Love With the Perfect Scoundrel Page 26

  “Sir, I would ask you to wait for me here.”

  His faded eyes sharpened. “But Lady Sh—”

  “I’m sorry. I insist. But I shall require your aid shortly.”

  Before he could say another word, Grace strode forward, past the paneled doors, into a majestic chamber. The ornate door closed out the rest of the world with solid finality.

  Beyond the bronze figurines of horses, and an endless stream of past and present champions captured within the gilt frames of masters, a solitary man sat at an orderly, large wooden desk without ornamentation. As Grace approached, he raised his head, and she nearly stopped in surprise.

  The man was charismatic in a brutal fashion. He could not be much older than forty, yet his thick raven hair was shot through with startling silver streaks. That barely tamed hair, his bronzed skin, and pale green eyes combined to radiate ruthless power and keen intelligence. He slowly stood, and Grace was nearly overwhelmed by his presence.

  Oh God.

  “Lady Sheffield?”

  She nodded and offered her hand. He brought it to his lips and kissed the back of her hand. “A pleasure, Countess.”

  She had meant to provoke him, humiliate him, and, if necessary, beg him to release Michael. What she had not planned to do was be overawed by a man who had done everything in his power to destroy the one man who meant everything to her. “Actually, this will most likely not be a pleasure, sir, for either one of us.”

  He chuckled. “Oh, but you are mistaken. It is not often a beautiful lady such as you condescends to visit a mucked-out male bastion. Shall we?” He indicated a bow window facing the neatly manicured rear grounds.

  Two new leather armchairs faced each other on either side of a low table and Grace seated herself in one, feeling immediately dwarfed by the overtly masculine furniture. Casually, Mr. Manning pinched together two crystal glasses on a side board and brought forward a bottle of brandy as well. He raised his brows. “So sorry I cannot offer you tea, Lady Sheffield, but I do believe this might be more in keeping with the tenor of our meeting, don’t you agree?” His tone and smile brimmed with intimacy. “May I?”

  “Thank you, but, no. I’ve come to discuss—”

  “Oh, but Lady Sheffield, I insist.” He poured great dollops of amber spirits into the two glasses and raised his own to make a toast. She reluctantly followed suit.

  He grinned, one side of his smile rising a bit higher than the other. “What say you? Shall we toast Michael, possessor of far too many aliases? Dare I hope that he is finally to bring me good fortune instead of bad?” The man had the utter audacity to wink.

  Grace suppressed the urge to toss the drink in his face and instead swallowed the contents. To her credit, she did not reveal the fact that a flood of fire had just entered her throat.

  “Oh, very good, Lady Sheffield. You are a revelation, Countess.” He reached for one of the many newspapers on the low table. “And here I was expecting a wilting, tearful dab of a miss…‘Lady S, she of the recent spate of ruptured matrimonial engagements.’”

  So much for polite small talk. “Mr. Manning, precisely how much money will it require for you to withdraw your complaints?”

  “My dear Lady Sheffield, how very vulgar. And you a proper member of the ton and all. Are you attempting to buy my integrity? A man’s word is everything, is it not?”

  With a start, Grace remembered Michael saying the Mannings had taught him everything about dishonesty, cruelty, envy, and something else, which eluded her. She pondered her answer as she rearranged her gown’s skirting. She was no good at wit and innuendo. She was no good at negotiation or compromise. He would either take her money and release Michael or not.

  Grace cleared her throat again. “Mr. Manning, you and I both know Michael Ranier is the Earl of Wallace. As soon as this is brought to the attention of the House of Lords—indeed, the Prince Regent himself—he will be released.”

  “I would not wager on it.” He scratched his jaw. “I daresay the criminally minded Mr. Ranier has little if any proof of his identity now, does he? Other than his apparent uncanny resemblance to the former earl. And, my dear Lady Sheffield, I suppose it only fair to tell you that half the lords in Parliament owe me favors and the other half owe me substantial blunt. I did say a man’s word is everything, did I not? And the Prince Regent? Well, suffice it to say that I supply him with some of his more interesting amusements. Shall I tell you about them?”

