CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
BATH, SOMERSET, ENGLAND – MID-MAY, 1814
Under different circumstances, Damon would have enjoyed this time getting to know Claremont. He liked the fellow. He’d taken a chance in revealing his malady, but soon they would all be family—he hoped. He hadn’t voiced that to Deveric yet. But after his uncle’s actions, he had no choice: he must offer for her, for her honor and his own.
The idea of marrying Grace stirred the deepest emotions in him. Including fear. What if her family wouldn’t accept him? What if she rejected him?
Grace’s reputation may be in tatters now, but that was no guarantee she would marry him. Grace’s sister Amara had refused to marry despite her quite public loss of honor. The Mattersley family had rallied around her, but it hadn’t been enough to save Amara from scandal. Only Claremont’s powerful stature and the entire family’s staunch defense of Amara had kept polite society from completely shunning her.
“We are prepared to do so again for Grace,” Deveric had said before they’d embarked on this journey, his sisters and mother nodding in affirmation. Had it been a warning? A way of saying Damon would never have Grace, owing either to his own shortcomings or the fact that it was his contemptible uncle who’d caused this problem to begin with?
Perhaps after they’d rescued Grace, the Mattersley family wouldn’t want anything to do with the Blackbournes again under any circumstances. Could he blame them?
He could have asked Deveric. But he hadn’t wanted to risk it. Not yet. Not until Grace was safe, not until he knew how she felt after all that had happened. He hoped, he prayed, she would forgive him. But he had to know for sure.
Every muscle in his body tensed as the coach rode into Bath fifteen hours after they’d left London. They’d pushed hard, changing horses only as necessary and traveling through the night, but the darkness had necessitated a slower pace, despite the moon’s aid.
Fillmore had no doubt done the same. He couldn’t possibly have been in Bath for more than half a day, if that. Was there a chance they’d beat Fillmore in getting there? Doubtful. The bastard would have wasted no time reaching his home, his ‘castle,’ where he’d make a stand.
The horses clattered their way through the relatively quiet streets. Dawn had broken a short while before. Neither Damon nor Deveric had slept in the carriage, too concerned about Grace and too deep in planning the best way to retrieve her. They discussed a number of scenarios, but finally decided the best choice was simply to arrive on his uncle’s doorstep first thing and hopefully catch the older man off guard.
The sights of the city didn’t even register, so eager was Damon to get to No. 3 Crescent Circle, the town house in which his uncle lived. Silas had gifted the house to him upon Fillmore’s marriage. Though Arbour Manor was to have been his primary residence, Fillmore had long made his home in Bath to be close to its healing waters. It’d been years since Damon had set foot in the city, and he had only the vaguest memories of chasing his cousin Daphne around on the grounds in front of the crescent one warm summer day.
The coach edged down Upper Church Street, coming to a stop near the crescent.
“Should we make for the front or rear entrance?” Damon asked as they alighted from the carriage.
“Front,” Deveric said, gesturing toward several gentlemen conversing on a nearby doorstep. “It might help to have witnesses should Blackbourne burst out in a crazed state.”
Damon had tucked his pistol into his breeches, as had Deveric, but both were hoping it wouldn’t come to that.
Damon rapped sharply on the door. After a brief moment, a young woman answered. Had the man no butler? “Malford, with the Duke of Claremont, here to see Blackbourne. My uncle,” he commanded.
The woman stepped back to allow in the two men, her fingers shaking as she adjusted her cap. “Beggin’ your pardon, sirs, I mean, Your Graces. I will fetch Lord Fillmore.”
After what seemed an interminable amount of time but in fact was probably no more than five minutes, the serving girl returned. With a quick curtsy and eyes that wouldn’t quite meet theirs, she said, “Lord Fillmore has invited you up to the parlor. If you’ll follow me.”
As they climbed the stairs, sweat pooled on the back of Damon’s neck and his stomach knotted. If his uncle had done anything to Grace, anything at all...
“I’m right behind you,” Deveric said, and a calm overtook Damon. Thank God for the other man’s presence. They would get through this together. They would rescue Grace, and everything would be all right.
