Chapter 5

5

Major General Beaufort Drake was England’s biggest fool.

He stood on the gravelled entrance leading from his drive to the massive stone steps of his country estate and watched the carriage carrying his fiancée trundle ever closer down the alder-lined drive. The frigid wind whistled through the courtyard, embracing him with cold fingers.

‘Well, on the bright side of things, this wedding celebration is an excellent reason to invite our biggest suspect into your home.’ Reynard elbowed Drake in the side as he stood with him, waiting for Millicent to arrive.

Drake rolled his eyes and pressed his lips together. Not only had he allowed a fiery-haired witch of a woman to trick him into a marriage, but he then let Prime Minister Russell convince him to turn the whole sordid affair into a trap for a killer. It was madness. And it just might work.

‘I had no idea a “small wedding” meant inviting every duke, earl, viscount, and baron within throwing distance of London to descend upon us.’ Drake rocked back on his heels, willing his anger to dissipate. It wasn’t Millicent’s fault her sadistic stepmother wanted a huge affair. ‘Thank God Killian is still on his honeymoon.’ Seeing his smug face would be too much to bear. This entire farce of a wedding guaranteed to fray Drake’s nerves and test his very short fuse without any help from his snarky friend.

‘Of us all, you were the last I expected to fall.’ Reynard clapped Drake on the back. ‘Even the best of us get caught out sometimes, eh?’

‘Especially when a scheming minx has you in her sights,’ Drake grumbled.

‘Quite a coincidence that our next suspect is a childhood friend of your betrothed.’ Reynard squinted up at the winter sky before returning his gaze to the carriage rolling closer along the winding drive.

‘Lord Franklin St George.’ Drake felt his face pull into a grimace. Prime Minister Russell’s orders were explicit. Focus on St George and determine what role he played in this diabolical game. ‘I spent some time with him a few months back at Bradford’s house party. Even if he’s innocent of this, the man is despicable.’ Loathing for St George added another layer of bitterness fuelling Drake.

St George was a slimy toad who hurled insults at women, couldn’t ride to save his soul, and had a history with Drake’s future wife. The specifics of that history lay shrouded in shadow, but not for long. It was one mystery Drake was intent on discovering. And the key to that particular lock was fast approaching.

‘Do you think he’s capable of luring young country girls to interview for maid positions, drugging them, nailing them into coffins, and then shipping them across the English Channel to France?’ Reynard’s cheek ticked in disgust.

Drake couldn’t imagine Franklin holding a hammer to nail anything, but the rest was possible. ‘I think he’s capable of trying, though I doubt he has the intelligence or power to orchestrate anything alone. This secret society of men calls themselves The Devil’s Sons. I believe St George is a member. If we catch him red-handed, he can lead us to those who are powerful enough to keep this sex trade running. That is our aim.’

The girls who survived the journey across the Channel had no money, no family, no protection. They were forced into prostitution, and the money they earned lined the pockets of snivelling peers of the realm like fucking Franklin St George. But not for long.

‘We’ll keep a close eye on the bastard. See who he talks to. If he reveals anything. One way or another, we’ll catch him.’ Reynard nodded, always confident.

All evidence pointed to St George’s participation in procuring these women. Which meant he knew who was in charge. Drake was going to enjoy making him spill his secrets. He was almost as desperate to catch the fucker red-handed as he was to see his fiancée again. Which troubled Drake in the extreme.

Two weeks had never felt so long. Not even in the stinking Afghanistan pit of a prison he called home for two years. Completely confounding. He didn’t like Millicent Whittenburg. She had trapped him in an unwanted marriage. She was too tall. Too bold. Too fierce.

Too bloody tempting.

His mind kept wandering back to their kiss on the veranda. His body hardened as he imagined all her curves pressed against him, only in his mind, she was naked, and they weren’t interrupted by the entire sodding beau monde.

His cock thickened at the memory of their brief interlude.

Fucking hell!

Drake prided himself on control. His body was a weapon, something he wielded with the same fierce detachment as a sword or pistol. But somehow, just the thought of Millicent created a rebellion within him. He yearned for her.

Major General Drake Beaufort yearns for no one.

Yet, still. He ached.

The anger boiling beneath his skin had a new target. His conniving wife-to-be. A woman who dared to make him feel again. Such an affront to his autonomy was not to be borne. She would pay for her gamble. Whatever she hoped to reap from this marriage, a felicitous union was not forthcoming. He would double down on his efforts to keep her at a distance.