  Her imagination brimming with horrid ideas, Grace did not dare to ask for clarification. Instead, she used her last bargaining chip. “I am prepared to offer you twenty-five thousand pounds in exchange for your signature on a document clearing Michael Ranier of any and all murder charges.”

  “Hmmm. He’s worth only twenty-five, is he? That’s vaguely insulting, don’t you think? Then again that lovely auburn-haired vixen, Miss Givan, offered but a pittance in comparison. Perhaps if I wait a bit more other women will appear with even higher bribes in the offing.”

  Grace thought that if she held a dagger, she might indeed be provoked enough to plunge it in his heart. She lifted her chin. “I am prepared to offer you fifty thousand pounds, sir.” She would have given an extra thousand all for the chance to call him what she really thought of him.

  Mr. Manning raised one of his sweeping black brows and then leaned forward. Refusing to move away from him, Grace sat, her back arched, on the edge of the massive seat. Mr. Manning’s fingers caught the long strands of pink and white pearls at her neck, and he twisted them, almost forcing her to leave her seat. “Fifty thousand, eh? But that’s not such a hardship now, is it my dear? Seventy-five thousand is a much more interesting number, don’t you think?” He released the necklaces and sprawled his large frame inelegantly against the padded leather. “You are fortunate that I find myself tempted, as you’ve come at a convenient time. I’m swimming in debt from these new buildings and that sum will come in quite handy. Yes, I think even Howard would agree his murder adequately avenged for that tidy sum.”

  Rowland Manning uncrossed his legs and recrossed them in the other direction. “I’m actually a very generous man, Countess. You might live comfortably on your reduced yearly income as long as you release your servants, forego new frocks, and economize most ardently. Ah, but that is not my affair, now is it?”

  She really couldn’t breathe. She might very well deflate if she opened her mouth to say a single word.

  “Oh, and I think I would fancy those pearls, too, madam. They’ll be such a lovely reminder of our impromptu afternoon interlude.”

  “You are as vile as I’ve been told.” Grace’s hands were trembling as she unhooked the heavy pearls and allowed them to drop into his outstretched hands. This was proof positive a man could not be judged by his physiognomy. Rowland Manning was as terrifyingly beautiful as his soul was ugly.

  “My dear, you are entirely correct. I assume Mr. Williamson accompanied you to prepare the necessary documents? I am sure you will understand if I ask you to wait with your solicitor as he draws up everything in the private outer chamber? Can’t abide solicitors or their endless rationales. But I shall await your return with great anticipation, Lady Sheffield.” His smile was as frosty and benevolently charming as a newly minted aristocrat with charity on his mind but not in his heart.

  Grace decamped, furious at being dismissed in such a cavalier fashion, and furious at herself. But that was nothing compared to the abject feeling of despair she endured as she explained to Mr. Williamson what he must do. There were far too many protestations, and far too many mentions of Grace’s dear husband and how Lord Sheffield would disapprove.

  “Mr. Williamson, I’m ordering you to do as I ask. I appreciate all your fine advice, but I shall never waiver and Lord Sheffield left me this fortune to do with as I see fit.”

  He looked at her with such pity, and yet for the first time, Grace didn’t care what he or anyone else thought of her rash actions. She kept picturing Michael in misery, straining against chains
, hungry and freezing, cut and bleeding. Each time, she would urge the solicitor to write faster.

  After an eternity, documents in hand, Grace rapped loudly on Mr. Manning’s door.

  “Come.”

  The footmen closed the heavy door behind her and she approached his desk where he was once again ensconced. With nary a look at her, he accepted the documents, motioned blindly toward a chair across from him and became engrossed in the sheaf of papers for the next quarter hour.

  “Could we get on with it, Mr. Manning?”

  “Impatient, aren’t we?”

  “Will you ever stop asking redundant questions?”

  He laughed and the sound was different from the cynicism she had heard before. It was richer and deeper, and she hated it because she was determined to hate everything about this man who had hunted Michael unjustly for so many years.

