Ten Things I Hate About the Duke - Loretta Chase Page 0,111

to speak of the pain I’ll inflict. Have you truly no notion of the pain you’ve inflicted upon your family, year after year, with your undutiful behavior? Innocent, are you? Driving about in your chariot with that hideous jockey at your side. Spouting the despicable philosophy of a bluestocking harlot. Playing into the hands of an unscrupulous debauchee. Now you drag your innocent sister into it—though how long she remains innocent, if in fact she has remained so, is an interesting question.”

“Pray do not insult my sister. She’s done you no harm.”

“Has she not? But that is neither here nor there. What I want is simple enough. You drive recklessly through your life, mowing down any rules not to your liking and any persons who happen to be in your way. I will not be mown down, nor will I see any member of my family dragged under your wheels.”

The countess took out her pocket watch. “It will take you no time at all to send a message to the Duke of Ashmont. Doubtless you know where to find him and how to reach him. However, your sister’s message to Humphrey might not reach him before tomorrow, depending on how late your father keeps him. I shall give you until three o’clock tomorrow to carry out my conditions.”

Three o’clock. Not twenty-four hours before this woman set out to kill her parents’ happiness and her sister’s future.

“If by that time I do not receive clear proof of your having done as I require, I shall provide the contents of that note, with further specifics, to Foxe’s Morning Spectacle,” the lady went on. “I shall also share the interesting details with all my intimate acquaintance.”

“And this will give you pleasure, will it?”

“A pleasant enough task, when you’ve done all the heavy work for me.”

That was true enough. Cassandra had fashioned the noose to hang herself.

“Do not for a moment think I will hesitate,” Lady Bartham said. “Your father will not have my son, and your mother will not triumph over me. You will never be a duchess, Miss Pomfret. You may never be a wife. What a pity it is that you couldn’t resist temptation and take Mr. Owsley when you had the chance.”

“I had rather someone with better taste in poetry.”

“Now there will be no one. You may look forward to being viewed by any decent gentleman with revulsion, and by the indecent ones as—well, let’s leave that unsaid.”

“Why? You’ve said so much. Why stop now?”

Lady Bartham smiled. “Three o’clock, Miss Pomfret. I shall see myself out. I know the way.”

Ashmont House

An hour later

Arms folded, eyes narrowed, Keeffe gazed about him at the Duke of Ashmont’s dressing room. “Nice place you got here, Your Grace.”

“It’s small, but we like it. If you’re here, I can only assume Miss Pomfret is in trouble.”

Ashmont had arrived home from harassing his solicitor to learn of a disturbance belowstairs. The disturbance now stood before him: Keeffe, apparently free of his rib wrappings, with the glint of challenge in his eye.

“No, I was only taking the air in the neighborhood. Yes, Your Grace, it’s her, like you guess so clever. Not but what this is a fine place to visit, and your servants got themselves on the right side of things quick enough—soon as one of ’em worked out who the little crippled fellow used to be. Then they was as genteel as a cove could ask.”

He nodded at Sommers, who stood, clearly torn. Here was a common, twisted little person in His Grace’s own private dressing room, where even certain of the staff dared not venture. On the other hand, this common, twisted little person was no less than Tom Keeffe, of whom even the youngest of Ashmont’s employees stood in awe.

Servants were by no means immune to the lure of the turf, and this was one of its living legends. Unlike members of the racing community, they had no axes to grind. He was a celebrity.

After the briefest hesitation, Sommers returned the nod.

“I reckon I can talk in front of him?” Keeffe said.

“Yes, yes, or I’d have sent him away the instant I saw you,” Ashmont said calmly, while the inner demon began to pace at the mouth of the cave. “What’s happened and who is it she wants me to kill?”

Keeffe told him about Lady Bartham’s visit.

Ashmont swore.

“My miss come busting into my place in a temper and tole me she couldn’t write any letter, she was that wild. But her hands was