‘Ah. Here they are. Your betrothed and her lovely parents. I must say, having Patricia Whittenburg for a mother-in-law would send most men running for the hills. Myself included.’ Reynard watched the coach with a wary eye. ‘She’s a horror.’

‘On a good day,’ Drake agreed.

A footman rushed to set the step, and Drake strode forward, ready to greet his betrothed with all the hospitality of a wounded dragon. Reynard wisely stayed back to watch from a distance.

Lord Whittenburg emerged first, his coat wrinkled from the journey. He assisted his wife, a woman significantly younger and exponentially crueller than her husband. Lord Whittenburg’s weakness highlighted his wife’s determination. Drake was not a fan of Millicent’s pretty, spiteful, grasping stepmother. His opinion of the woman grew even more severe when Millicent appeared, blinking at the bright day.

It had only been two weeks since their last meeting, but Millicent’s appearance was drastically altered. She had lost weight, her face pale and gaunt. It was also blatantly apparent she was in some kind of discomfort. Although her movements were still fluid and graceful, belying an athleticism most young ladies of the beau monde would be embarrassed to display, she winced as she stepped down from the carriage. But then, ladies were supposed to be delicate, fragile flowers in need of protection. Perhaps his perception of her being different from all the gentle ladies of the beau monde was faulty.

Hogwash!

Millicent was about as delicate as a rapier sword. Which piqued Drake’s suspicion. Why would a young miss carry herself with such self-assurance? When she glanced at him, her steady gaze held the confidence of an equal. He’d only seen that kind of power in three women. The Queen. The Duchess of Dorsett. And Hannah Simmons when she looked at his friend, Killian. Drake shuddered at the thought.

The bloody cliffs of Dover will fall into the sea before I end up as love-drunk as my idiot friend, Killian.

Watching his betrothed as she threw back her shoulders and sent her stepmother a withering glare, Drake’s mouth watered. Even in her suffering, she was defiant. He’d never wanted anyone with such desperation. But it was just another appetite, and he could control his hunger. He would control it with the same ruthless discipline he applied to all areas of his life.

Patricia walked over to her stepdaughter in an overture of motherly affection, but Drake saw the vicious pinch she delivered to Millicent’s arm before gracing him with one of her calculated smiles.

Whatever changes he perceived in his betrothed, the orchestrator was obvious. Patricia Whittenburg had been punishing her stepdaughter. Most grievously.

‘My lord, what a stunning home you have so far in the country.’ Patricia pulled Millicent with her as they approached.

Millicent wrenched free of her stepmother and glanced at the stone entrance to his home. ‘It is quite impressive, sir.’ Her husky voice stroked along his senses like the pleasant scratch of nails digging into his back. Rough and delicious.

‘I’m sure you can come up with something better than that, dear.’ Patricia’s tinkling laughter rang across the gravel drive. ‘A home like this is deserving of a much grander compliment than merely “impressive”. And a much grander mistress, but I suppose the Earl of Tetly will make do.’

Drake didn’t miss her emphasis on his title. The woman was single-minded in her focus to climb the social ladder at any cost. While she lost a viscount thanks to Millicent’s awkward – surprisingly arousing – attempt at seduction, she gained an earl. Not a bad trade while still ensuring Millicent remained below her stepmother in the hierarchy of the beau monde.

‘On the contrary, madame, I find that Miss Millicent is uniquely suited to become a countess.’ Drake defended his betrothed before he could think better of it.

Patricia’s smile turned brittle. Millicent’s eyes widened to stare at Drake. He could only guess she was as surprised at his defence of her as he was. Strangely, the idea made him feel uncomfortable. Had he been such a beast that she expected no kindness?

Probably. I am a dragon, after all.

‘A countess bringing shame onto all of us. But perhaps you can train her better than we were able.’ A bright winter sun highlighted Patricia’s sharp features, emphasising her cold beauty. Gold ringlets swung gracefully against a cheek both smooth and pink like a petal. Full lips painted the same delicate shade of rose pursed in a practised smile. But her beauty hid an ugly woman beneath. She was a conniving, heartless bitch, and no abundance of delicate features or carefully applied cosmetics would ever change that.

Lord Whittenburg joined them from where he had been directing the unloading of their luggage.

‘Lord Whittenburg.’ Drake nodded curtly, then turned his gaze to Millicent, dismissing both of her parents rudely. ‘Miss Millicent, welcome to Alder House.’

