Seduced by a Scoundrel - By Barbara Dawson Smith Page 0,117
James remained there. But when he lifted his head, Alicia and her mother were gone. An overwhelming panic struck him. He told himself she would be putting her mother to bed, seeing to Mrs. Philpot. There would be time enough to speak with his wife. Time enough to hold her, to coax her, to work himself back into her good graces.
The footmen bore away the marquess’s body on a makeshift stretcher. Another servant righted the wheeled chair and brought it to them. Drake helped to lift his brother, while James caught the arms of the chair and levered himself into it.
Soot streaked his face and shirt. A lock of hair drooped onto his brow. He looked weary and saddened, his eyes shadowed. Clearing his throat, James muttered, “He said I didn’t understand. But he was the one who didn’t.”
Drake could say nothing to that. He knew no adequate words of comfort. The loss was far greater for his brother.
The ballroom was dim, lit only by the remaining lamp. Two footmen would stand guard here tonight, to ensure that no smoldering places caught flame again. They had opened the windows to air out the room, though Drake knew the reek of smoke and charred wood would linger until the damage was repaired.
James wheeled himself to the unscathed end of the dais. “Fetch me that letter,” he said to the footman. “And the dueling pistol.”
The servant brought both to him.
Drake strode to his brother’s side as he examined the long-nosed gun, turning it in his hands. Hailstock must have dropped the pistol when he’d run to push James out of the way. “We’re lucky it didn’t discharge,” Drake said, his throat dry. A wild shot could have struck Alicia.
“Lucky?” James asked. Without warning, he pointed the gun at the shadowed ceiling and pulled the trigger. An empty click sounded. “Just as I’d thought,” he whispered. “Damned thing wasn’t loaded.”
The realization stunned Drake. How much he truly hadn’t understood about his father. That was all the more reason not to want the title.
He put out his hand. “I’ll take those documents now.”
James tucked the letter inside his coat along with the marriage certificate and the affidavit of birth. “No, I’ll keep them until your claim is established.”
“Don’t be a damned noble fool!” Drake flared. “Hailstock wanted them destroyed. You should comply with his last wish.”
“On the contrary, I shall protect these papers with my life.” James afforded him a keen stare. “Resign yourself to it, brother. You are now Lord Hailstock.”
Chapter Twenty-eight
Three weeks later, Alicia opened the door at Pemberton House to another floral delivery.
These were wildflowers, purple hyacinth and white hawthorn and yellow buttercups arranged in a Chinese porcelain vase, the bouquet so enormous it hid the deliveryman’s face. He walked jauntily past her, flashing her a familiar grin, his honey-brown hair tousled from the spring breeze.
“Gerald!” she exclaimed. “I thought you’d gone to the club.”
“I did,” he said, carrying the vase through the foyer. “And your husband sent me on this errand.”
Drake.
As she followed her brother into the drawing room, Alicia felt the rise of an involuntary thrill, a sensation she promptly squelched. She mustn’t let Drake charm his way back into her heart. And he had certainly tried during the weeks since she and Mama had returned to their old home.
An extravagance of blooms decorated the drawing room—and every other chamber in the house. Roses in red and white and pink. Delicate hothouse orchids. Pink camellias and yellow marsh marigolds and purple violets. A profusion of lovely scents filled the air.
And there were other gifts, too. Tins of bonbons and other fine confections scattered the tables. Perfumes and jewelry crowded her dressing table upstairs. In the library, there were books in fine leather bindings, poetry and philosophy, histories and novels. Drake seemed to have an unerring instinct for her taste in reading.
But he did not understand her heart.
Beneath a spray of apple blossoms, Mama sat at a pie-crust table on which stood a crystal ball. She wore the garb of a gypsy: a saffron-yellow turban, shiny gold earrings, and a cape of midnight-blue satin sprinkled with crescent moons. The costume was another gift from Drake, of course. Alicia thought it especially diabolical of him to make Mama his ally.
Lady Eleanor clapped her hands, her bracelets jingling. “Ah, more flowers! Didn’t I predict their arrival not ten minutes ago?”
Mrs. Philpot cleared a place on the pianoforte for Gerald to set the new offering. “You certainly did, my lady,” she said, clucking