She was not his type of woman.
Ranger growled, more a vibration under his hand than a sound. Bane glanced down at the dog and signalled him to settle. By the time he looked back, the old man had released his grip on the young woman. ‘No,’ the old man said, answering the question Bane had not heard. ‘My reasons are my own.’
The girl’s shoulders seemed to slump, as if she had hoped for a different response.
Bane remained still in the shadows, content to watch a little longer, content to choose his own moment to reveal his presence.
The old man peered into the shadows on the other side of the bed. ‘She’ll do,’ he said with a triumphant leer. His smile was a mirthless drawing back of lips over crooked yellow teeth.
The woman, Mary, jerked back. ‘I have given my thanks, my lord, I do not need your approval.’ Her words rang with defiance. Brave words, but the voice shook.
Bane ruthlessly quelled a tiny surge of pity. He had no room for pity or mercy.
Beresford wheezed a laugh. ‘Bold piece, ain’t you. No milk-and-water miss. All the better.’ He flicked his fingers in dismissal. The girl rose to her feet and turned.
Bane knew the moment she saw him. The widening of her eyes, the hesitation, the flare of recognition in her gaze, not recognition of him as a person, but of his presence. The connection between them was a tangible thing, a twisting invisible thread that kept their gazes locked. And he felt … something. A tightening of his body. The kind that heralded lust. Not something he wanted or needed right now.
He shook his head, a warning to remain silent, and it seemed she understood for she strode back to Mrs Hampton’s side as if she hadn’t seen him at all. An unwanted trickle of admiration for her quiet calm warmed his veins.
He dragged his gaze back to the man in the bed. It was time to be done with this farce. Bane forced himself not to square his shoulders or take a deep breath. He was no boy worried about his acceptance. He belonged here and he cared not a whit if they thought otherwise. He signalled Ranger to lie down, yet still he hesitated to take the first step.
The earl again looked over into the shadows on the far side of the bed. ‘You said he would come,’ he quavered.
A man trotted up to the bed. Tight lips. Eyes that darted hither and yon, never resting long enough to be read, bald pate shining. ‘He is expected, my lord. I sent word as you ordered.’ A dry, officious voice. A clerk of some sort. Solicitor, Bane decided.
‘The storm must have delayed him.’ The solicitor rubbed his palms together with a papery sound. ‘Perhaps tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow will be too late.’
A flash of lightning punctuated his words, the room once more a colourless tableau of frozen players.
Bane stepped into the lamplight in that moment. His shadow loomed black over the bed and up the wall behind the dying man like some portent of evil. ‘I am here.’
The old man’s gasp was eminently satisfying. No doubt he had carried the hope his elder grandson would miraculously die at the eleventh hour.
Thunder rolled beyond the window, drowning out the old man’s muttered words.
Bane’s lip curled. It no longer mattered what the old man said. Beresford Abbey was a few short breaths from being passed on to a man who likely had not a drop of Beresford blood.
Oh, the old man had tried to make the best of an heir he despised once he’d discovered Bane had survived to stake his claim. He’d tried to force the twelve-year-old Bane into the appropriate mould. The right sort of school, the right education. As much as his mother’s family would permit. And Bane had used what he needed to take back what was rightfully his. His mother had fled the Abbey because she feared for Bane’s life. She had lost her own, trying to keep him safe. The powerlessness he’d felt that day still haunted him. He’d fought. How he’d fought. And those men, they had laughed at him. Mocked him. After that day he had sworn he would never let anyone make him feel weak and helpless again. He never had. And never by the man lying in the bed.
He’d used the best of both his worlds. The strength of the coalminers he’d worked alongside in summer holidays and the power of the nobility given by the title he would inherit. He’d taken control of his life.
No one would ever manipulate him again. Not his mother’s brother, or the earl.
Bane glanced over at the watchers. If one of them, just one of these relatives, had taken pity on his mother, offered her their support, he might have been able to find a little mercy in his heart. But they hadn’t. He bared his teeth in a smile that would do Ranger proud.
The old earl looked him over, his red-rimmed, faded blue eyes watery, his face a picture of scorn. ‘So, the scavengers are circling.’
‘You sent for me, Grandfather,’ he said his tone mocking.
The earl’s gaze lingered on Bane’s face and he shook his head. ‘A curse on your mother for sending my son to an early grave.’
Bitterness roiled in his gut at the vilification. A drunken lord driving his carriage off the road was hardly his mother’s fault. His chest tightened until his lungs were starved. Not that he was surprised by the accusation, just by his own visceral reaction, when there was nothing this decayed piece of flesh could do to her any more. ‘But for you, my mother would be alive today.’
Yet even as he spoke the words, the old guilt rose up to choke him. The knowledge that he had done nothing to save her. ‘But she beat you in the end.’
The old man sneered. ‘Did she now?’
The urge to stop the vile tongue edged his vision in red. Involuntarily his fists clenched. His palms tingled with the desire to tighten around the scrawny neck, to feel the flesh and bones crush in on his windpipe. Watch the life fade from those cruel eyes and silence his lips for ever.
He reached for his hard-won iron control over his temper, shocked at how close it was to slipping from his grasp at this long-awaited moment, grabbed a breath of air and let the heat dissipate. He would not let his anger overpower his reason. He knew the penalty for doing so. It would rob him of his victory as it has robbed him of his mother. There was no need for anger, not now, when he’d won. He shrugged.
The old devil grinned a death’s-head smile. ‘Look at you, apeing the gentleman in your fine clothes, with not an ounce of nobility in your blood. It is a wonder decent society tolerates you at all.’
He smiled his own mocking smile. ‘They welcome me with open arms. It is the prospect of a title that does it, you know.’
Something flashed in the old man’s eyes. If Bane hadn’t known better, he might have thought it was admiration. It was more likely rage at being defeated in his plan to be rid of his cuckoo in the nest. Thanks to his rough-and-ready upbringing by his maternal uncle, and later his years of misery at school and university, Bane had no doubts about his ability to withstand any torment his grandfather might devise. He’d spent his life preparing for this moment.
He moved closer to the head of the bed, lowering his voice. ‘You sent for me, old man, and here I am. Speak your piece. I am a busy man.’
‘A coalminer. A labourer for hire.’ Scorn dripped from the old man’s thin lips like poison. Spittle spattered his chin and the lapels of the silken robe bearing the Beresford emblem in gold.
‘Aye,’ Bane said. ‘I know how to earn my keep.’ Not that he laboured with his hands any more, but he could if need be. He let his gaze drift around the worn bed hangings and worn furniture. ‘And I know how to follow your example, spending money on idle pursuits in town.’ He’d done his share of playing the debauched nobleman since making his bows at court, much to