Millicent’s gaze captured him like a siren’s song. Sunlight brought out amber hues in Millicent’s rich-brown eyes. Her thick lashes, a few shades darker than her blazing hair, perfectly framed her brilliant gaze. Where her stepmother’s complexion and features mirrored a porcelain doll, Millicent was powerful, bold, absolutely stunning. Or she would be once she ate a decent meal and regained some of the colour in her cheeks.

His anger deepened. A usually comfortable emotion. But this amalgamation of rage and desire, this need to protect Millicent and ensure she was healthy and well while simultaneously destroying anyone who threatened her, was new and alarming. He did not like it. Not one bit. Distance and decorum. That is what this relationship required. Demands he intended to lay out immediately.

‘Allow me to introduce you to your staff, then you can settle into your rooms and refresh yourself before we meet in my study.’

Millicent’s gaze swept to his. ‘Meet in your study? For what purpose?’

‘There are things we must discuss.’ He spared a withering glance at her parents. ‘Alone.’

‘But surely that’s not proper.’ Patricia had overheard his comment and inserted herself into the conversation, gliding across the gravel drive to land next to Millicent. Drake kept a sharp gaze on her hand. If she reached over to pinch Millicent again, he might well hit her. A first for him, as he did not condone violence toward women. Patricia Whittenburg would be a well-deserving exception to his rule.

‘Even engaged couples can’t be cloistered together, unchaperoned.’ Her eyebrows rose toward her blonde hairline, creating unsightly wrinkles that would horrify her if she knew.

‘I think you’ll find I can do whatever I damn well please in my own house with my soon-to-be wife, madame. Lord Whittenburg, please remind your wife of her manners, or I will ask both of you to leave.’

Patricia gasped, her hand fluttering over a barely contained bosom. Her dress – a garish orange – was cut so scandalously low, Drake feared she might fall out of it and embarrass them all. The foolish woman had opted not to wear a cape, though the temperatures were frigid. It was likely there would be snow soon. She was the last person to be handing out advice on propriety.

‘How dare you!’ she sputtered.

‘Quite easily, madame. I have welcomed you to stay here, allowed you to invite God-knows-who to my estate for a wedding celebration thrust upon me after being entrapped by an enterprising young miss.’ Millicent stiffened against him, and he felt a moment of remorse at his harsh words.

Well, what does she expect? That I might be overjoyed in a forced marriage?

While his insult had been directed at Patricia, he wouldn’t feel guilty about pointing out Millicent’s devious behaviour. He hardened his stare. ‘Tread carefully, Lady Whittenburg. You’ll find I’m not nearly so accommodating as your husband.’

Lord Whittenburg’s cheeks flushed at the implied slight.

In mere moments, Drake had insulted his betrothed, offended his new in-laws, and established his brutish nature.

Well, better they know now than find out later.

‘I assure you, sir, we are grateful for your generous offer after my daughter’s disastrous behaviour. My wife is only concerned with salvaging Millicent’s already damaged reputation. An endeavour equally benefitting you.’ Henry Whittenburg didn’t even spare his daughter a glance.

Millicent dropped her head, a blush staining her neck crimson.

Drake rankled at Lord Whittenburg’s words, though they were no less insulting than his own had been toward his betrothed. ‘Her reputation is none of your concern any more.’

‘I’m right here.’ Millicent spoke quietly. She raised her chin, and Drake didn’t miss the tremble in her full lips. He wanted to lick the seam of her mouth. Taste her again. Bite her bottom lip until the only tremble through her body was one of desire.

Control yourself, man!

‘Yes, of course you’re here, silly girl. Where else would you be?’ Patricia hissed.

‘You don’t need to speak about me as if I’m a naughty child or some kind of hideous vase you can’t decide whether to hide in the attic or throw out with the rubbish.’ Anger brought a flush to her cheeks, and her eyes flashed. Drake almost nodded in encouragement. Watching Millicent fight back was a damn sight better than the defeated woman who had slumped next to him moments before.

‘Perhaps we should set you on the mantel, Miss Millicent. You can stand quietly while we all admire your…’ His gaze was drawn to the luscious curve of her breasts, hidden beneath a sensible coat. ‘Numerous assets.’ The dry words slipped out before he could stop himself.

Millicent narrowed her gaze, pulling her arm free of his grip. ‘I have a better idea, my Lord. Let’s abandon this farce of a wedding. I can retire to the country in shame, another ruined woman disappearing into the heather. You will be free of an unwanted wife. Lord and Lady Whittenburg can distance themselves from their wayward daughter. A task they shall apply themselves to with vigour, I’d wager.’ She spared her father a glance that had the man looking quickly away. ‘I will happily spend my days wandering the woods and riding across the moors, and the rest of you will never see me again. A desirable outcome for all involved.’

