CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“SINCLAIR! NO!” Francesca ran after him, grabbing his arm and tugging him to a stop. “What are you going to do? I won’t let you simply pay off my debt for me.”
“Do not worry yourself about that. ’Tis highly unlikely that there will be any exchange of money involved. It is my opinion that Perkins will find he needs to return to the Continent forthwith.”
“Sinclair!” Francesca’s eyes widened in alarm. “You mean to go over there to fight him? No, you must not. Truly, it is not worth it. You will get hurt.”
The duke cocked an eyebrow at her. “Are you suggesting that I cannot take care of a weasel like Perkins?”
“He killed a man!”
“I am considered something of a shot, as well—in my own humble way.”
“I know that.” Francesca grimaced. “But you are a gentleman, with a code of honor, whereas Perkins is not bound by any such rules.”
“Quite frankly, where Perkins is concerned, I don’t feel particularly bound by the rules, either.”
“No, please…you must not get involved in a duel. I would never forgive myself if something happened to you.”
“Your faith in me is a trifle underwhelming, my dear.” As she started to protest again, he shook his head and placed his forefinger against her lips. “There will not be a duel. I can promise you that. I can deal adequately with Perkins without that.”
Francesca released his arm, though she still frowned. “He will not fight fair. You cannot trust him.”
“Believe me, I do not intend to.”
He stepped away and walked to the door, then turned to look back at her. She was standing in the middle of the room, watching him forlornly. Her dark blue eyes were huge in her pale face.
Rochford muttered an oath beneath his breath and strode back to her, sweeping her up in his arms and kissing her. Startled, she did not move for an instant, but then she wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed her body up into his. He kissed her thoroughly, taking his time, and when at last he set her down, she was breathless, her heart beating like a wild thing.
Then he was gone, striding out into the hall, calling for Cranston. Francesca sank down into a chair, dazed. She heard Rochford and his butler talking in low voices in the hallway, but she could not understand what they were saying. A short while later, Cranston appeared in the doorway and bowed.
“My lady, the carriage is at the door to take you home.”
“Thank you, Cranston.” She summoned up a smile, though she suspected that it was not a very successful effort.
He held out her cloak, and she slipped into it, tying it in the front. Pulling the hood up to conceal her, she followed the butler to the front door. As promised, Rochford’s carriage waited outside, and Cranston handed her up into it. She wondered what he must think about these peculiar goings-on, but his face, of course, revealed none of his thoughts.
She had hoped to see the duke again before she left, but she thought that he must have gone straight out after giving his butler instructions. Nerves jittered in her stomach, and she drew a deep breath, trying to calm them.
Sinclair would be perfectly all right, she told herself. She had heard Dominic say that Rochford “showed to advantage” and was one he would want to have on his side in a “mill,” both of which statements Francesca took to be compliments to Sinclair’s fighting skill.
But she could not help but worry. Perkins would not hesitate to shoot an unarmed man. If Sinclair were killed trying to help her, she would never forgive herself. She wished that she had never taken it into her head to go to Lilles House. Better by far to lose her house than to bring about injury or even death to Rochford.
And yet, beneath the guilt and the worry, there was another feeling, a giddy uprush of emotion—gratitude, yes, but more than that. Certainly there was elation at the thought that she might not have to leave her home, but it was greater than that, as well. It was a deep, sweet warmth, an inner satisfaction at the realization that Sinclair still cared what happened to her.
THE DUKE OF ROCHFORD wasted little time finding Galen Perkins. He went first to a gambling hall on Pall Mall that he had known Lord Haughston to frequent years ago. It was still in business, but there was no sign of Perkins. A quick inquiry to the proprietor brought the news that Perkins was no longer welcome at his club, having left the country owing a substantial sum of money. He usually could be found, however, a few doors down on Pall Mall or at a club on Bennett.
Perkins was, in fact, at the second place, so happily engaged in a game of Hazard that he did not even glance up when Rochford entered the room. The duke quietly left and, giving the doorman a gold coin to bring Perkins to him, took up a post outside.
It was ten minutes later that the burly doorman opened the door and ushered Perkins out. Perkins glanced around, saying plaintively, “What the devil are you talking about? I don’t see anyone.”
The man shrugged. “I don’t know. He just said he had a debt to pay you.”
Rochford stepped out of the shadows. “It is I.”
Perkins’ eyes widened, and he started to turn to go back inside, but Rochford clamped his hand around the man’s upper arm and steered him firmly into the street.
“You and I are going to have a talk.”
Perkins tried to pull away. “The devil we are. I am not going with you.”