They entered the room to find Fillmore Blackbourne ensconced in a large, heavily padded armchair, his left foot propped up on an intricately carved stool. He was sweating profusely, his face swollen and ruddy from either disease or alcohol. Or both. A crystal tumbler filled with amber liquid rested on a marble table next to Fillmore. His uncle had started early, or perhaps hadn’t ceased from the night before. For a second, Damon longed for a drink himself. A quick scan around the room showed Grace wasn’t there.
“Where is she?” he barked, using all of his self-control to keep from throwing himself on his uncle.
“Tsk, tsk. Where are your manners, boy? You haven’t even introduced me to your companion.” Fillmore waved his left hand in Deveric’s direction.
“Claremont. Grace’s brother.” Deveric’s voice was surprisingly relaxed.
“Ah,” was Fillmore’s only response. He adjusted his leg on the stool. “My apologies for not rising to greet you, but as you can see, traveling has exacerbated my gout. I hope to take the waters later today.”
Damon stalked forward until he was standing directly before his uncle. “Where is she? Bring her here. Now.”
Fillmore’s eyes grew instantly cold. “Take one more step, dearest nephew, and it will be your last.” He moved part of his jacket to reveal a pistol in his right hand, cocked and aimed directly at Damon.
Blood pounded through Damon’s veins. It took everything in him not to whip out his own pistol, but he was close enough that, even as quick as he was, his uncle would be faster.
Deveric broke in from behind Damon, his voice still preternaturally calm, though laced with steel. “Lord Fillmore, I should like to see for myself that my sister is fine, if you don’t mind. At that point we can settle accounts.”
“It is not from you that I want money,” Fillmore snarled. “It is from this … this … usurper.”
“Usurper?” The word was out before Damon could stop it. Deveric stepped quickly to him and pulled him back, putting more distance between him and his uncle.
“Understood. Damon promised me he would do whatever was necessary to get my sister back. But I need proof you have her to begin with. The only word I have to go on is Damon’s.”
Fillmore grinned, an evil sideways meandering of his mouth. Like a weasel. An apt descriptor. “Wise of you, Your Grace, to be wary of this one. The Devil incarnate, he is.”
Damon cast a despairing look at Deveric, who ignored him, his gaze steadfast on the other Blackbourne.
Fillmore picked up the bell that rested next to the tumbler and rang it. “Very well,” he said. “I’m sure Grace would like to see her brother.”
The same serving girl who’d shown them to the parlor scurried into the room.
“Bring us the young lady,” Fillmore barked at her.
The girl dropped a hurried curtsy and raced out again.
“I knew you would come for her,” Fillmore said, addressing Damon. “I could see it in your eyes when you looked at her. You lust for her.”
Deveric cleared his throat.
“It’s true. My apologies, Your Grace, for such frank talk. Your sister is an attractive woman.” Fillmore licked his lips.
Damon wanted to retch.
Deveric tensed next to him, but his words belied his reaction. “She is, indeed. A gentleman would know how to treat such a lady. Don’t you agree, Lord Fillmore?”
Damon glanced at Deveric. The statement could cut two ways. The flinty look in his green eyes suggested the barb was aimed at his uncle.
Fillmore hooted. “Indeed. And we all know Blackbourne is no gentleman, regardless of what title he claims.” He waved an arm dismissively. “He’s not even fully a man.”
Fury filled Damon’s head, spawning rivers of rage that flooded his mind and wouldn’t let go. He was one second away from losing control and going after the man, regardless of the pistol Fillmore still pointed at him.
The door swung open. All three men turned toward it as Grace walked through. Her eyes widened upon seeing them. She cast an anxious glance toward Fillmore.
“Come here, my dear,” he commanded.
She obeyed, walking over to stand next to his uncle on his right side, near the fireplace. Her eyes met Damon’s, but he was still so lost in his own haze of anger he couldn’t read them. She gave a weak smile.
“I was just saying, Lady Grace, that Damon here is not only not a gentleman, he’s not even fully a man!” He hooted again, clearly amused by his own statement.
Grace said nothing. She gave the tiniest of head shakes, invisible to Fillmore, as if telling Damon not to respond. He focused on her, on those luminous chocolate orbs, fighting with all his might against the tics struggling to erupt, against the desire to charge his uncle and strangle him barehanded, regardless of the consequences. He used every scrap of strength to focus on Grace and ignore all else around him.
