has … a book.” Dorothy closed her eyes, gathering herself. This time, Nell didn’t interrupt. For the peace of her soul, Dorothy needed to speak. “A diary of his seductions. Girl after girl. All set out neatly as stories in a newspaper.”
“Oh, my dear …” This spiteful betrayal horrified Nell. “Why on earth would he show you that? That’s needlessly cruel.”
“He was proud of it. Proud of all the women he’d ruined.” Her voice thickened with tears. “If you find that book, you can destroy him.”
“But how?”
Dorothy became agitated. “Just don’t tell Papa. Please.”
“I won’t, darling.” Grief split Nell’s heart at this fleeting glimpse of the sweet child she’d once been. “But where can I find this book?”
Dorothy breathed in shallow gasps. “Go to his house.”
“His house?” Was Dorothy delirious? “Where is his house?”
“You’ll find it.” Dorothy drew a shuddering breath. “You’re clever, too clever to believe a man’s lies.” Lower still. “If only I’d been as clever.”
Acid tears stung Nell’s eyes. Over recent years, Nell’s cleverness had inspired Dorothy’s resentment rather than admiration. If Nell or William mentioned propriety or prudence, Dorothy had flounced away, convinced that her family was hopelessly hidebound. “Who did this to you?”
Dorothy opened glazed eyes and her grip tightened to bruising. “Swear you’ll find that diary and expose this monster for what he is.”
Her half sister’s desperation sliced at Nell. “Of course I swear. Tell me the man’s name.”
Hatred sharpened Dorothy’s face. “The Marquess of Leath.”
Before Nell could respond to this astonishing claim, Dorothy began to shake and gasp. Nell surged forward to enfold her sister in her arms, but it was too late.
Pretty, reckless Dorothy Simpson had breathed her last.
Alloway Chase, Yorkshire Late September 1828
Finally he was home.
James Fairbrother, Marquess of Leath, sighed with relief and whipped off his heavy topcoat as the footman fought to close the massive oak door against the blustery night. This year, winter came early to the moors. Most years, if Leath was honest. When he’d left London, lovely, golden autumn had held sway. The further north he’d ventured, the less lovely and golden the weather became, until he’d arrived at his family seat in a freezing gale.
“Go to bed, George. I can manage from here.” At three in the morning, he wasn’t selfish enough to keep the man at his beck and call. Knowing that he’d beat any message he sent to Alloway Chase, he’d left London in a rush. He’d considered putting up at an inn before the final desolate run across the heath, but the moon was full and the night was clear, if brutal, and his horse had been fresh.
“Thank you, my lord.” The young man in crimson livery took the coat and bowed. “I’ll light the fires in your apartments.”
“Thank you.”
As George left, Leath collected his leather satchel of documents, lifted the chamber stick from the Elizabethan chest against the great hall’s stone wall, and trudged down the long corridor toward his library. Against the looming darkness, the candle’s light seemed frail, but Leath had grown up in this rambling house. The ghosts, reportedly legion, were friendly.
Physically he was exhausted, but his mind leaped about like a cat with fleas. The roiling mixture of emotions that had sent him hurtling up to Yorkshire still warred within. Anger. Disappointment. Self-castigation. Confusion. A barely admitted fear. He wasn’t ready to seek his bed, although the good God knew where he did want to go, except perhaps to blazes.
Usually when he reached Alloway Chase, the weight of the world slid from his shoulders. Not tonight. Nor any time in the near future, he grimly suspected. There was a difference between visiting the country at one’s own prompting and having one’s political advisers demand a rustication for the nation’s good.
Outside his library, he paused, puzzled.
A line of faint light shone beneath the door. At this hour, the household should be asleep. Stupid with tiredness, he wondered if at the grand old age of thirty-two, he’d finally encountered one of the ghosts. The most active specter was Lady Mary Fairbrother, murdered during the Civil War after her husband caught her in bed with a Royalist.
As the door slowly opened before him, the unreal sensation built.
Flickering gold filled the widening gap. Leath found himself staring into wide dark eyes.
The apparition gave a breathy gasp of surprise. A stray draft extinguished both candles, and then he heard a dull thud as the girl lost her grip on the light.
Instinct made him drop the satchel and reach for her. It was as dark as a thief’s pocket, and something told him that she’d use the cover to flee. His hand closed around a slender waist. This was no visitor from the spirit realm. The body he held was undoubtedly human. Warm. Lissome. Taut with outrage or fright. Perhaps both.
“Are you a burglar?” she asked in a low voice, wriggling to escape.
“Isn’t that what I should say?” he asked drily.
“I don’t understand,” she hissed back.
She sounded young. Before the candles went out, he’d merely glimpsed her features. He wondered, although it could have no importance, whether she was pretty. “Damn it, stop squirming.”
Uselessly she pushed him. “Then let me go.”
“No.” He caught her more securely and back-stepped her into the library.
The thick darkness was confoundedly suggestive. He was overwhelmingly conscious of the curve of her waist and the brush of her breasts against his chest. The soft, urgent rasp of her breathing indicated fear, but sounded disconcertingly like sexual excitement. Hell, he could even smell her. Her intentions might be murky, but she smelled of freshly cut meadows and soap. If she was a burglar, she was a dashed clean one.
As he kicked the door shut behind him, she released a soft yelp and made a more vigorous attempt to break free. “I’ll scream.”
“Go ahead.” He dropped his candle to the carpet and reached behind him to turn the key in the lock. When he rode up to the house, he’d been mutton-headed with weariness. This riddle of a female in his library stirred him to full alertness.
“You’ve locked us in,” she said accusingly. “Who are you?”
A snort of laughter escaped him. She was a direct wench. This encounter became more bizarre by the second. Perhaps he’d fallen asleep in the saddle and he was dreaming. If not for the living woman under his hand, he might almost believe it. “More