“You think not?”
Rochford released Perkins’ arm and planted his fist in the other man’s stomach instead. Perkins doubled over as the air went out of him in a whoosh, and Rochford finished him off with an uppercut to the chin that left his lip bleeding. Perkins staggered and landed hard on the sidewalk.
The doorman had been watching them with great interest, and the duke gestured to him now. “Help me get this fellow up and into a cab. I believe it’s time for him to go home.”
The corner of the doorman’s mouth quirked up for an instant, and he came forward, reaching down to grab Perkins’ arm and haul him to his feet. Rochford signaled a hackney, and the two men bundled the pale and wheezing Perkins into it.
Rochford settled down in the seat across from Perkins. “Where are you rooming?”
Perkins regarded him in baleful silence.
Rochford sighed. “Do you really wish to have another go? I have no problem continuing, of course, but I fear you might tire of it before long.”
This time Perkins muttered an address. Rochford relayed it to the driver and sat back in his seat, arms crossed, regarding the other man steadily. Perkins, his arm still wrapped protectively across his stomach, leaned in the corner of the coach, avoiding the duke’s gaze.
When the hack pulled to a stop in front of a narrow, brown brick building, Rochford leaned across and took Perkins’ arm, jerking him out of the coach. He released the other man for a moment to pay for the ride, and Perkins took the opportunity to bolt.
Almost casually, Rochford stretched out his foot, catching Perkins at the ankles, and he went sprawling. Rochford handed the driver his money and bent down to pull Perkins to his feet. Now bleeding from a fresh cut to his cheek, as well as the old one to his lip, Perkins offered no more resistance as Rochford steered him up the stairs and into the building.
There was another flight of stairs to climb once they were inside, and Perkins spent a few moments fumbling through his pockets for his key, but finally they were inside the room. With a contemptuous shove, the duke sent the other man sprawling onto his bed.
“Bloody hell!” Perkins burst out. “What the devil do you think you’re doing?” He struggled to an upright position.
“I am sending you back to the Continent.”
“What? I’m not going anywhere.”
“Oh, but I think you are. First, you are going to give me the note that Lord Haughston supposedly wrote turning over his house to you. Then you are going to leave this country and never return.”
“The hell I will!” Perkins’ defiant cry would have been more effective if he had not staggered when he jumped to his feet and had to grab the bedstead to stay upright. “You can’t make me go anywhere.”
Rochford cocked one eyebrow expressively. Perkins regarded him stubbornly for a moment, then turned away.
“All right, all right,” he whined, making his way to the wardrobe and pulling a handled cloth bag from the bottom of it.
Opening the bag, he set it down on the bed, then turned to the small table beside it. His back turned to Rochford, he reached inside. As he pulled his hand out of the drawer, he whirled and charged Rochford, a blade glinting in his grasp.
Rochford sidestepped neatly and sent a sharp jab into his kidney as he passed. Perkins stumbled forward under the force of the blow, and Rochford followed, grabbing the arm that held the knife and twisting it behind his back. His hand was like iron around the other man’s wrist, and he jerked Perkins’ arm up painfully, pulling the knife from his fingers.
“Now,” he said, dropping the knife into the pocket of his jacket. “I hope we can proceed to your packing. Another stunt like that one, and you will be departing without any of your things.”
“You nearly wrenched my arm out of the socket,” Perkins whined, rubbing his shoulder. “Have you gone mad?”
“I am quite sane, I assure you.”
“I never did anything to you. You’ve no right to be pushing me about.”
“You have offended a lady of my acquaintance. That gives me every right. Now, hand over the note.”
Perkins’ mouth twisted bitterly. “That doxy! So that’s her price for becoming your plaything, eh?”
Rochford’s fist shot out, slamming into Perkins’ cheek and knocking the man flat on the floor. Before Perkins could move, Rochford strode forward and set his boot across the other man’s throat.
“I could do whatever I wished to you,” he pointed out conversationally. “I hope you are intelligent enough to understand that. If I wanted, I could crush your throat right now.” He pressed harder against Perkins’ wind-pipe. “I could kill you in an instant and then have my servants toss your body in the Thames. And no one would either know or care that you are gone.” He paused, then went on. “Now…I will tell you one last time. Give me the note.”
Perkins had turned as white as chalk during the duke’s speech, and now he dug frantically in his inner pocket and pulled out a sheet of paper. He held it upward, waving it.
Rochford relaxed his pressure somewhat and reached down to pluck the note from the other man’s fingers. He unfolded and perused it, his mouth tightening as he read; then he folded up the paper and stuck it in his pocket.
