deadly.
Fitzroy smiled at him, a smile that he knew could only be interpreted as an insult in the circumstances.
“She’s a singer, some years older than Quentin. They met when he was nineteen. In an excess of youthful passion he carried her off to Scotland, married her, and fathered two children. Two years later she abandoned the children and left him, but unfortunately not for another swain. She turned to religion and lives a life of blameless chastity, seeking converts in the marketplaces and wynds of Edinburgh. The bawdy songs of the stage have been supplanted by ardent hymns of praise and invocation.”
“But unless she is caught in adultery, Quentin cannot divorce her,” Lenwood said flatly.
“Indeed. My father has paid for spies and set up traps, but the fervor of her faith sustains her in holy purity. Quentin could legally force her to live with him, but he cannot stand her prating company. So he sends her money, pays for care for his offspring, and drowns his sorrows in drink. Only the family knows of it. Ironic, isn’t it? Alas, we Mountfitchets don’t seem to have much luck when it comes to matrimony.”
Lenwood flushed, an angry burn of color that washed over the fine bones of his face, then left him unnaturally white.
“Damn you!” he said quietly. “It’s not by my choice that we mention your marriage, Tarrant.”
“No,” Fitzroy replied coolly. “Least said, soonest mended.”
Joanna stared at two men, the brother she loved, and the dark, forbidding man who had tracked her down and kissed her so ruthlessly. Quentin’s wife made no difference to her. She had never intended to marry him.
But what on earth was she going to do now? And how was her father going to react when he heard about this?
* * *
Two hours later, her face blotched with tears, Joanna had her answer. The Black Earl, Lord Evenham, had swept into the room carrying a package of papers from Lord Acton. He handed them to Richard in silence. Joanna watched her brother turn white as he read the covering letter. He barely glanced at the other documents.
“For God’s sake! But my father doesn’t know what this man is!” he exclaimed. “It’s impossible!”
“It is done, sir!” Lord Evenham snapped. “You will please apprise my son Fitzroy of the contents.”
“What man?” Joanna asked. The tension pressed around her like a thick bank of ice.
Richard thrust the papers at Lord Tarrant and dropped back onto the chair beside her.
“Joanna, listen. There are things in life that cannot be undone. But if he harms one hair on your head, or causes you a moment’s disquiet, I shall happily kill him.”
“Who?” Joanna said. Blind panic was undermining her determination, as if a storm surge attacked dunes. “Kill whom?”
Lord Tarrant perused the letter rapidly. He looked up with a hard, clenched line at the corner of his mouth, and an unholy light of deviltry in his eyes.
“This man, my dear,” he said, indicating himself. “There’s only one rogue here whose very existence stirs up murder in every peaceful breast. Your brother means me, of course.”
“What is it?” Joanna stood up. She wanted to break the air and see it shatter in shards. “What does Father say?”
Tarrant did not reply. He turned to the Black Earl, his movements fluid and deadly, like a swordsman facing an enemy.
Lord Evenham stood at the window, tall, imposing, elegantly inhaling a pinch of snuff. As calm as when he had first entered, he was in complete, quiet command, an absolute, certain authority, without bluster or excess.
He met his eldest son’s cold anger with equal implacability.
Tarrant held up the letter and faced that merciless will with an identical determination and dark, icy depths in his voice.
“You have arranged this, sir, for your own ends. You know that I will not stand aside to see Quentin hanged. But do not think that, by forcing my hand in such a way, you will avoid seeing the singer’s little waifs finally
Fitzroy smiled at him, a smile that he knew could only be interpreted as an insult in the circumstances.
“She’s a singer, some years older than Quentin. They met when he was nineteen. In an excess of youthful passion he carried her off to Scotland, married her, and fathered two children. Two years later she abandoned the children and left him, but unfortunately not for another swain. She turned to religion and lives a life of blameless chastity, seeking converts in the marketplaces and wynds of Edinburgh. The bawdy songs of the stage have been supplanted by ardent hymns of praise and invocation.”
“But unless she is caught in adultery, Quentin cannot divorce her,” Lenwood said flatly.
“Indeed. My father has paid for spies and set up traps, but the fervor of her faith sustains her in holy purity. Quentin could legally force her to live with him, but he cannot stand her prating company. So he sends her money, pays for care for his offspring, and drowns his sorrows in drink. Only the family knows of it. Ironic, isn’t it? Alas, we Mountfitchets don’t seem to have much luck when it comes to matrimony.”
Lenwood flushed, an angry burn of color that washed over the fine bones of his face, then left him unnaturally white.
“Damn you!” he said quietly. “It’s not by my choice that we mention your marriage, Tarrant.”
“No,” Fitzroy replied coolly. “Least said, soonest mended.”
Joanna stared at two men, the brother she loved, and the dark, forbidding man who had tracked her down and kissed her so ruthlessly. Quentin’s wife made no difference to her. She had never intended to marry him.
But what on earth was she going to do now? And how was her father going to react when he heard about this?
* * *
Two hours later, her face blotched with tears, Joanna had her answer. The Black Earl, Lord Evenham, had swept into the room carrying a package of papers from Lord Acton. He handed them to Richard in silence. Joanna watched her brother turn white as he read the covering letter. He barely glanced at the other documents.
“For God’s sake! But my father doesn’t know what this man is!” he exclaimed. “It’s impossible!”
“It is done, sir!” Lord Evenham snapped. “You will please apprise my son Fitzroy of the contents.”
“What man?” Joanna asked. The tension pressed around her like a thick bank of ice.
Richard thrust the papers at Lord Tarrant and dropped back onto the chair beside her.
“Joanna, listen. There are things in life that cannot be undone. But if he harms one hair on your head, or causes you a moment’s disquiet, I shall happily kill him.”
“Who?” Joanna said. Blind panic was undermining her determination, as if a storm surge attacked dunes. “Kill whom?”
Lord Tarrant perused the letter rapidly. He looked up with a hard, clenched line at the corner of his mouth, and an unholy light of deviltry in his eyes.
“This man, my dear,” he said, indicating himself. “There’s only one rogue here whose very existence stirs up murder in every peaceful breast. Your brother means me, of course.”
“What is it?” Joanna stood up. She wanted to break the air and see it shatter in shards. “What does Father say?”
Tarrant did not reply. He turned to the Black Earl, his movements fluid and deadly, like a swordsman facing an enemy.
Lord Evenham stood at the window, tall, imposing, elegantly inhaling a pinch of snuff. As calm as when he had first entered, he was in complete, quiet command, an absolute, certain authority, without bluster or excess.
He met his eldest son’s cold anger with equal implacability.
Tarrant held up the letter and faced that merciless will with an identical determination and dark, icy depths in his voice.
“You have arranged this, sir, for your own ends. You know that I will not stand aside to see Quentin hanged. But do not think that, by forcing my hand in such a way, you will avoid seeing the singer’s little waifs finally
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