In the Barrister's Bed. Tina GabrielleЧитать онлайн книгу.
he merely stared, at a loss for words. James prided himself on his composure. Very little shocked him whether in the courtroom, in his chambers at Lincoln’s Inn, or in the bedroom. But this woman had managed to render him speechless twice in one minute.
What game did she play?
She sat forward in her chair and looked at him intently. “It’s true. Your father confessed to me on his death bed. I’ve always known that your mother was a parlor maid and she had run off with your father when he was seventeen. I had accounted it to drunken stupidity on your father’s part after coming home on holiday from Oxford. Only days ago did I learn he had legally wed the girl at Gretna Green. Your mother died four months later, birthing you. Your father returned home and dutifully did as I bid and married your stepmother. She birthed Gregory before she too died. So you see you are the legitimate son, the new Duke of Blackwood.”
He knew his mother had been a maid, of course. His grandmother and half brother, Gregory, had cruelly and repeatedly reminded him of that fact in his youth.
“You need to take over your responsibilities at once,” she said, her tone authoritative.
“After years of being shunned by the family as the bastard, you now tell me it has all been an inaccuracy, and I am to step up to my responsibilities?” he asked incredulously.
“It was an unfortunate mistake.”
An unfortunate mistake? Could she truly be even colder than he had believed?
“Don’t be so ungrateful, James,” she said tersely. “I saw to your every financial need. Your clothes, your tutors, the best education at Eton.”
James sat very still, his eyes narrow. “How did he die?”
“It is of no consequence now.”
“How?”
She gave an impatient shrug. “He was leaving his solicitor’s office after selling off one of his country properties when he collapsed. He died a week later when his heart gave out.”
“Which one?”
“Pardon?”
“Which country estate?”
“Wyndmoor Manor.”
“Why would he sell Wyndmoor?”
A hint of exasperation flickered across her face. “Why does it matter?”
It mattered to him. Wyndmoor Manor was the only safe haven he had known as a boy, the only place the old duke had ever treated him as a true son. But he refused to explain himself to the woman sitting before him.
James rose in one fluid motion, intent on leaving and putting as much distance between himself and his grandmother as possible. The collar of his barrister’s gown felt as if it was cutting off his supply of air, and he needed time to digest the shocking news. His hand touched the doorknob.
“Well? As my grandson and the legitimate Duke of Blackwood, what do you plan to do first?” she demanded.
James swung around, his eyes cold. “Buy Wyndmoor Manor back.”
May 25, 1819
Wyndmoor Manor, Hertfordshire
There was a man outside her window.
Bella Sinclair had heard his footfalls, and the sound had her jumping out of bed like a skittish doe. An instant’s panic had squeezed her chest, and she’d thought Roger had come into her bedchamber.
But Roger was dead.
Thank the sweet Lord. Roger lay in a cold grave.
She flew across the room and pressed her back against the wall. It was a chilly May evening and the cold from the plaster wall seeped through her thin nightdress. Gooseflesh rose on her arms. Taking a breath, she dared a quick glimpse out the window.
There. Just behind the azaleas, skirting the rosebushes. A black-dressed figure moved stealthily.
She doubted any other woman would have heard his movements, but years of practice had heightened her senses. Her hearing was attuned to the unwelcome sounds of a man’s stockinged footsteps, the creak of a floorboard at the threshold of her bedchamber.
Again she looked out the window, the curtains gripped in a clenched fist. With dismay, she realized she had lost sight of him. The full moon seemed bent on scudding from behind one dark cloud to another. The shadows below looked like stalking cats. She scanned the front terrace, the fountain, and the gardens beyond until she spotted him.
The figure made his way to the front door.
Wyndmoor Manor was empty save for Harriet, who was in her seventies. As she’d moved here only days prior, there had been no time for Bella to interview and hire additional servants.
Heart lurching madly, she grabbed the closest thing to a weapon she could find, a fireplace poker, and tiptoed out of her bedchamber. The hallway was dark as pitch, but she dared not light a candle. Early this morning she had explored the halls and rooms of the manor with the excitement of a child experiencing her first country fair. She knew the width and length of the hallway and the number of steps that led down the grand staircase. For the first time in seven years, a house felt like a home to Bella.
How dare any stranger invade here!
She felt for the unpacked trunks and crates that sat in the hall midway to the landing. She slipped down the stairs, her breath escaping her as her bare feet touched the cold marble vestibule. She darted behind the front door and clenched the poker tightly in both hands above her head.
An orange glow passed by the window of the door. The stranger had lit a lamp.
How odd.
The doorknob rattled.
Locked. She had been sure to lock it before retiring.
The intruder would be forced to break a window or force the lock. Blood rushed through her veins like an avalanche.
Then she heard the jangle of keys and the distinctive sound of a key sliding in the lock.
Impossible.
The dead bolt slid aside and the door opened. A dark cloaked figure stepped inside.
She swung the poker downward with all her might.
He moved so swiftly she barely had time to gasp before she was thrust against the wall and a hard body slammed against hers. The poker fell from her grasp and clattered across the marble floor. Her scream was cut off by a large palm pressed against her mouth.
“Don’t,” a masculine voice said curtly. “No screaming to bring your criminal acquaintances bearing down on me.”
He held the lamp high with his other hand, and she realized with alarm that he had managed to disarm her and pin her against the wall with one hand.
Fear and anger knotted inside her, and her heart thumped against her rib cage. Every solid inch of him was pressed against her. He was a tall man, broad and lean. The lamp lit half of his features, and she looked into blue eyes so dark they were almost black. Wavy jet hair framed his chiseled features. He shifted his weight, and she felt the muscled hardness of his body. His expression was taut, his jaw tense.
“I’m going to let you speak, but no screaming. Understand?”
She nodded, and he leaned to the side and kicked the door shut with a booted foot. Placing his lamp on top of a nearby crate, he released his palm from her mouth and rested it against her throat.
“Who are you?” she croaked.
“James Devlin, the Duke of Blackwood.”
A duke? Good lord, what was a duke doing at Wyndmoor Manor?
And yet, he had said the title stiffly, awkwardly, as if unpracticed in pronouncing it. Her mind raced and she wondered if he was truly a duke. Perhaps he was a local member of the criminal class who had heard of the new mistress