She felt a trickle of fear slide down her spine and for a moment she wanted to take back all the hateful words. She loved the man who had refused her and his death could bring her no real satisfaction, and in that moment she knew that revenge could only bring her grief—and yet he had humbled her pride and he must pay. Anger and pride fought against softer emotions and won. She stared at the fool kneeling before her and knew he was not fit to kiss the feet of the man she loved, but her pain and grief was too deep and must be assuaged by blood.
After he had gone she was possessed by a wild restlessness that had her pacing until she realised that even revenge could not assuage the pain in her heart. Indeed, the thought of his death brought even more agony. Sinking to her knees, she wept until the storm of anger and despair had left her and then she knew that she had betrayed her own heart. She did not want the man she loved dead, but here with her, a smile of love on his face.
She must recall the fool who did her bidding so easily and tell him that she no longer wished him to kill for her.
Then, as she saw the sun had risen in the sky, she knew it was too late. His ship was already on its way and because he wanted the rewards she had promised he would do her bidding... His death would be her sin.
Giving a cry of terrible despair, she fell senseless to the ground.
‘Ah, letters,’ Viscount Salisbury said and looked at his elder sister Jane as she entered the room carrying a satisfying bundle. ‘Any for me, Sis?’
‘Yes, I think three,’ Jane replied with a twitch of her lips. ‘One of them smells of Miss Bellingham’s perfume... Now, what would a young lady of sense be doing writing to you, I wonder?’
‘None of your business, madam,’ her brother said and snatched at the envelopes she held tantalisingly out of his reach. Lady Jane March laughed delightedly and withheld the letters for a second longer before releasing them to the younger brother she adored. She was an elegant lady, tall and slender, something about her making her instantly light up any room she entered, though her beauty could not disguise the sadness in those wonderful eyes.
Jane had chosen to make her home with the brother she’d always favoured, after her husband’s untimely demise on the field at Wellington’s side. Harry had been one of the Iron Duke’s aides and so handsome it took her breath away, and his tragic death two years previously had broken her heart. The head of the family, John, Earl Sutherland, her half-brother, and his wife Gussie had offered Jane a home with them but she’d chosen to come here to William, her junior by just one year, because, as she said, Will was the only one who wouldn’t either treat her with kid gloves or bully her.
‘You will no doubt wish me the other side of the world within a month,’ she’d told Will when he greeted her on her arrival at what had been their father’s smaller country estate and was now his, John having inherited the main seat, of course. ‘But Gussie would have driven me mad—and you know what John is...’
‘I do indeed,’ Will said ruefully. ‘He’s such an old stickler. Poor dear Mama used to go in fear of him until she married Porky...’
‘God bless the Duke of Roshithe,’ Jane said with a wry smile. Their mother had become a much loved and spoiled second wife, outliving her first husband by some years. Indeed, she had remarried after Jane’s marriage because, she said, her dearest William did not need her help to find a wife. He had the fortune his maternal grandfather had left him, as well as the small estate from his father, consisting of a town house, a shooting box in Scotland and acres of land somewhere in Yorkshire. He was probably wealthier than his elder brother and never asked John to pay his debts, but that didn’t stop the earl giving him advice on how to manage his fortune on every possible occasion.
‘With your face and fortune, your problem will be in fending off the ladies rather than finding a bride,’ his mama had said before departing to the Continent with her doting second husband in tow for an extended wedding trip. Porky, as his friends and family persisted in calling him, despite his old and respected title, had been led by petticoat strings ever since Mama had taken him in hand and was blissfully happy to serve and adore her. He’d loved her all his life and been dismayed that her father had preferred the earl as a son-in-law; of course, Porky had never been expected to inherit the dukedom, and it was only after a string of unfortunate relatives met their deaths that he reluctantly came into it.
‘I’m damned if I want that mouldering old house of Roshithe’s,’ he’d said on hearing the news. ‘Of what use is the title and country seat to me? I never go near the place, never have and never will.’
‘You will accept it to please me,’ his lady said. ‘I shall take precedence over John’s wife—and that will not suit her consequence...’
To give him his due, Porky hadn’t uttered another word of protest. If it suited his lady to become the Duchess of Roshithe it would suit him—and he understood perfectly the veiled hints and slights she had suffered at the hands of the earl’s wife. Instead of complaining further, he’d given a grand ball, to which he’d invited anyone of consequence and it had afforded him a quiet amusement to see the countess having to curtsey to her mama-in-law, something she’d refused to do once her husband became the earl.
Jane and Will had watched their darling mama’s success in society with barely held mirth, for she did so enjoy it. As a young bride, married for consequence and money, Helen had suffered at her pompous husband’s hands as well as at the hands of his equally pompous eldest son, the child of his first wife—a lady of far greater family but less fortune. Helen had brought her husband a large dowry, but her father had been wise enough to tie most of it up so that it remained with her and her children after her husband died. Not that she needed it now for Porky was richer than any of them, perhaps one of the richest men in England—and he had little to do with his wealth but spend it on his bride and her children, Will and Jane. John, of course, was deemed to have enough of his own, though whether he would have agreed if asked was doubtful. He was far too polite to mention it, of course, though he frowned over the vast sums squandered on his stepmother’s vanity—as he called it.
Immersed in her letters, Jane became aware that Will was hovering. She looked up and smiled, because she knew her dearest one so well.
‘You want something,’ she said. ‘Come on, what is it?’
‘Dearest Jane,’ Will murmured, his blue eyes sparkling with mischief. ‘You know me so well... It’s Melia Bellingham. Her aunt has taken sick at the last minute and she won’t be able to come to London next month...unless you will be her chaperon, Jane? Please say you will. She’s been looking forward to this visit for so long...’
‘Amelia Bellingham shouldn’t have written to you, Will. Her aunt must write to me if she wishes me to chaperon her niece.’
‘I’m sure Mrs Bellingham’s letter is in your pile,’ he said. ‘You had such a lot. Why do you always get piles and piles of letters? I never get more than two or three and most of them are just bills...’
‘Perhaps because I write lots of letters,’ Jane said, her mouth quirking at the corners. ‘It is my chief occupation most of the time—unless we go up to London to visit Mama and then it’s just non-stop balls and dinners and all the rest...’
‘Mama loves to entertain, and she has so many friends.’
‘Of course she does,’ Jane said drily. ‘They queue for the lavish dinners Porky puts on. It beats me how Mama can be exposed to all that rich food day in and day out and never put on so much as a pound.’
‘Because she eats like a bird and always did,’ Will said. ‘You’re just like her, Jane, and will never put on weight. You will invite Melia to stay with us, won’t you?’
‘Of course,