the garden, as she’d fought Lord Waltenham’s clawing hands, cursing him and her father for what was about to happen, Rafe had stepped out from behind the box hedge. He’d thrashed the lecher, sending him fleeing into the house, and everything had changed.
No one had cared or noticed when the daughter of an obscure baronet and a penniless Baron ran off together. It wasn’t love, but curiosity which had led her to accept Rafe’s proposal to join him in London.
A man and woman working together can win more than gambling alone, he’d tempted her and she’d followed him, wanting to see the world as he’d painted it. He’d taught her to play cards, to carry and dress herself like a lady, and to charm men away from their money with nothing more than a promise. Then, in their rented rooms one night, their winnings piled high on the table, he’d taught her the secret pleasures shared between a man and a woman.
She gripped the parasol tighter, her breasts growing as heavy now as during the first night she’d lain next to him, anticipating his touch with curious excitement and trepidation. The memory of his thick voice in her ear as he explained everything each finger did and all the new sensations they awakened inside her, stole through her body once again. Beneath him, his dark brown eyes pinned to hers, she’d experienced a need deeper than the press of their skin and the urgency of their kisses, one which spoke to her soul.
Or so she’d once believed.
She shifted the parasol to her other shoulder. He’d made it clear from the beginning their arrangement wasn’t permanent, but she always thought she’d meant more to him than a partner at the tables and in his bed.
How could I have been such a fool?
A figure in a cherry-red coat appeared on the canal bridge, pulling Cornelia from her memories. She closed the parasol, rested the tip in the soft grass and laid her hands on the upturned handle. Guilt snapped at her, but she kicked it away. She shouldn’t take advantage of the Earl, but she had no choice, not if she wanted to save Andrew.
The Earl paused in the centre of the bridge, looking over the park before spying her. He hurried down the near side and over the grass, rushing to where she stood.
‘I received your note,’ he announced, his brass buttons straining to stay fastened over his thick middle as they stretched and relaxed with each wheezing breath.
Cornelia extended her hand. ‘My lord.’
He knocked her hand aside and grabbed her around the waist, his fleshy stomach pressing against hers. He was two inches shorter than her and she could see the beginning of a bald spot in the middle of his head. ‘I’ve thought of nothing but you since last night.’
The smell of port and beef on his breath made her stomach churn as he stood up on his toes to claim her mouth.
She arched backwards, pressing her hands against his soft chest to keep his puckered lips from touching hers. ‘My lord, I think you misunderstood the meaning of my note.’
‘I don’t believe so.’ He tried to kiss her again, his weight in danger of toppling them both. If they fell, he’d crush her.
‘Yes, you have.’ She shoved hard, stumbling free of his grasp before regaining her footing. ‘Do you really believe I’d debase myself in a public park?’
‘There are many places we can go for privacy.’ He lunged for her and she snapped up the parasol, poking the end into his chest to keep him at bay.
‘It’s not privacy I seek, but a moment of your time. We have business to discuss.’
‘Business?’ He knocked the parasol away, then flicked blades of grass off of his coat. ‘What business could we possibly have to discuss?’
‘The motive behind your father’s retreat at the Battle of Saratoga.’
‘You summoned me from my bed at this early hour to discuss that tired old rumour?’ His nose wrinkled as if he smelled something foul.
‘It’s no rumour, my lord.’ She lowered the umbrella point back to the ground and adjusted the strings of her reticule on her forearm. ‘I’m in possession of a document that confirms your father was paid by the French to turn traitor.’
A faint red began to spread up his neck. ‘No one would believe you.’
‘I assure you, my proof is irrefutable.’
‘What proof?’
‘Mrs Ross’s register.’
‘But it doesn’t exist,’ he sputtered. ‘It was destroyed in the same fire that killed the old courtesan.’
‘No, the rumours were true—it was her maid’s body they found. Mrs Ross survived and has been hiding in a small house near Gracechurch Street, scarred by the fire and living off all the money she earned from the French for making men like your father betray their country.’ He paled and for a moment she felt sorry for him. ‘She was killed two weeks ago in a carriage accident. I have since purchased the register from her estate.’
‘A very convenient tale to scare little lords with, but you won’t frighten me.’ His fingers gripped the edge of his coat, undermining his confident words.
‘Then let me tell you a better story, one which is sure to frighten you. It comes straight from Mrs Ross’s book. Your father accepted five thousand pounds from the French to flee at the Battle of Saratoga and help deny General Burgoyne his victory. He received an additional five thousand pounds once news of the defeat was known. It seems your father wasn’t as competent an estate manager as your mother and possessed some heavy gambling debts he needed to repay.’ She stepped closer and the Earl’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. ‘The Bill of Attainder is still in place, my lord, and Lord Twickenham is eager to unearth evidence of treachery and avenge his brother who died in that disaster of a battle. If I show him the register, he’ll relish the chance to invoke the bill and seize your lands and title.’
The Earl’s pudgy cheeks sagged. ‘You can’t.’
Flexing her fingers over the parasol handle, she steadied herself, thinking of Andrew as she pressed on, despite her disgust with herself. ‘I will, unless you deliver to me by Friday the sum of one thousand pounds.’
He clutched his chest. ‘One thousand pounds!’
‘It’s a very small price to pay to keep your lands and standing, and only a tenth of what your father received to betray his country and place you in this difficult position.’
He tugged on the knot of his cravat. ‘And if I make the payment?’
His genuine fear and the hard way she pressed on made her stomach churn. This wasn’t who she was or who she wanted to be and with each step down this path she felt herself becoming more like her stepmother, or worse, Lord Edgemont. ‘I will maintain my silence.’
‘How do I know you won’t come to me at some future date and demand more?’
‘You don’t.’ She wished she could give him some assurance, toss aside this callous mask and walk away from the ugliness of it all, but she couldn’t, not with Andrew’s fate hanging in the balance. ‘Nor are you to discuss the matter with anyone, not your man of affairs or your mother.’
Enough
