Unveiled (Turner 1)

“Sometimes,” Dalrymple responded in a murmur, “I almost think I could like you.”

Ash snorted. “Why bother?”

At their feet, the earl moaned slightly. Ash wasn’t sure whether to be pleased that the man had survived, or annoyed that he was still twitching.

“Is that your plan?” he continued. “You attempt to befriend me? To convince me that we should reach some sort of agreement? I don’t make agreements with you, Dalrymple—not of any sort. I know your type.”

“After this—” Dalrymple prodded Indiver’s prone form with a foot “—there’s little enough we can agree on. I suppose we have reached the end of the matter. I should be grateful it took us a ten full minutes.”

Ash glanced askance at the man. “I once told your father I’d make you an allowance, should I win. The offer is still open. All you have to do is ask for it. Politely.”

“What, so I could dangle on your string, subject to your every whim? No, thank you, Turner. I hardly want to be beholden to you.”

He’d not imagined the man would take kindly to his offer. “Perhaps,” Ash said in a low growl, “you thought we might split the honors. I take the dukedom. You take one of the lesser titles attached to Parford.”

That seemed to take Dalrymple aback. In the darkness, his head skewed to one side. “How would you propose to do that?” He sounded almost shocked. “Is that…possible?”

“I don’t know. I suppose we could petition the queen to strip off one of the lesser titles. Not,” he added with a wary glance to his side, “that I would support any such thing.” But perhaps that might satisfy Margaret—if not Ash’s own need for vengeance.

“The queen?” Dalrymple’s eyes narrowed.

“While you were out, ruining your constitution studying in Oxford, you might have heard of her once or twice. Lovely lady. Recently ascended to the throne.”

“The queen can’t simply strip a lord of a title on a whim. What sort of ignoramus are you?”

“She’s the queen. She can do anything.”

Dalrymple rolled his eyes again. “No, she can’t. It’s called Magna Carta, you dolt. You might have heard of it—if you’d any education to speak of. But you didn’t, did you? How can you think you can run a dukedom when you’re ignorant of even the most basic tenets of government?”

If Ash had been able to think, he wouldn’t have done it. But thought fled before a red, furious miasma, and before he could consider, he punched. His knuckles bruised with the blow, and he heard rather than saw Richard stumble back against a tree.

“Maybe,” Ash snarled, “if you’d spent a little less time memorizing Latin and a little more actually trying to accomplish something of merit, you wouldn’t find yourself in this situation.”

“What, waste my life pursuing trade like you? You’re mad if you think anyone would want a stinking businessman in the House of Lords, when—”

“When they could have you?” Ash said with a sneer. “Let me spell it out for you, Dalrymple. For a man in trade, I’ve garnered a shocking percentage of the lords to my side. You’re going to lose. And it’s because nobody likes you. Nobody has ever liked you—don’t fool yourself. I heard the stories from Eton.”

Ash had only a moment to register that Dalrymple was rushing towards him with a wordless roar, before the man careened into him, flailing wildly in his rage. Ash punched him once, and once again, but there was a fierce desperation to his opponent. When Ash took a step back, his boot caught a flagstone beneath him and he fell.

Dalrymple was on top of him, pummeling him ineffectually—really, someone needed to teach the man to use his fists—and Ash had just reached up to take hold of the man’s neck when the sound of another man, clearing his throat, echoed.

“Gentlemen,” said a dry voice. A pause.

Ash’s hands were tangled in Dalrymple’s cravat.

“I assume,” the man continued, “that contrary to all available evidence, the two of you are still gentlemen?”

Damn. Hell and damn. That censorious tone could only belong to Lord Lacy-Follett, one of the few lords whose vote was not yet decided—and one of the most influential. He’d told Ash a few days ago that he could not quite decide between the strength of the son’s claim and his desire to see Parford punished for his bigamy.

This was not the way to win him over.

“Lord Lacy-Follett,” Ash said from the pavement. “A pleasant evening we’re having, isn’t it?”

“Full marks for temerity, Turner.”

Ash’s chin was beginning to throb. “He called—” He stopped, before he gave voice to the unbecoming whine. He called me ignorant. If he were going to be strictly truthful, he’d have to add one last point. And I hit him because he was right. Ash let go of Dalrymple and scrambled away.

“That is to say,” Ash said, “Dalrymple called on me this evening so that we might settle our differences.”

“I see,” Lacy-Follett said in a tight voice. It would have been hard for him not to, with the pair of them rolling on the ground like schoolboys. He continued. “Gentlemen.” Oh, yes, there was definitely an ironic tinge to that word. “Parliament exists for reasons other than pursuing personal gain and vengeance. It has other matters to see to than the all-consuming question of who will become the next Duke of Parford. Matters such as governing the country. Learning to act in concert with our new sovereign. Solidifying our place in the world.”

Dalrymple had moved away from him. Ash slowly gathered himself into a crouch on the pavement. “As you say, Your Lordship.”

“I, for one, have had enough of these antics. But everywhere you…you gentlemen go, people can talk of nothing else. When Parliament resumes, I have no wish to experience months of this insanity. Particularly not if the differences are settled in this juvenile form.”

Ash swallowed, but his throat was still dry. “What, precisely, are you proposing?”

A click; the sudden scent of tobacco. Lord Lacy-Follett was taking snuff. When he’d finished, he answered. “Come and see me at Saxton House in two days’ time. Both of you.”

“And what,” Dalrymple asked tentatively, “will be the purpose of this visit?”

“Why, for you to present your case to those of us who are undecided. To have the decision made. To end this foolish game, once and for all.”

The night was thick, and an insect grated a harsh complaint into the heavy air. Slowly, Ash clambered to his feet.

“I trust,” Lacy-Follett said into the darkness, “that you will both be present.”

They would. They would.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

A LADY NEVER VISITED a gentleman’s house alone. And Margaret—arriving in a hired hack, dressed in a heavy cloak—had most definitely come alone. But given her destination, her brothers would never have accompanied her, and the maids would never have kept silent.

Still, the butler showed Margaret inside without a word, not questioning the assumed name she’d given him.

Ash’s house was beautiful. Beautiful and new— Portland stone without, honey-wood floors within, the walls painted and papered in vibrant, warm colors. The ceiling was cunningly wrought plasterwork, gilded all over. It was rich without being ostentatious.

That understated elegance reminded Margaret of Ash.

She was conducted into a parlor, where Ash sat. His fingers drummed on his desk, and he looked up at her with a smile on his face. But he betrayed nothing else to the manservant who conducted her in.

“Ah,” he said. “Miss Laurette. How good of you to come see me.”

A flick of his hand dismissed the servant. Ash waited until the door shut before he stood and strode towards her.

“Margaret.” Her skin prickled—his hands found her waist, and then he was drawing her close in a rough, possessive embrace.

“Margaret,” he repeated, his breath warming the top of her head. His hand made seductive little circles against her back, caresses that she felt all the way through the fabric of he

r gown. And then he was tipping her chin up, lowering his head to hers. Not asking, not waiting, just slipping into intimacy as easily as he might put on a pair of old, comfortable slippers.

“No. Wait. You need to hear me out first.”

He raised his head. His hands tightened around her waist. “What is it?”

Last evening, after they had all come home, her brother had told her what awaited them at the gathering Lord Lacy-Follett had organized. And her wants had crystallized.