Chapter 27

Chapter Twenty-Seven

B aron Augustus Von Hautt raised his telescope to his eye and watched the passing of his enemy. Lord Valentine Kent was on the road below, ignorant of the fact that he was under observation. The baron smiled. He'd returned to the house as soon as Kent left it, creeping in unseen, settling himself by the window on the top story. He knew the place well and today he'd used that knowledge to make a fool of his enemy.

All his life he'd felt second best.

Well, soon that would change. He would be a hero, someone others admired and listened to in silent appreciation, the sort of man who was invited everywhere. His life would become what it always should have been, had fate been different. All he had to do was find the Crusader's Rose and destroy Valentine Kent.

He used to think the two went together, that by being the first to discover the rose after all these years he would automatically blight Kent's future happiness. But now he saw another possible avenue for his revenge.

Marissa Rotherhild.

It had been clear to him from the first moment he saw her, as he stood looking into the candlelit rooms of Abbey Thorne Manor, that she was something out of the ordinary. A rare and precious treasure, like the Crusader's Rose itself. He'd seen her again at Montfitchet, and been even more struck by her.

That's when he'd decided to have her as well as the rose.

Well, why not? To be truly destroyed, Valentine Kent must lose everything he treasured—and Von Hautt believed Kent was enamored of Marissa Rotherhild. For years he'd watched him, secretly, and he'd never seen him like this, as if he was on the verge of an epiphany.

Augustus wanted nothing more than to ruin it. He hadn't meant to give away his plan, but while Kent lay on the ground in the garden, at Von Hautt's mercy, he hadn't been able to resist gloating a little. He'd leaned down and whispered, "The woman will be mine. Remember all you have lost while I am . . ." He'd used a filthy term, but one he knew Kent would understand. The coarseness of it added to the effect, despoiling what Kent believed was wholesome and pure.

Kent had promptly tried to throttle him but instead he'd fallen and struck his head. Not dead, though—Von Hautt had time to check before the brother came after him and he had to run.

Was Kent remembering his words now, as he hurried toward Bentley Green? Was he grinding his teeth in fury, imagining what would happen to his woman? Von Hautt smiled. He hoped so. He hoped Kent was sick with fear. Let him suffer.

Before the final confrontation.