The Earl in My Bed (Rebellious Desires 2)

They strolled in silence, and the edge of suspension Daphne felt hung on had her hands trembling. They came upon a hidden alcove with a small stone bench. She sat, and he lowered himself beside her.

“I believe there may be another solution to your quandary.” Redgrave glanced over his shoulder, before leaning in close. “Do you still have the letters?”

Her mind blanked for precious seconds. “What letters?”

He shot her a chiding look. “Come, my lady, the letters your father left in your care, the ones that gave you all the power you needed over Carrington.”

The moon dipped, and for a moment something sinister glowed in his eyes.

“I have no notion of what you speak.”

“Your brother discreetly mentioned the viscount had given you the means to bring your earl to heel.”

Blast Henry. How dare he speak of private family matters! Her heart jerked to hear of her father’s deplorable actions spoken of so lightly. The day after her marriage Daphne had confronted her father and had been met with a cold wall of silence. His lack of denial had wounded her deeply, and he had never divulged what information he had used to net her the title of countess. “You speak nonsense. I have no such letters.”

Frustration flashed across his features before he buried it under charming affability. Wariness shifted through her. What is going on? “Why would you be interested in letters that have the power to ruin Carrington?” Not that she believed such a thing remotely possible.

“My dear Daphne, I only thought to help you. With such a bargaining chip, you could prevent the earl from divorcing you.”

“I want him to procure a divorce.”

He smiled insincerely. “The privilege you have as countess is unmatched. The scandal of a divorce would see you never welcomed into society’s fold again. I offer you another solution to scandal and ruin, my darling. You could use the information your father left to keep your earl in check. Just imagine having such power. You could do anything you desire without fear—take a lover, gamble as much as you want, host scandalous parties. Just think of the freedom not to be burdened with disgrace.”

She canted her head to consider the dear friend who had been pursuing her for almost a year to be his lover. For the first time, she realized his attentions ran ominously deeper than his declared affections. “Do you know the content of these mysterious letters, Lord Redgrave?”

“No,” he growled. “Your father’s journal did not say. Only that he would make provisions to leave them with you.”

Her mouth went dry. “Where is this journal?”

“Your brother has it.”

And somehow the man before her, now revealed to be a possible snake, had charmed the information from her too trusting brother. An ache settled in her heart. Oh, Papa. “My father died suddenly. He gave me no letters.” And even if she had possessed any such damning letters, she would not give them to her brother or anyone else.

She stood. “I’m tired, Lord Redgrave, I bid you good evening. I will not betray the confidence you shared with me tonight.”

He jumped to his feet, reached for her hands, and pressed a kiss to the glove’s surface. “I had hoped you would be less faithful to him when I revealed his true heart.”

Daphne withdrew her hand from his eager clasp. “Did you?”

Without waiting for a reply, she walked away, eager to be home. If she could call the elegantly appointed townhouse in Grosvenor Square her home. It did not echo with laughter and love, only angry words and her bitter sobs. She hurried up the terraced steps and entered the ballroom once more. She did not linger, bidding Lady Cantrell adieu and calling for her carriage. There was a desperate ache inside her to ensconce herself in the library with a glass of sherry and think about all she had learned tonight.

She wanted a divorce.

There was the greatest possibility her husband wanted one, too.

Perhaps there was no need to start a scandal like the ton had never seen to push him toward a separation.

And most distressingly, the piercing pain that had lodged in her heart like the wickedest of barbs needed to be examined. She hungered to be free, so why did it hurt so badly?

Chapter Three

Sylvester Wentworth, the Earl of Carrington, entered his residence with stealth, like a man who had become used to hidden danger from any quarter. His butler, Knobbs, took his coat and hat with stoic aplomb, displaying no reaction to the fact that his master’s white cravat had drops of blood that gleamed a vivid red.

Sylvester strolled down the hallway to the library, a pair of footsteps beside him.

“My lord,” said Victor Drummond, a hesitancy in his speech Sylvester was not used to seeing in his most trusted man of affairs.

They entered the library, where a fire burned low in the grate and an oil lamp was lit. He was grateful the townhouse echoed with emptiness. There was no one to explain his state of dishevelment to, especially not his wife. Not that she would care whether he escaped an assassin’s blade once more. Though there was the strong possibility the two misguided fools who had attacked him in St. James’s Square as he left White’s were simply footpads.

Since the ending of the wars, the state of the realm had remained unstable. The people of England were becoming more desperate. The streets were littered with more whores, beggars, and thieves, the wretchedness of their desperation sometimes suffocating. The men could have been poor beggars, looking for an easy coin, and had not been sent to kill him because his cry against slavery was resounding with more force. But Sylvester had never been the sort of man to believe in coincidence. That naïveté had been bled from his heart years ago.

How would his countess react to his returned presence? He had been away from London for the past six months, the last several weeks having been spent on a voyage aboard the Maiden Anne from Jamaica to England’s shores. He’d hurried home to speak with his countess as soon as possible. He was determined to look past the deceptive woman whose subversive tactics saw them wed and attempt to find the sweet girl he had pulled from the river.

How would she respond when she heard the news that he desired a change in the state of their marriage, possibly a chance at less indifferent relations? His countess would possibly plunge a knife into his heart. He could not hope she would understand the need that had burned through him for more after a dagger had pierced his lungs while on the island. Death had beckoned to him for weeks, but he had fought and had rallied.

It had shocked him to awaken with a new purpose that he could not see removed from his heart. There was more to living than his honor and his work. His self-imposed loneliness hadn’t bought him much contentment with life. He could have children and some semblance of happiness instead of the cold exile of emotional detachment to which he had subjected his heart. He had always considered the responsibility of fathering children simply a duty to his title and he had delayed for far too long.

His man cleared his throat, and Sylvester frowned. “What is it?” he asked, shrugging from his jacket and waistcoat. One of the bounders had stabbed him in the left upper shoulder. The knife hadn’t sunk deep, but the sting suggested he had to investigate the wound. The knife had most likely been filthy and possibly crusted with another’s blood. He’d already fought death these last months, it would not do to meet that specter again because of an infection.

“I have the report on Redgrave,” Victor said.

Ah, Redgrave, a cold bastard who was rumored to treat the men, women, and children on his plantation in Barbados with inhumane cruelty. Sylvester had been after him for a while now, spearheading a thorough investigation into the man’s affairs. Exposing and ruining those masters who had no respect for human life was just one aspect of eradicating the barbaric practice of slavery.

“Leave it on the desk.” He shrugged from his shirt and shot a glance at his friend. “Is there a reason you could not wait to deliver this report?”

Victor looked away from him before meeting Sylvester?

?s gaze with a steady stare.

“There is a rumor that the viscount has a mistress. Very discreetly,” he added quickly. “And I had to dig deep to uncover the affair.”

“How does the viscount having a soiled dove aid our cause?” He wetted his handkerchief with a generous splash of brandy and pressed it against his shoulder, biting back a curse at the wicked sting.