Chapter 10

T he duke jerked upright in his chair, feverish spots of color darkening the hollows of his cheeks. His hazel eyes burned with an unholy fire, and for an elusive instant he bore more resemblance to the vital young man in the portrait behind him than the wizened, prematurely aged man he had become.

He opened his mouth but only a racking cough came forth. Lady Astrid leaped up from her chair and began to pound him on the back, shooting Pamela an accusing glare. "Look what you've done to him, you wicked girl! You ought to be ashamed of yourself! Why, such a strain could prove too great for his weakened heart!" As Astrid tenderly mopped his brow with her own handkerchief, then poured a fresh cup of tea and pressed it to his lips, Pamela frowned. Her concern for her brother's welfare seemed to be genuine. "Just say the word, Archie," she told him when his wheezing had subsided, "and I'll dismiss these charlatans and their preposterous claims and send for the physician."

Pamela could not stop herself from flinching in pity when the duke fitfully batted his sister's hand away. She retreated to stand at his right shoulder, wounded dignity evident in every line of her rigid posture.

The duke's piercing gaze was no longer fixed on Pamela but on Connor.

"You," he croaked out, pointing a palsied finger at Connor. "You don't look the sort who'd be content to hide behind a woman's skirts while she fights your battles for you."

Pamela began, "Your grace, I—"

"He's right," Connor said, rising from his chair. "I've done all the hiding I care to do."

The duke's voice was little more than a growl. "Then get over here, lad, and let me have a look at you."

Pamela held her breath, knowing Connor wouldn't take kindly to being ordered about. Especially in such an imperious manner.

But after a brief hesitation, he sauntered over to the duke's chair and simply stood there, gazing down at the man.

"Don't just stand there hovering over me like the angel Gabriel come to condemn my black-hearted soul," the duke rasped, crooking a finger at him. "Come down here where I can see your face."

His command left Connor with only one choice. Knowing that all of their fates hinged on this moment, Pamela dug her fingernails into her palm as he dropped to one knee in front of the duke's chair, bringing them face to face and eye to eye.

Pamela couldn't see Connor's face, but she had a clear view of the duke's. It had gone as still as a death mask as he searched Connor's face, his burning eyes its only trace of life.

It wasn't until he lifted a trembling hand to cup Connor's cheek that she realized with a jolt of wonder that the sparkle in those eyes was no longer malice, but tears. "I should have known the moment you walked in the room," he whispered, drinking in Connor's features with a feverish thirst. "You have the look of your mother about you. Her eyes…"

To Connor's credit, he did not shy away from the man's touch but simply placed his own hand over the duke's to steady it.

Pamela bowed her head, battered by a dizzying mixture of shame and triumph. The plan she'd set in motion when she and Sophie had fled London was finally coming to fruition. She truly hadn't wanted to trick a sick old man, but by doing so, she had given Connor a chance to unmask her mother's killer, and she had ensured her sister's future. Her role here was done. At least for now.

From this day forward, any communication between her and Connor would have to be conducted through whispered messages delivered by Brodie. There was no place in the life of a future duke—even a counterfeit one—for an actress's daughter born on the wrong side of the blankets. She trusted Connor would keep his end of their devil's bargain and help her expose her mother's killer, but once that task was done, their association would come to an end as well. He would be free to live out his life as the next Duke of Warrick and she would be free to retire to the seaside to bake shortbread and collect cats.

Suddenly desperate to escape this tender reunion that was no reunion at all, she surged to her feet. "Forgive me, your grace, but I realize you and your son are strangers to each other and must be eager to get reacquainted. I'm glad my search was fruitful and I was able to return him to you. I'll leave the address of my lodgings and you can have your solicitor contact me about delivery of the reward." She turned blindly toward the door, trusting Sophie would follow.

"Don't be so hasty, Miss Darby. Or so modest."

That commanding voice stopped her in her tracks. Because it did not belong to the duke, but to Connor. She slowly turned to find him standing at the duke's side. If Pamela didn't know better, she would have sworn he belonged there. The duke still clung to his hand, as if reluctant to surrender it for fear he would vanish back into the wild, never to be seen again.

There had been some indefinable shift of power in the room. One that left Pamela feeling as breathless and bewildered as the duke's sister looked.

Connor's cool gray eyes were more inscrutable than ever before, his heathered burr more musical to the ear. "Surely you don't plan to rush off before my"—he hesitated for less than a heartbeat "—my father and I can properly thank you for bringing us together."

She dredged up a nervous smile. "I'm sure the reward will express your gratitude far more effectively than your words ever could."

Connor smiled at her, the dimple in his cheek even more devastating when complemented by the beguiling crinkles around his eyes. The smile was eerily similar to the man's in the portrait behind him. "Just listen to her, your grace. The lass would have you believe she's nothing but a greedy opportunist, when the exact opposite is true."

"It is?" Pamela whispered weakly.

"It is?" Sophie echoed, forgetting all about her own vow of silence.

"Aye, it is." Gently extracting his hand from the duke's grip, Connor sauntered toward Pamela, his grace as beautiful to behold as any predator's. And just as dangerous. "She's trying to hide her generous heart from us all so she won't spoil our reunion. She doesn't want you to know that I was truly lost until she found me." Pamela held her breath as Connor took her hand and brought it to his mouth, brushing his warm, moist lips over her knuckles with an intimacy that made her shiver. "I know what we agreed upon, lass, but I can no longer keep our little secret."

Pamela gasped, believing he was about to blurt out that he was an imposter and get them all tossed into jail, if not hanged.

She was too numb with dread to protest when he slipped an arm around her waist and steered her toward the duke, who had been watching their exchange with avid fascination. "I didn't come here today to claim my birthright, your grace," he said earnestly. "All I would seek on this day is your blessing." Too late, Pamela saw the spark of devilry in Connor's eyes. A spark she had seen once before when he had pressed the prop pistol to her heart and pulled the trigger. "Miss Darby's only use for the reward will be for her dowry, because much to my humble gratitude and amazement, she has agreed to be my wife."