  And then, after a final perusal of the documents, he signed the letter to the magistrate clearing Michael of the murder charges for Howard Manning. He tossed the document back to her and retained the extraordinary promissory note.

  “Thank you, my dear. It has been a pleasure to do business with you. Please feel free to bring your cattle here for auction. I can guarantee an excellent price, especially since it’s you, Countess.” He came around the desk and stood before her.

  “I’ll use Tattersall’s, you black-hearted monster.”

  He smiled. “You know, Lady Sheffield, even though you will not believe me—and I daresay you shouldn’t—I feel it my duty to warn you to take better care the next time you choose a lover.”

  Her gloved hand cracked against his massive jaw before she could think. She’d never struck a living thing in her life, and here she’d slapped two men in less than two months. She was utterly justified, but still…Her hand throbbed with pain.

  He chuckled and wiped a tiny speckle of blood from the corner of his mouth. “Michael is a lucky sod. Such fire under such elegance. It’s too bad I did not find you first. Are you sure I can’t tempt you to favor a different suit—with the additional lure of my new fortune?”

  She ignored his audacious words. “Why? Why do you hate him so much? He didn’t murder your brother and you know it.”

  “Take heart, you’re not the first to be taken in nor likely the last. He always had such an honest air about him. But don’t fool yourself, my dear. Your devoted Saint Michael is a gambling, unprincipled sod in disguise. And may God preserve those who best him in a wager.”

  Grace’s words of denial stuck in her throat and Mr. Manning continued. “He killed my brother. Lost two quarters’ worth of wages to Howard at dice and then plotted to murder him. And he carried out the plan right under my nose, in a boxed stall not fifty feet from my office. I blame myself. I should have known that boy would be nothing more than a replica of his nob of a father, the greatest debauching, depraved aristocrat I’ve ever known. His offspring did not fall far from the tree.”

  “And how would you know anything about the former earl?” she asked stiffly.

  “Why, my dear.” He smiled grimly. “I know more about the elder Lord Wallace, may Satan eternally torture his soul, than your dear Michael does.”

  “How could that be?” His calm, certain, cold expression infuriated her.

  His laughter held not an inch of humor. “Haven’t you guessed, sweetheart?” he asked dryly. “The former Lord Wallace was my sire too, sad as I am to admit it.”

  A few pieces of fractured knowledge fell into place with sickening perfection.

  “He was a giant, profligate, rutting nob, he was—despite everything your Michael always had to say about the grand Earl of Wallace. Seduced my mother, a maid in the abbey. She was but sixteen. He made her pretty promises but did nothing to protect her when she found herself with child. With me.”

  “And so you blame Michael for his father’s sins. May I ask when this occurred, sir? You are many years Michael’s senior, are you not?”

  “A man’s character is fixed early on. My sire was a randy heir of fifteen, and apparently went on to fool everyone that he was a modern-age saint living a virtuous existence in and around the sacred abbey’s walls.”

  “But surely it was your father’s parents who cast out your mother.”

  He glared at her, his dark eyes burning with anger. “You can fabricate your version, and I shall choose my own.”

  “And what of Howard Manning?”

  “My mother was sent away and after much hardship, found work as a seamstress in London. A year later Howard was born. I don’t know who Howard’s father was and I never asked. Even though you’ve lived a sheltered life, Lady Sheffield, even you must know the sordid things that can happen to a woman who is not offered protection.”

  Bile rose in the back of Grace’s throat. “What was your mother’s name?” God help her, but she could guess…

  “Why, it was Maura Manning. Buried her many years ago in the potter’s fields and then I sent Howard to Wallace Abbey with the lovely signet ring my father gave her. The one she refused to sell. My father had enough of a conscience to at least employ my brother, while I apprenticed for a livery stable here in town. But I’m not complaining, mind you. I think I did rather well for myself, don’t you?”

  “I’m sorry for what you and your family suffered.” She struggled not to feel sorry for the man before her. “But I would hope your current station would help you forget the past.”

  “Did it help you?”

  “I beg your pardon?” she asked.