Everything in him recoiled at the thought of breaking their engagement, which was bewildering. He had only offered for Millicent out of honour.

And that kiss.

Drake blinked, refusing to revisit the incendiary moment. His rogue desires had nothing to do with this wedding. But the thought of never seeing Millicent again filled him with a strange hollowness.

Bollocks to that! I am not some shell of a man waiting to be filled up by the next beautiful woman who kisses me on a veranda. But neither am I a libertine.

Regardless of his feelings about marriage, he would not be responsible for ruining a young woman, even if it meant doing the unthinkable and willingly sacrificing his quiet, calm solitude for matrimonial agony. The prime minister’s encouragement to find a wife didn’t hurt. While not Drake’s choice, having a bride foisted upon him was awfully convenient.

Still, he should jump at her offer to rescind the proposal. He could hardly be considered a feckless profligate if she was rejecting him .

Something kicked in the vicinity of his chest. A strange pounding.

Mine.

The word rang through his head in rhythm with the beating, like war drums decrying an impending battle. Giving Millicent up to live as a tainted woman on the edges of society was unthinkable.

‘Mad Millicent of the Moors. Yes, that would be a fitting future for you. Shameless girl! You would happily soak in your scandal while destroying all our reputations with your wanton ways,’ Patricia hissed, bony fingers reaching for Millicent’s arm.

Drake stepped between Patricia and Millicent. Lady Whittenburg’s fingers smashed into his back before she quickly retreated. Drake took immense pleasure in the strangled sound she made at being thwarted.

He forgot how tall Millicent was. He barely needed to lean down to whisper in her ear, his lips almost grazing the sensitive lobe. ‘We will marry, my lady. Reconcile yourself to the fact.’ Lemons and fresh laundry engulfed him in a scent unique to Millicent.

He reached out and carefully gripped Millicent’s arm, forcing her to walk with him up the stone staircase leading to the grand entrance of his estate. Drake cared not if Millicent’s parents followed them into the house or got back in the carriage and left. Reynard – always displaying exemplary manners – swept in and introduced himself to Lord and Lady Whittenburg, glossing over Drake’s rude dismissal.

‘You cannot manhandle me, sir,’ Millicent whispered furiously.

The household staff created an orderly line, waiting to meet their new mistress.

‘Then stop fighting me, my lady.’

She hissed in pain as she twisted away from him. Drake gentled his grip, murmuring quietly, ‘Are you quite well, Millicent?’

For a moment, she froze. Perhaps it was his use of her first name. Or his question. Or the fact she was clearly injured and trying to hide her discomfort.

‘I’m perfectly fine.’ Her words were barely discernible as her voice caught.

Bollocks to that!

This was not the time to discover her secrets. Drake would leave it. For now. But he would find out what Patricia had done to her stepdaughter. And the woman would pay for every injury Millicent was forced to suffer.

‘Then come and meet your staff. After which, you may get settled in your rooms.’

Drake had appointed her a lady’s maid. A new girl his housekeeper had hired. He would expect a report from the woman on exactly what pained his betrothed. ‘I expect you in my study in an hour. You have that long to prepare yourself.’ It was time to discuss the terms of their marriage. Which was problematic. As the terms Drake thought he wanted a few moments ago seemed less clear.

A marriage of convenience was the only acceptable way forward for Drake. They would be joined in name only. He had no interest in producing an heir. His brother would inherit the title upon Drake’s death. But as it was the one thing Drake’s ex-fiancée – now sister-in-law – wanted most, Drake intended to live a long, long time. With any luck, his brother and sister-in-law would die first, and the bloody title could go to a distant cousin.

Millicent would make no demands on his time. In return, he would allow her to live as she pleased. There would be a handful of events requiring her presence but their individual lives need not change. She would live separately from him. He had several properties from which to choose. They could pursue their individual interests, and this alarming attraction would dissipate.

I will not be swept into madness.

This was a simple business arrangement allowing him more freedom in his investigations for the prime minister. Nothing more. He would explain the boundaries of their relationship to Millicent with cold efficiency. An emotion she should learn to expect from him, as it was all he would give.

So why did the thought of a convenient marriage feel so suddenly and unaccountably inconvenient ?