Until Fillmore spoke again. “He’s a demon. The thorn in my side. An embarrassment to the family. He shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t be here.”
Fillmore’s hand shook. At any second, his uncle could accidentally shoot at him. Or intentionally, for that matter. With how unsteady Fillmore was, there was a chance he’d miss, but it was a chance Damon wasn’t willing to take. They were too close.
“You seem rather disgruntled with your nephew,” Deveric broke in with that relaxed voice. It sounded almost as if they were chatting over a game of cards, or tea. “Why is that?”
“Haven’t you seen? Or perhaps he’s managed to hide it from you, his true self.” Fillmore frowned, but his hand steadied. “He twists and contorts himself in ways no human should. He ought to have been committed to an asylum years ago. I always told Silas that. No Blackbourne loses such control.”
Damon looked to Grace. She betrayed no emotion, made no sounds, but edged slightly away from his uncle and closer to the fireplace. Was she preparing to run?
“Indeed,” Deveric said, drawing Fillmore’s attention back to him. “It must have been hard for you, growing up with such a beast.”
Grace’s eyes widened but she said nothing.
Deveric’s words stabbed Damon in the back. Though part of the plan was to convince Fillmore he had an ally in Deveric, the statement still hurt. Despite the hours in the carriage, their acquaintance was brief. Could Damon trust that Deveric truly did not believe what he’d said?
Fillmore cackled. “Exactly. I pleaded with that idiot brother to get rid of him. He wouldn’t listen. Said he could reform him. He failed. My stupid brother. Never could see the bigger picture.”
“You were the brains in the family, I take it?” Deveric’s voice was smooth, encouraging.
Fillmore took a swig from the crystal glass and set it back down on the side table. “With certainty. My mother always saw it. She said it was a shame that I’d never inherit. That I was the better man. The better Blackbourne.”
Damon had never met his grandmother. She’d died before he was born. But were she alive now, he’d kill her for the seeds of discord she’d sown in her son.
“I’ve always known it,” Fillmore continued. “I made my peace with it, best I could. Until—” He broke off, his eyes flying to Grace. “Where are you going?”
“My apologies, Lord Fillmore,” she replied, her voice steady. “I was cold and thought to warm myself by the fire.”
Fillmore harrumphed.
“You were saying?” Deveric prodded, commanding the man’s attention again.
“Until he threatened to cut me off! Just like you did, you cur.” He pointed at Damon with his free hand, spittle flying from his lips. “As if I were disposable, a responsibility he could wipe his hands of. Yes, I had gotten myself in a bit deep at the tables, but I always get back out. And a Blackbourne pays his debts!” His voice shook with rage. “I knew then what I had to do, what I should have done a long time ago.”
Damon’s brow creased.
Fillmore crowed. “Haven’t you worked it out?” He flashed his teeth at Damon, a manic grin in a face contorted with glee. “The only thing between me and the vast Malford wealth was my brother. And my nephew.”
“My brother. The heir,” uttered Damon. The pieces were falling into place.
“Exactly! Adam hadn’t married; there were no other Blackbourne males. It was easy enough to arrange for a carriage accident.”
Grace gasped.
Fillmore shot her a quick glance before turning back to Damon. “But I never thought you still lived. That your mother would send for you. That whore, turning to a mongrel when she could have had me. All those years I pined for her, even after she married Silas. Married him because he had the title and the wealth. And then to reject me in favor of you!”
He raised the pistol, aiming it straight at Damon’s heart. Damon cast one final glance at Grace. The terror on her face burned into him even as he reached for his own pistol. He’d never make it in time, but he had to try.
Suddenly, Grace whipped her arm around over her head, the fireplace poker clutched in her right hand. She brought it down on Fillmore’s skull, the impact making a sickening thud. The pistol dropped from his hand, and he slumped over in his chair, blood oozing from the side of his head.
Grace stood behind him, cheeks slack, her eyes huge orbs. “Did I kill him?”
Deveric crossed and kneeled next to Fillmore, searching for a pulse in the inert man’s neck. “No. He’s alive.”
Damon remained rooted to the spot, a cascade of emotions sweeping through him. Fear from having nearly been shot by his crazed uncle at close range, disbelief that it was his uncle who’d caused his father’s and brother’s death, anger that Grace had endangered herself by attacking Fillmore, and relief, oh such intense relief, that she was safe and his uncle neutralized—at least for now.
