of offers of outrageous sums of money, and when that failed, threats, scheming, and bribes—at long last, Ambrose had decided to just hand Hammond Court over to him.
Rather surprising, as he hadn’t shown the least qualm in stealing it in the first place, but perhaps his conscience had got the better of him, in the end. Such things tended to happen when a man was on his deathbed.
“Grantham.”
He jerked his attention back to the nymph—that is, the chit with the pistol. She’d turned the letter over and was studying the direction.
“Yes. I’m Grantham. The Duke of Grantham,” he added, rather unnecessarily. Everyone in England knew who he was. “I’m certain Ambrose must have mentioned me.”
“Grantham,” she repeated, staring down at the paper in her hands as if she couldn’t quite believe what she was seeing. “His Grace, the Tenth Duke of Grantham.”
“As I said.” Good God, was the girl simple? “I do hope you’re not going to claim you’ve never heard of me.” He may not have set foot in this godforsaken corner of England in fifteen years, but there wasn’t a single soul in the cursed village of Fairford who didn’t know the name Grantham.
Knew it, and remembered, just as he did.
One never forgot where they came from, no matter how much they might wish to. You couldn’t escape your past. It held you fast, like a butterfly pinned to a board.
She continued to gaze at him, her face giving nothing away.
“I think you know precisely who I am, madam, and why I’m here.” Max rose to his feet, weary of her games. “Nineteen years ago, Ambrose St. Claire stole Hammond Court from my family, and I’m here to take it back.”
* * *
Grantham. God above, Maxwell Burke, the Duke of Grantham, here at Hammond Court.
Ambrose hadn’t merely mentioned this man, he’dwarnedher about him, on numerous occasions, most notably on the day he died. “I know who you are, Your Grace.”
She’d known him forever, hadn’t she? For as long as she could remember, Ambrose had spoken of him in a tone he seemed to reserve for Maxwell Burke alone, one of regret, fondness, affection, and resentment all at once.
A lost soul, Ambrose had called him, but the duke didn’t look lost toher. He’d found his way through the front door of Hammond Court and into her house easily enough, hadn’t he?