“Tell me,” he said conversationally. “Just as a point of curiosity…was Haughston really so great a gudgeon as to write that note?”
Perkins set his jaw stubbornly, and Rochford pressed his foot down harder.
“No!” Perkins gasped. “I wrote it. I could always do his hand. The bird-witted clunch! I don’t know how many times I wrote his vowels. He was always too disguised to remember.”
With a noise of disgust, Rochford removed his foot from the other man’s throat, and Perkins rose gingerly to his feet.
“You will leave England tomorrow,” Rochford told him in icy tones. “And if you ever come back, I can promise you that I will put the full weight of my name and my fortune to seeing that you are prosecuted for murdering Avery Bagshaw. Do I make myself clear?”
Hatred shot from Perkins’ eyes, but he nodded, reaching up to wipe the fresh blood from his mouth.
“Good.” Rochford nodded. “It is my sincere hope never to see you again. Make sure I am not disappointed.”
He turned and strode out the door. Behind him, Perkins glared at the door for a moment, then turned and walked stiff-legged over to the bag on the bed. He picked it up and flung it against the wall.
“We’ll see about that,” he muttered sullenly. “We’ll bloody see about that.”
FRANCESCA SAT IN the drawing room, not bothering to go upstairs and change. She was certain that Rochford would come to her when he was finished with Perkins, and if he did not, she feared that it would mean the worst. She could not possibly go up to bed with that hanging over her head.
So she kicked off her shoes and curled up in the most comfortable chair in the room, angling it so that she could keep watch out the front bow window. Time moved by at an agonizing pace.
She told herself that she did not need to worry. Rochford would take care of Perkins without coming to any harm. She had never known him to be unprepared or caught off guard. He was intelligent, as well as strong, and he would not let Perkins get the better of him, no matter how underhandedly Perkins went about it.
But no matter how much she reassured herself, Francesca could not vanquish her fear. If anything happened to Sinclair because of her, she did not know what she would do. The thought was crushing.
She closed her eyes, clasping her hands together tightly in her lap. She should not have gone to Rochford. It had been foolish. Selfish.
Yet she knew that she could not have done anything else. And if she were somehow given the chance to do it all again, she would undoubtedly do the same thing. The fact was, in all the world, out of all her family and friends, it was Rochford to whom she would always turn when she was in trouble.
And that, she realized, was the central truth of her life. Rochford knew her better than anyone. He was the rock at the center of her world, the one person on whom she could rely.
She had ignored that fact for years, denied it, done her best to pretend that it was otherwise. She had lived as another man’s wife, faithful to him in every way except the one that mattered most. Her heart belonged to Sinclair, and it always had.
It always would.
She did not fool herself that there could be any future for them. It was clear that Rochford felt some degree of passion for her—given his kisses and caresses, it would be hard to deny that fact. But she was wise enough to know that passion did not mean love, and it most certainly did not mean marriage.
Francesca had lost any hope of those things when she broke off their engagement. The duke was too proud a man to propose a second time to a woman who had jilted him. Even if, by some wild stretch of the imagination, she could believe that he would want to marry her, it would be a dereliction of his duty to his name and family for him to marry a barren widow.
No, Rochford knew where his responsibility lay, and he would marry the sort of woman he had to. Why else had he committed himself to finding a bride?
She would have no satisfaction from her love. But still, there was something deep inside her that could not help but warm to the knowledge. Her heart had been a cold thing in her chest for so many years that it was a heady experience to have it swell again with sweet emotion.
She leaned forward, spotting a man walking toward her house. She waited tensely as he came closer.
“Sinclair!” Tears sprang to her eyes as the tall figure resolved into that of the duke.
Jumping to her feet, she picked up her candle and hurried to the door. She set the candle down on the entry table and shot back the bolt, then carefully pulled the door open. Rochford was turning off the street onto her walkway.
“Sinclair!”
He looked up at her and smiled. Francesca flew down the steps and launched herself at him. He wrapped his arms around her, lifting her up and into him, and his mouth came down to meet hers.
They stood that way for a long moment, their lips sealed together and the rest of the world lost to them. But finally Francesca recalled where they were and what she was doing, and she released him and stepped back, letting out a shaky little laugh.
“I was so worried. Come in, come in….” She took his hand and led him inside, casting a glance around the darkened street.
As they had the other time he had visited her late at night, they slipped quietly down the hallway to the cozy sitting room and closed the door behind them.
“What happened?” she asked, turning to face him. “Did you see Perkins?”