“Grace,” he whispered, his blue eyes seeking hers. She dropped the poker and ran to him, crashing into him full force and wrapping her arms around him.
“I knew you would come,” she said, her head resting against his chest. “I knew it.”
He brought his hands up, momentarily breaking her grasp. He took her face in his hands, his thumbs stroking her cheeks as he leaned in and caught her lips in a fiery caress. She ran her fingers around his back, holding him to her as she returned the kiss, all the emotions of the past few days burning between them.
Deveric cleared his throat behind them, and Damon reluctantly broke off the kiss.
Grace turned around and gave her brother a sheepish grin. “Sorry, brother.”
Deveric shrugged. “It was well earned by both of you.” He walked toward his sister and enfolded her in a hug of his own. “I’m so glad you are safe.”
“Did he—did the bastard mistreat you in any way?” Damon’s gaze ran up and down her person. Though her hair was askew and her crumpled ball gown rimmed around the base with dust and dirt, she showed no other visible signs of injury.
“Not at all. Unless you count being subject to the ravings of a mad man—and intense alcoholic fumes—abuse. I was well cared for, all things considered.”
The two men heaved sighs of relief.
“Still, we must marry at once.”
Both Mattersleys turned to stare at Damon.
“We must,” he insisted. “Her reputation has been irreparably harmed, and it’s my fault.”
Grace snorted. “I think it was your uncle’s,” she said before she grew quiet, biting her lip, her eyes unreadable.
Deveric looked back and forth between the two. “Still, Grace, Damon is right; there is no chance you will recover from this with your reputation intact. You’ve been in the company of an unmarried man for a night.”
“A widower more than twice my age! I can’t believe you’re making that argument, Dev. You, who were always such a staunch supporter of Amara.”
He grimaced. Her words had hit their mark. “I know. But look at what it cost her, Grace.” Pain flitted across his face. “I don’t want you to suffer in such a way.”
Before she could respond, Deveric turned to Damon. “My apologies for having to say those things, Damon. They gave me no pleasure.”
A myriad of emotions flitted through him at Deveric’s words. He had doubted, even if momentarily. Guilt hit him for his own lack of faith. He studied the plush Oriental carpet at his feet.
“Malford,” Claremont said, his voice troubled. “Damon. You didn’t believe me. Did you?”
Damon didn’t respond.
Grace stepped forward, touching his chin with her fingers, forcing him to look up. “I didn’t believe him,” she said. “Not what he was saying, and not that he meant it. Anyone who gets to know you at all knows you’re nothing like what your uncle claims you to be.”
Fillmore groaned.
“Not wishing to be a spoil-sport,” Deveric said, “but I think it is time for us to leave. We can finish this conversation elsewhere.”
Damon and Grace nodded, and the three exited the room. The maid hovered just outside. From the look in her eyes, she’d heard at least some of what had transpired.
“Is he—Is he dead?”
“No. But he will have a mighty fine headache when he awakens.”
The maid nodded, her lower lip trembling.
Damon studied her a moment. “Do you wish to remain in my uncle’s employ?”
The young woman burst into tears. “No, but I haven’t anywhere else to go. He says if I leave, he’ll turn me out without a reference. And then what would I do? I’ve got no one else. My ma and pa, they died.”
“You will come work for me,” Damon said. “I will double your wages.”
The maid hiccupped. “Truly, Your Grace?”
“Yes. Unless the distance is too far? Thorne Hill lies some seventy miles from here.”
She shook her head. “That be fine, sir. I mean, Your Grace.” She bobbed a curtsy. “Thank you, thank you.”
“Gather your things and meet us at the front of the house as soon as you can. I don’t think it will be long before Fillmore awakens.”
She nodded and scurried out of the hallway, presumably to her chambers.
Tears brimmed in Grace’s eyes. “That was a kind and generous thing you did. I had not thought of it myself.”
He nodded. “Let us go. We shall continue this discussion about our marriage in better quarters.”
She stiffened but without further word descended the stairs, her brother following close behind.
Damon took a moment to breathe. He’d come so close to losing her. And now she was to be his wife.
He’d never lose her again.