Seduced by a Scoundrel - By Barbara Dawson Smith Page 0,85

to the club offices. Here, no carpet softened the stone floor, so the bookkeeper could negotiate his wheeled chair more easily.

The hum of voices eddied from the farthest room.

Wondering what—or who—Fergus was trying to hide, Drake walked quietly toward the back office. The door was cracked open, and he could see only a slice of blue-painted wall and a low filing cabinet. He raised his hand to knock when the conversation inside stopped him.

“How do you get around in that contraption?” A stranger’s voice, a man, his question spoken with cultured disdain.

“The upstairs is unquestionably a problem,” said Lazarus in his mellifluous tone. “But Wilder installed a ramp at the rear of the building. I can maneuver in and around the ground floor quite on my own.”

“There, you could move your chambers to the ground floor.” That cool female voice sounded familiar. The duchess? “At least you wouldn’t have to rely upon footmen to carry you about like a baby.”

“And I could get away from the likes of you,” the stranger snapped. “That is the greatest advantage to such a chair.”

“Please, no quarreling. You two are worse than children.”

Alicia. Drake’s heart surged against his rib cage. What the devil was she doing here? And why was Fergus protecting her?

Thrusting open the door, he stepped into the office. All conversation halted. Four heads turned to stare at him. Behind the desk, Lazarus Cheever leaned back in his wheeled chair, his hands folded over his stout belly. Across from him, Sarah, the Duchess of Featherstone, perched on a plain wooden chair as if it were a throne. Beside her, Alicia sat slim and pretty in bronze silk, her fair hair soft around her pale features, a familiar stubborn firmness to her shapely lips.

And the stranger—not a stranger at all.

A band of tension tightened around Drake’s chest as he stared at the man. He reclined in a sort of litter that was gilded and cushioned, as if he were a damned Egyptian prince. His eyes were a piercing blue, his shoulders broad beneath a finely tailored coat, his hair a rich tawny hue. And his mouth was curled into a thin smile.

For the barest flash of time, Drake thought he saw a spark of recognition on those haughty features. And he was aware of something like a bond stretching between them. An affinity, a kinship.

Impossible. This pampered aristocrat could know nothing of a bastard’s existence. And Drake didn’t intend for him to know … yet.

Focusing his mind, he felt the rise of a familiar hatred. At last, he’d come face-to-face with his half-brother, James.

Hailstock’s heir.

The favored son.

Chapter Twenty

Alicia turned in her chair to see Drake looming in the doorway of the office. The air felt suddenly suffocating. All belligerent, overbearing male, he afforded her and Sarah only a passing glance. His gaze riveted to James.

With a sinking heart, she knew he had recognized Lord Hailstock’s son.

“What the devil’s going on here?” he demanded.

Until now, she had been pleased with the meeting. Once James had seen the rolling chair, the light of interest had entered his eyes and things had proceeded well. She wouldn’t allow Drake to interfere. “We’re visiting with Mr. Cheever,” she said coolly. “James, this is my husband. Drake, Lord Scarborough.”

“I’m heir to the Marquess of Hailstock,” James drawled, his mouth twisted into a sly, superior smile. “My family and Alicia’s share a longtime closeness.”

“I’m aware of that,” Drake said. “So perhaps it’s time for my wife to broaden her horizons.”

Sitting back against the cushions of his litter, James cocked a sardonic eyebrow. “Indeed? Will you have her seek her acquaintances from among the lower orders? I hardly think that worthy of a lady.”

“Your opinion doesn’t matter. She is my lady.”

Good heavens, must she contend with this hostility again? Alicia sprang to her feet. “I am quite capable of choosing my own friends,” she said firmly. “James, have you any more questions for Mr. Cheever?”

James shook his head, his attention still narrowed on Drake.

The bookkeeper cleared his throat. “I am happy to assist as I can,” he said. “But Mr. Wilder can better answer any questions about the chair’s construction. He saw one like it in Rome, determined how it was made, and then ordered one for me.”

Sarah had been watching the exchange with avid interest. “How enterprising of you, Mr. Wilder. You must direct us to whomever did the workmanship. We shall be ordering one posthaste.”

“There is no we about it,” James said, casting her an irritated glance. “I daresay