A Rake's Midnight Kiss (Sons of Sin 2)

“You go to France or Italy or hell for all I care. But remember, if I hear one whisper about Genevieve Barrett or any resident of Little Derrick, if I discover you’re back to your bad old tricks, if I learn you’ve set foot on English soil, I will present the evidence I’ve amassed to the Crown.”

“How will I live?”

“That’s up to you.” Cam ostentatiously checked his gold pocket watch. “My time runs short. Will you sign the paper and go, or would you rather face Sir Richard on the field of honor? Believe me, he’s itching to place a bullet in your lardy carcass.”

Without a word, Fairbrother trudged across to the desk and opened the top drawer. Cam maintained his relaxed posture, but suspense spurred his pulse. Would the fellow produce a gun? Fairbrother must know that all his schemes came to dust and killing the Duke of Sedgemoor ended any hope of escaping legal consequences. Still, he was a desperate, angry, vengeful man. A cornered rat.

When Fairbrother withdrew a thick sheet of cream paper, Cam silently released his breath. He hadn’t been sure his gamble would succeed.

The over-ornate room was silent as Fairbrother scrawled on the paper. Flames crackled in the hearth and candlelight gleamed on the treasure lining the walls. Cam wasn’t nearly the connoisseur Genevieve was, but he knew enough to recognize that Fairbrother’s collection put his family heirlooms in the shade. Beautiful, costly items surrounded him. Beautiful, costly items that had earned their ransom in blood and misery.

Eventually Fairbrother straightened and shoved the paper toward Cam with a contemptuous gesture. “Here.”

“Good.” Cam read the document, expecting some trick. But the will, which to all intents it was, appeared straightforward. He glanced up. “And I’ll take this.” He closed his hand over the Harmsworth Jewel and slipped it into his pocket.

“You’re a bastard, Sedgemoor,” Fairbrother said in a low, shaking voice.

“So they say.” Cam’s smile was icy. “Now ring for the footman.”

Fairbrother frowned. “Why the devil do you want a footman?”

“Humor me.”

Fairbrother shrugged with ill grace and wrenched the bell pull near the desk. The footman who had greeted Cam appeared.

“See His Grace out.” Fairbrother stumbled over the title. His outrage boiled closer to the surface. Cam had a feeling that if he asked for that signed paper now, Fairbrother would consign him to hell, whatever the consequences.

“Good evening, my lord.” Cam rose with a nonchalance designed to irk.

At the door, he turned back. Only to catch an expression of such despair and fury on Fairbrother’s face that briefly he almost pitied the fellow. Fairbrother stared at his priceless objects with such naked pain, it was like he surrendered his children. Then Cam recalled this man’s sins, and compassion dissolved into loathing.

Cam strode across the marble hall with its porphyry columns and coffered ceiling. In the huge space, his footsteps echoed eerily. This gaudy house seemed more mausoleum than home. He shook off the breath of evil and ran down the stairs. He tipped the groom holding his horse and mounted.

Instead of galloping off, he ambled along the lime tree avenue. Once away from the house, he circled off the drive toward the back. From here, he could see the gorgeous and oppressive room where he’d confronted Fairbrother.

He reined Gaspard in and bent to pat his glossy black neck, soothing the horse into stillness. The footman drew the curtains, the footman who would swear that when Sedgemoor left, Neville Fairbrother had been in perfect health, if a little bruised around the midriff and bearing abrasions from the previous night.

Darkness cloaked Cam. A faint rustle from the trees. The scent of clean air, purer and fresher than anything he’d breathed in Youngton Hall. A bird fluttered overhead, making him j

ump. Dear God, his nerves were more on edge than he’d realized.

Ten minutes passed. Half an hour. Still he sat.

Finally he straightened from his slouch and firmed his grip on the reins. It was time to go, to assure Richard and Genevieve that their future was secure from Lord Neville’s poison.

It was only then that he heard what he’d waited for.

A single shot rang out from the house, shattering the peaceful night.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Lord Neville was dead.

Exhausted, dazed, overwhelmed, still aching from her recent trials, Genevieve lay in her luxurious bedroom at Leighton Court and struggled to accept that Lord Neville’s evil influence had ended. Even more important, Richard wouldn’t perish on the field of honor. Thanks to Sedgemoor, she and the man she loved were safe at last. The duke still made her shy, but she’d never forget what she owed him.

After a couple of hours, Sedgemoor had returned to Leighton Court. But they’d only received confirmation of Lord Neville’s death when the local magistrate sent the duke a note as a courtesy to the premier nobleman in the area. Until that moment, Genevieve couldn’t trust that the nightmare was over.

The clock struck three with Genevieve staring wide-eyed into the darkness. Sighing, she shifted on the crisp white sheets. She was so weary she felt close to tears, yet still she couldn’t sleep. If only Richard was here to hold her against the clamor in her head. In the last two days, she’d lived through so much. Abduction. Losing her virginity. The revelation of Richard’s identity. Her father’s betrayal. Those blissful stolen moments in the barn. Captivity. Declarations of love. The escape. Lord Neville’s final defeat.