  “I remember your own family’s downfall. Was the talk of the town. I even bought one of the horses at auction. Did Lord Sheffield’s wealth ease you? No, I see it did not. It rarely does, you know, although there is one recourse that does have its merits. Revenge. It’s even better, I’ve learned, when one has to wait for it.”

  Her anger flared anew. “Well, I hope you choke on it. There is nothing that will erase the stain of evil on your soul for persecuting an innocent man for so many years. Michael did not kill your brother over money. It was done in self-defense, at a guess.”

  “At a guess?” He lifted his brow. “Never say he got you to fork over seventy-five thousand pounds without ever telling you what happened? Backed my brother into a stall and stuck a pitchfork in his belly to ensure a slow and painful death. He then retrieved the wagered blunt and ran away like the murdering thief that he was. My brother had plenty of time to tell me the whole of it before he died. And, of course, there were witnesses…my most trusted stable hands.”

  Grace withered under the harsh man’s impossible words uttered in such blinding certainty. Shaking, she hid her hands behind her. “You are wrong. I will never believe what you say. Howard Manning started that fire at Wallace Abbey. The only question I have is whether he was stealing the earl’s horses and giving them to you or selling them to the gypsies. Are you a liar, a blackmailer, and a thief, sir?”

  His eyes flared for a moment before they returned to their earlier cool appraisal. “That’s all right, sweetheart, you are probably better off believing as you do. You’d be a simpleton to gamble a royal fortune unless you believed him with your whole heart. You and he should rub along well together—both of you wagering fools. Of course, you’ll die penniless, just like your parents. I thank the good Lord above for my mother’s practical Irish blood every day of my life.”

  Her own blood had nearly stilled in her veins at a sudden thought. “Michael doesn’t know you’re his half brother, does he? You took him in as a young apprentice and never told him.”

  His heavy-lidded gaze raked over her. “My dear, do I look like the sort of man who would claim a sniveling arsonist as a relation? I would not trust Michael Ranier or any of the other names he hid behind, within an inch of my life. I was generous to give him the same start in life that I had myself.” His mysterious, penetrating eyes bore into hers. “And you may tell him that if he ever dares to set foot on my property, I will shoot his bloody head off without question.”

 
Chapter 19

  Grace was grateful for the steadying arm of Mr. Brown as a footman announced their presence to the occupants of the elegant Helston House front salon later that evening.

  “Ata, whatever is the matter?” she said as soon as the footman retreated. The dowager was mute with grief, tears streaming down her face as the Duke of Beaufort stood looking out of an open window, the cold air swirling into the room. Mr. Brown brushed past her to go to Ata.

  “He…he…” Ata stumbled. “Charles must have misunderstood that—”

  Mr. Brown strode over to the duke and poked the much larger man in the chest. “What did you do to her? Why, I’ll strangle you with the bell cord if you’ve harmed a hair on her pretty head. What in hell is going on?”

  Grace glanced at Ata’s gilded birdcage, the little door hanging open. “Oh, Ata…where is dear Pip?”

  She moaned. “She’s gone. Flown away, and in such weather.”

  “It was a little mistake,” the duke blustered. “She insisted the bird loved her and would never leave her. But everyone knows birds don’t give a damn about anyone. They can’t when they have a brain the size of a pea.”

  “And then?” Mr. Brown said ominously.

  “And then she insisted the bird always flew to her when out of its cage so I opened it to see if she was right. I thought it more sporting to give the bird a choice so I opened the bloody window.”

  “You will not blaspheme in front of Her Grace.” Mr. Brown emphasized each word with additional pokes to the flustered duke, who was forced to take a step back with each prod.

  “I don’t know what you mean. She always blasphemes.”

  “Yes, but she’s a lady and it’s her right to do as she pleases. You, however, are not permitted to do anything to alarm her. Opening that window was a capital offense,” Mr. Brown barked. “Do you understand?”

  The taller gentleman was finally against the wall and his face became nearly purple with rage. “I’ll tell you what I understand. You are nothing more than a minor peer of Scotland whereas I am the royal Duke of Beaufort, seventeenth in line to be king, you miserable piece of plaid-colored lint. If you dare to touch my person again I shall call you out. Now step away, sir.”