Diana recalled the day when news arrived of the Christmas celebrations that ended so calamitously. The fire had started overnight and engulfed the old manor at Deshayes before the residents could save themselves.
The loss of life had been appalling. Not just Lord Burnley’s heirs, but servants and family friends and relatives passing the festive season with the Fanshawes.
That winter, Lord Burnley had conducted one of his periodic feuds with his oldest son. He’d brooded in Cranston Abbey instead of attending the family Christmas.
His absence had saved him.
In spite of the all-encompassing horror of the tragedy, Diana had never seen grief in the old man. She knew the fire had proven a blow to his ambitions. The Fanshawes had held high office since the reign of Henry VII. Suddenly, at the age of seventy-five, Edgar Fanshawe was the last of the direct line. One day, the succession was secure unto the second generation. The next, a distant American cousin, descended from an obscure junior branch, was the closest male heir. Diana hadn’t needed to hear the marquess’s derisive dismissal of this fellow to know how that knowledge chafed.
Lord Burnley was proud and amoral and accustomed to shaping obedient destiny. For several months, he’d become a hermit, stewing on his misfortunes. He’d emerged changed, still purposeful and focused, but death had laid its bony hand on him.
Before he departed this world, he intended to make one last desperate attempt to control the future.
Which sparked this Machiavellian plan Diana helped bring to fruition.
Finally, he laid aside the paper. He steepled his long thin fingers and surveyed her out of sharp green eyes that conveyed a complete lack of pleasure.
She straightened and returned his stare. She was always bold with him—strangely, she suspected he respected that quality. It was certainly among the reasons he’d chosen her for this task. That and her fatal longing for Cranston Abbey.
“What do you have to report?” he barked.
So typical he didn’t waste time on social niceties. But then, they both knew time was one luxury he no longer had.
She hesitated although she knew what she had to tell him would gain his approval.
Her shyness was absurd. They both knew why she’d gone to London. After what she’d done, she had no right to claim modesty. Still, the words stuck in her tight throat.
She found herself challenging him instead of announcing her triumph. Which felt like no triumph at all. “If you’re going to drag me away from London whenever the mood takes you, you risk everything.”
His lips thinned until they almost disappeared. She hid a frisson of fear. He was a devil, Mephistopheles to her Faust. He wouldn’t care if he destroyed her in his bid to control Cranston Abbey beyond the grave. This scorpion might be old, but he was still poisonous.
His voice emerged as a growl. “Where did you go this afternoon? My man lost you after you left Chelsea.”
Dismay flooded her although she should have expected this. “You’re having me watched?”
He didn’t even blink, his eyes lizardlike in the flickering light. “Of course.”
Drawing herself to her full height, she fought the urge to cling to the elaborately carved chair in front of her. It had been a long day, exhausting, emotional, wrenching. Her head felt like it was stuffed full of wool.
He had a right to know where she’d been. It was painful to force the words. “I was with Lord Ashcroft.”
She awaited some expression of approbation. Instead, the old man’s eyes sharpened and his rake-thin body braced with quivering tension. “How can I be sure?”
She summoned her courage. Like all predators, if he sensed weakness, he’d attack. “It’s too late to decide you don’t trust me, my lord.”
“I don’t trust anyone.” He tapped his fingers together in front of him without shifting his gaze. “Tell me.”
Betraying color flooded her cheeks, and she stiffened. Surely, this foul old man couldn’t expect a detailed description of Ashcroft’s technique in bed. “We made love.”
He made a disgusted sound. “He fucked you. Don’t pretty up what happened. Did he leave his seed?”
Quivering with humiliation, she swallowed to clear the obstruction in her throat. She should have realized Burnley would subject her to an inquisition. “Yes.”
“Tell me about him.”
Her spirit revived and she snapped a reply. “He’s a man. We copulated. What else do you need to know?”
“Did you see him unclothed?”