Seduced by a Scoundrel - By Barbara Dawson Smith Page 0,23
a fancy to my mother and seduced her.”
“Is that what she told you?” Hailstock let out a contemptuous laugh. “I never even met the bitch.”
Consumed by a burst of rage, Drake only just stopped himself from balling his fingers into fists. It would serve no purpose to strike the marquess. There was a better way to rub his noble nose in the dirt.
Drake stalked around the desk and yanked open a drawer. Reaching inside, he pulled out the diamond stickpin in the design of a stylized H. “You gave this to her to buy her silence.”
Hailstock grimaced. “That only proves her a thief.”
“Or you a liar.” Drake tossed the stickpin back into the drawer, where it clattered into a corner. “Life hasn’t turned out quite as you planned, has it? Your bastard son is a rich man now. And your legitimate heir is a cripple—because of you.”
Hailstock turned pale. His hand gripped the back of a chair, and his gold signet glinted in the candlelight. “Riffraff! Should you dare to involve James in our quarrel, by God, I’ll ruin you.”
Drake couldn’t begrudge Hailstock’s doting protection of the bedridden twenty-two-year-old. Hailstock had purchased a racehorse for James on his eighteenth birthday, and on that same afternoon, the reckless youth had taken his fateful tumble.
Casually sitting on the edge of the desk, Drake regarded his father. “Luckily for you, my lord, James doesn’t concern me in the slightest. I’m far more interested in Lady Alicia Pemberton.”
“You aren’t worthy of her,” Hailstock said. “Your marriage will be a travesty.”
“Ah, but she’ll be my stepping-stone into society. Henceforth, your by-blow will be invited to the same parties as you.”
Those aristocratic nostrils flared. “So that is your plan,” Hailstock said scathingly. “Give it up. If you claim a relation to me, no one will accept your word over mine.”
“I have no intention of revealing the truth of my parentage … yet.” First, he would enjoy watching his father squirm.
“The Pembertons aren’t even accepted anymore. Lady Brockway is a lunatic, a pariah. She belongs in Bedlam Hospital.”
“Are you afraid of one little madwoman?” Privately, Drake admitted he’d enjoyed meeting the dowager. She had a certain elfin sparkle in her eyes that made him wonder if Alicia had possessed such charm before duty and debts had weighed upon her.
Hailstock gave a huff of disdain. “Any association with Lady Brockway will make you even more of a laughingstock.”
“That remains to be seen.”
Fury glittered in the marquess’s eyes, along with something else. Something dark and desperate. His fists clenched, he took another step toward Drake. “For pity’s sake, man, choose another wife. A mature widow who won’t be hurt by your intrigues. Don’t destroy an innocent girl just to indulge this petty delusion of yours.”
Was Hailstock truly concerned for Alicia’s welfare? Could he, in his twisted way, value her for more than her lofty ancestry? Could he actually love her? As swiftly as the questions struck, Drake saw the advantage in them.
If Hailstock adored her, so much the better.
Chapter Six
“M’lady!” Mrs. Molesworth yodeled up the attic stairs. “Yoo-hoo, m’lady, you’ve visitors!”
Alicia frowned, her arms full of a billowing blue gown that smelled musty from being shut away for more than half a century. Dust motes danced in the sunlight that came through the windows at either end of the chilly attic. Humming to herself, Lady Eleanor knelt on the bare plank floor and rummaged through a trunk of outmoded accessories. The moleskin cape lay beside her, near the piles of curled wigs, buckled shoes, and tricorne hats.
Alicia had no time to spare for visitors. Until she arrayed herself properly, she intended to postpone the loathesome task of facing the ton.
The engagement notice had appeared that morning in the Post; Drake Wilder had lost no time in trumpeting their nuptials to the fashionable world. Though most of the nobility would be too haughty to pay their respects to the fiancée of a notorious gambler, there were always those who could overcome their scruples if it meant gleaning a bit of titillating gossip.
Brushing a sticky cobweb off her apron, she picked a path through the jumble of broken furniture and other discards. At the stairway landing, she peered down the steep steps.
Mrs. Molesworth stood at the base of the stairs, a mobcap perched on her iron-gray hair. She beckoned impatiently to Alicia. “Come quick, m’lady. You mustn’t keep these visitors waitin’.”
“Send them away. I’m helping Queen Anne find a gown to wear.” Alicia also hoped to renovate her own meager wardrobe—not