Nicholas: Lord of Secrets by Grace Burrowes Page A

that,” Leah said, smiling at him slightly.
    “I would not lie to a woman.”
    “You are not the typical titled heir,” Leah said, her smile fading. “I could not abide you were you to lie to me, Lord Reston.”
    For a man to keep certain matters to himself for years on end was not lying. Nick tried to convince himself of this regularly.
    “Call me Nick,” he said softly as they regained the path. “And send a note around to Lady Warne. Be warned, though, she’ll stuff you like a goose if you let her.”
    Leah eyed Nick up and down. “I bid you good day, my lord.”
    For the benefit of the footman, Nick adopted the same polite tones.
    “Good day to you as well, Lady Leah.” He bowed correctly over her hand. “And my regards to your dear sister.”
    He appropriated the bench again and watched until she’d left the park, footman in tow. The ducks set up another squawking, and Nick glanced over to see his little scrapper swimming hell-bent for the next offering of crumbs tossed forth from the hand of another pretty young lady.
    Scrappers, he reminded himself, were sometimes not fussy enough about how they gained their ends; and eating just any old handout could leave a fellow with a mighty sorry bellyache.
    ***
    The solicitor’s spectacled gaze put Wilton in mind of a rabbit tracking the location of a fox at the watering hole.
    “We have yet to receive any indication Lord Hellerington’s intentions are sincere, my lord. There’s been no subtle inquiry, no overt interest, no draft documents sent over by mistake, if you take my meaning.”
    Wilton knew a spike of murderous frustration, because Hellerington’s innuendo had become flagrant—and now this coy behavior. The man intended to offer for the trollop masquerading as Wilton’s oldest daughter; he’d all but announced it at his club.
    “You’ve canvassed his clerks?”
    “We have, my lord. We were particularly encouraged when there was an indication of general interest in your situation, but it came from the wrong firm.”
    “Explain yourself.” Wilton rose to pace, knowing that leaving the solicitor seated would irk the man no end. Petty, self-important little thieves they were, but necessary if business was to be done in a businesslike manner.
    “A junior clerk in the firm is related to some fellow in the offices around the corner,” the solicitor began, “and they occasionally share a pint and so forth.”
    Wilton glowered at the man, lest the roundaboutation go on all morning.
    “A Lord Reston is sniffing about.”
    Wilton paused in his pacing. “Bellefonte’s heir?”
    “Nicholas Haddonfield.” The solicitor shifted in his seat, keeping the earl in his line of sight. “The old earl is rumored to be in poor health.”
    “How poor?”
    “He is not expected to last out the year, my lord. Perhaps not even the month.”
    “Interesting.” Wilton tried to keep his pleasure from showing on his face. This was the same callow swain who’d been sniffing around little Emily’s skirts this past week. “You’re dismissed.”
    The solicitor rose and bowed without comment. In the solitude of his study, Wilton sat back in his cushioned chair and considered Reston’s inquiries. He’d have to see what this Reston fellow was made of. An earl’s younger son was about as high as Emily could hope to reach, but for her to become a countess…
    It was fitting, Wilton decided, a rare smile twisting his lips. Emily was the product of rape, though legally a man could not rape his wife. Still, Wilton had forced himself on his errant wife, as brutally and as often as it had taken to get the arrogant bitch pregnant—and it had taken years. He’d relished her resistance, and relished even more the measures taken to impose himself on her. Full of fight, she’d been, and then she’d been full of his child.
    Having made his point, however, he’d turned from his countess, unwilling to risk the child in further displays of marital discipline.
    If Emily could