“I did.” He reached inside his jacket and pulled out a piece of paper. Unfolding it, he handed it to her. “Here is the note. I suggest that you burn it.”
Almost unbelieving, Francesca reached her hand and took the piece of paper. She noticed that it trembled in her fingers. “You did not—you did not pay him, did you?”
“No. I swear it.”
“Or kill him?”
A faint smile lifted one corner of his mouth. “Nor kill him. I persuaded the fellow to leave England. I do not think you will see him again.”
“Oh, Sinclair!” Francesca raised a hand to her eyes, pressing it against them to stem the tears that threatened her. “I suppose it is very wrong—legally the house may be his—but I cannot feel anything but glad that you sent him away.”
“The house is not his. Perkins admitted that the note was a forgery, just as I thought. Haughston was, God knows, mutton-headed enough to do it. But if Perkins had had this paper in his hands for the last seven years, he would have done something about it before now, even if he was in exile. Nor would he have been willing to accept money from you in lieu of taking the house. He would have gone straight to court with it when he returned home.”
“Oh.” Francesca thought about it. “No doubt you are right. I could have fought him in court. I should have, instead of bothering you with it.”
“You did exactly as you should have. If you had challenged him, he would have made you miserable with lies and gossip. The man is a snake. It was no bother to me. I am sorry only that you waited so long to tell me what was wrong. I would have liked to save you the weeks of worry.”
His words, the gentle expression in his dark eyes, finally broke through her control. She began to cry.
“Francesca…sweetheart, no…” He went to her, pulling her gently into his arms. “Do not cry.” He kissed the top of her head. “I meant to make you happy.”
“I am!” Francesca let out a watery little laugh. “I am happier than I have been in—in so long.”
He chuckled, his arms tightening around her, and he rubbed his cheek against her hair. “So happy that you cry.”
“Exactly.”
She pulled back a little and looked up into his face, wiping the tears from her cheeks. Her blue eyes shone as she gazed at him, full of tenderness and joy.
He sucked in his breath sharply. “Francesca…”
“You have been so kind, so good. I am more grateful to you than you can know.”
“I do not want your gratitude,” he answered, his voice rough with emotion.
“You have it anyway—and more. Much more.”
Boldly she went up on tiptoe and pressed her lips to his cheek. Her hands came up to cup his face, and for a long moment they gazed into each other’s eyes. Then she rose again, her mouth moving to his.
They kissed, lips hot and hungry, tongues tangling in a primal dance of desire. Heat surged between them.
His hands went to her hips, moving restlessly over her, and he pulled her more tightly against him. Francesca wrapped her arms around his neck, pressing up into him, delighting in the hard feel of his body against her softness. A deep, formless yearning grew inside her, deepening with every brush of his fingers, every movement of his mouth. Her senses sprang to life as they had done only with him. Her skin was supremely sensitive, aware of the merest touch of air upon it. Sight, sound, smell—all were magnified until she felt almost overwhelmed with the rush of sensations.
She slipped a hand up his neck, feeling the prickle of the short hairs at the back of his head, then the silken slide of the longer hair above that, thick and soft. She dug her fingers into his hair, letting the locks trail across her skin, pressing the pads of her fingers against the solidity of his skull.
He moaned as she twined her fingers through his hair, and the sound sent desire leaping through her. Her heart slammed inside her chest, her pulse racing madly. His arms went tightly around her, almost bruising in their strength, as though he could meld their bodies together.
It was, she realized, what she wanted—to feel him inside her, part of her, to be so entwined with him that there was no separation between them. She trembled, almost frightened by the intensity of her eagerness.
“No.” He pulled away, gasping for air. “I don’t want you this way—you must not feel that you owe me anything.” He ran a hand back through his hair, taking a deep breath and visibly struggling to bring calm to his words. “I will not take advantage of you.”
He looked at her, his black eyes so heated, so intense, that his very gaze sent desire lancing through her. “You do not need to repay me for what I did. That isn’t why—”
“Hush.” She reached up and laid a finger against his lips. “I know that is not why you helped me.”
She gazed at him, drinking in his beloved face, her senses stirred by the lines of desire etched on his features. “It is my own free choice. I want to.”
She realized as she spoke how very true her words were. Despite the fear that lurked inside her, despite the dread of finding that this heat and hunger would once again disappear into cold ashes, despite all the reasons why they should not continue what they were doing, she wanted to. She wanted to more than she had ever wanted anything in her life. Indeed, all she wanted in this world was him.
With a smile, she stepped forward into his arms, her face turning up to meet his.