“This should prove entertaining,” Burnley said with relish.
The old man shuffled across to lean against a tree. He looked like he settled in for an evening at the theater. Ashcroft supposed for someone of his twisted tastes, this counted as rich diversion indeed.
“Lord Burnley, please leave us alone,” Diana said with a sudden show of defiance.
Briefly, she was the bold, adventurous woman who’d insisted she belonged in Ashcroft’s bed. The woman he’d trusted. The woman he’d liked and respected.
That woman was illusion.
“I wouldn’t dream of it, my dear.”
Ashcroft noticed the frozen expression that crossed her face at the endearment. She clearly knew exactly what Burnley was like, which made her betrayal even more heinous. The bitch deserved her fate, marrying this monster. She’d find no joy in her nuptials. Burnley would freeze her into solid ice within weeks of the wedding, wring all the spirit from her.
She’d pay for what she’d done.
He wished the knowledge made him feel one iota less like she’d dug out his guts with a rusty spoon. The powerful mixture of rage and anguish threatened to strangle him. Desperately, he beat it back.
Think, man, think.
More connections set up in Ashcroft’s mind. Once he knew about his parentage and the collusion between Diana and Burnley, the essentials of the vile plot unraveled like a ball of wool.
Burnley lost his family in the fire, then…
He stiffened with horror. Burnley’s heirs had been his half brothers, his nieces and nephews. He’d only known them at a distance—political allegiance made friendship with anyone called Fanshawe untenable—now he’d never know them as people who shared his blood.
“It was all about the baby, wasn’t it?” he asked Diana in a cold voice, as if the old man hadn’t spoken, as if she hadn’t begged Burnley to leave them alone.
How bizarre, how humiliating to admit this poorly dressed, inexperienced widow had made a fool of him. He who had kept his head with London’s greatest courtesans and the wildest members of the ton.
He fought back his pain. His scientific curiosity was like a lid on top of a volcano, but at least it let him retain a shred of pride. Revelation had piled on revelation today. If he surrendered to his emotions, he’d drown.
“No, it wasn’t all about the baby.” When she met his eyes, she appeared sincere. What an actress. “Not all of it. Whatever else you believe, I beg you to believe that.”
“I wouldn’t believe you if you told me the sky was blue.” He’d have a confession from her before he left. He deserved that much. “At least let us have honesty. Tell me about the plan. You may as well. I’ve worked most of it out.”
She tugged free. He waited for her to weep and beg forgiveness and pretend innocence, but she straightened her shoulders and sent him an unwavering stare. He admired her courage, much as he wished he didn’t. That at least wasn’t false, even if everything else was.
How unfair that she still struck him as breathtakingly beautiful. The most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. His new knowledge of her should turn her into a foul hag in his eyes.
As he studied Diana’s exquisite features, he tried desperately to hate her. Instead he hated that he couldn’t find it in himself to despise her.
Perhaps he would in time. He prayed he would. The agony of knowing what she’d done without the anodyne of detesting her was like being skinned alive.
“Oh, for God’s sake, this becomes tiresome,” Burnley snapped. “Yes, the wench tricked you into making her pregnant. I’m delighted a child of my blood will carry on the name. Now all I need is a boy.”
“What a pity I couldn’t ensure that outcome,” Ashcroft said sarcastically, his attention not shifting from Diana’s stricken face.
He had a sudden urge to injure her the way she’d injured him. Although even here she had the upper hand. His feelings were engaged, and all she wanted was to become a bloody marchioness.
His voice lowered into silky derision. “Perhaps we can arrange a repeat performance. The lady is impressively enthusiastic. She’s to be commended for her devotion to your causes.”
Diana looked devastated. What a pity he couldn’t trust that her pain was real. He tried to find refuge in cynicism, but her betrayal cut too deep.
“Your offer is noted.” Burnley sounded as uninvolved as if he decided whether to repair a tenant’s house with thatch or slate.
“Always glad to be of service. I find myself asking why you didn’t fuck her yourself,” Ashcroft demanded with sudden heat, battling the urge to smash his fist into Burnley’s face.
Diana gasped as though he wounded her physically. He shouldn’t care. He should consign the slut to hell.