Millie wanted a bath. But after meeting the staff – including a mischievous lad of nine who introduced himself as Master Bright and winked at her before disappearing back to the kitchens – investigating her expansive suite of rooms, and organising the unpacking of her trunks, Millie barely had time to wash her face and change her clothes before her meeting with Major General Drake.

Her husband-to-be might not rank as highly as her father and stepmother in the beau monde, but based on his estate, his bank account seemed far healthier than Lord Whittenburg’s quickly diminishing finances.

It doesn’t help that Patricia spends money like a wildfire blazing through dry wood.

Before Patricia met her father, Lord Whittenburg let Millie join him in his meetings with his man of business. It was unheard of for a woman to take any interest in running an estate, but Millie was good with numbers, and her father had grown to depend on her frugal habits. Then Patricia joined their family, and their finances plummeted as drastically as Patricia’s necklines.

My father’s affairs don’t concern me now.

But she still worried for him, for all the good it did. That was her past. It was time to start focusing on her future. For now, that meant getting ready for her meeting with Drake.

Her lady’s maid, Penny, was a sturdy young thing. Millicent would guess her to be in her mid-twenties, though she carried herself with the confidence of a much older woman. Her keen gaze took in the bandages poking out of Millie’s corset as she helped her to change from her traveling clothes into a deep-green day dress with black, lace trimming.

‘I don’t wish to overstep, miss, but I have a poultice for… injuries. If you like, I can bring it to you. We can apply it before bed.’ Penny kept her gaze on her hands as she fastened the tiny, obsidian buttons along the back of Millie’s dress. ‘We wouldn’t want infection to take root. I was always getting into scrapes as a child. My mother learned the best potions to keep a body healthy. She still sends me this and that when she can, so I have plenty. It would be no trouble.’

Millie bit her lip against a sudden need to burst into tears at her maid’s small act of kindness. She hadn’t cried once since the fated kiss. She didn’t dare show such weakness. But Penny’s no-nonsense tone, her offer of comfort without pity, nearly burst the damn. Digging her nails into her palm, she focused on that pain instead of the much larger ache in her soul. She would not turn into a watering pot. Not now. Maybe later.

What would the duchess think of Millie if she dissolved into a puddle on the floor? Philippa believed Millie to be strong and resilient. And so, she would pretend to be exactly that until her moment of weakness passed. She would get through this week, marry the earl, and get back to training. There was important work to be done. Millie was determined to make something useful of her life by stopping people even more twisted than her stepmother. Murderers who were exploiting innocent girls. Those young women needed courageous, powerful champions to keep them safe. That is exactly what Millie would become.

She cleared her throat of any pesky emotions. ‘A very thoughtful offer, Penny. Please do bring it to me this evening. Thank you.’

Penny looked up from her task and smiled at Millie in the mirror. Her hazel eyes sparkled in the late-afternoon sunlight streaming through a large window to Millie’s left.

‘I’m glad Major General Drake chose you to assist me, Penny. I think we shall get along famously.’

Penny ducked her head as a mahogany strand of hair escaped her cap. ‘Thank you, miss.’

‘These rooms really are quite splendid.’ Millie spoke brightly, attempting to dispel the sudden awkwardness as she looked around at her new home. How odd to think she lived here now. Soon to be the wife of a man she barely knew. A contradictory, mysterious, confusing man.

Her bedroom was adorned in shades of lavender and sage. Windows looked onto the back of the property where manicured lawns dissolved into a wild, dark wood. The dressing room had three large windows, letting in plenty of light for the spacious closets. Her sitting room was appointed with a fireplace, delicately carved white furniture, and a writing desk complete with parchment, quills, ink, and sand. A huge, oak-carved bed with a million pillows and creamy white bed linens took centre place in Millie’s bedroom. She could see the untamed forest from her bedside window.

Major General Drake might be a stranger, but he certainly went to some trouble ensuring a comfortable suite for her. It was more than she expected. More than she deserved after trapping him into a marriage neither of them wanted.

If only he wasn’t so damnably honourable. Perhaps she could still convince him to break the engagement. She nodded her head. That was the best path forward. Surely, he could see the wisdom in such a course.

The gossips may have something to say about the major general begging off after ruining Millie, but his reputation would be less damaged than her own. She could happily bear the weight of society’s censure if it granted her freedom. She was sure Drake would agree. Millie only needed to convince him.

‘I believe I am ready for my meeting, Penny. If you wouldn’t mind directing me to Major General Drake’s study.’

Penny dipped in a quick curtsy. ‘Of course, miss.’