Chapter 11

T hat miserable scoundrel! That wretched blackguard! That—that—" Pamela struggled to recall some of the insults so generously offered to her by the smugglers in the outlaw's den. "That swiving, whoremongering son of a—" She slammed a hare's foot into a dish of rice powder, sending a choking cloud of the stuff into the air and setting Sophie off on a chain of delicate sneezes. "Why, I should have let Colonel Munroe hang him with his own jabot!"

Sophie shooed the cloud of powder away, then went back to trying to arrange the thick coils of Pamela's hair into some sort of manageable coif. "If I'm not mistaken, I believe it's customary to accept a marquess's marriage proposal with a tad more grace."

"That's the second time the conniving wretch has led me straight into a trap. And the last, I should add." Pamela leaned forward on the skirted stool, scowling at her reflection in the dressing-table mirror. She was starting to look nearly as feverish and mad as the duke. "I still can't figure out why he would do such a wicked thing."

"What?" Sophie sighed wistfully, tucking a curl behind Pamela's ear and securing it with a mother-of-pearl comb. "Declare his love for you in front of a roomful of people and announce that you've agreed to be his bride?"

"Precisely! I knew he was a born villain but I never expected him to sink to such monstrous depths. Did you see the way that nasty Lady Astrid was looking at me? You'd have thought I was something he'd dragged in on the heel of his boot! And I thought the duke was going to have an apoplexy and drop dead right then and there. They no doubt believe I've decided the reward's not good enough for me. That I've set my sights on the duchy itself!"

Sophie leaned over Pamela's shoulder, clutching the silver-backed hairbrush to her bosom. "Perhaps he spoke from the heart. Perhaps he's fallen madly in love with you and can't bear the thought of living another hour of his life without you by his side."

Somehow her sister's teasing words cut deeper than Connor's betrayal. Because for an elusive moment—when Connor had gazed deep into her eyes and tenderly brushed his lips over her hand—her own heart had dared to entertain such a ridiculous notion.

But then she'd seen that wicked sparkle in his eyes and remembered that she was not her mother. Or even Sophie, for that matter. She would never be the sort of woman who inspired such passion in a man. Connor's earnest words were meant to mock everyone in that room, including her.

She sat up straighter on the stool. "I can assure you that Connor Kincaid loves only himself and what he stands to gain from our unholy little alliance."

"Well, if you don't want to marry him, then I will. Or at least I would if he knew I was alive." Sophie sighed. "I've never met a man so immune to my charms. You'd almost swear his heart already belonged to someone else."

"Perhaps it does," Pamela replied softly, remembering the gold locket he had handled with such tender care and still wore next to his heart. "Ow!" she added as Sophie yanked another coil of her hair into submission. She rubbed her smarting head, glaring at her sister in the mirror. "I can't believe Mama allowed you to dress her hair for all those years. It's a miracle she didn't end up bald."

"Maman didn't wriggle nearly so much or have such impossible hair," Sophie retorted, stabbing a hair pin into Pamela's tender scalp. "And you shouldn't be complaining. After all, you get to go have a proper supper while I'm left to languish here all alone."

Although Sophie made it sound like the foulest of dungeons, their elegant suite with its cozy sitting room, dressing room and adjoining bedchamber was more spacious than any lodgings they'd ever shared with their mother. In truth it was Pamela who envied Sophie. She would have liked nothing more than to crawl into the charming hand-painted half-tester and pull the sumptuous bedclothes up over her head.

"If you don't stop whining," she said, "I'll demote you to scullery maid and you can go gnaw on a chicken bone in the kitchens."

When her sister failed to laugh at her jest, Pamela sighed and swung around on the stool to face her. "I'm truly sorry about all of this, darling. If I'd have known we were going to be staying for more than afternoon tea, I'd have told them you were my sister, not my servant. I know this role won't be an easy one for you to play, but at least I'll know you're safe and not at the mercy of some leering nobleman. I promise you that I'll reveal your true identity just as soon as…" She hesitated, still determined to shield Sophie from the truth about their mother's grim fate. "As soon as it's prudent."

Although she appeared to be somewhat mollified by Pamela's sympathy, Sophie's nostrils still flared in a wounded sniff. "You could have at least had the decency to tell them I was a French maid."

Pamela swiveled back around on the stool, grinning at Sophie in the mirror. "You know, there are ladies who beat their maids regularly with a hairbrush to improve their dispositions."

Sophie tossed her head, her less than genteel snort telling Pamela what she thought of that idea. But she finished dressing Pamela's hair with a mini mum of yanking and poking, finally stepping back from the stool with a flourish of the hairbrush and a triumphant, " Voila! "

Pamela touched a hand to her hair. She had to admit her sister had worked wonders with the scant resources at her disposal. Sophie had laced one of her own pink ribbons through the heavy coils before twisting them into a graceful Grecian knot at Pamela's nape. The look might have been too severe if not for the clusters of glossy ringlets she'd coaxed forward to frame Pamela's face.

Gripping the edge of the dressing table, Pamela drew in a shaky breath. Her face might be too pale and her eyes too bright, but at least her hair was perfect.

Now all she had to do was go downstairs and face her treacherous fiancé—and possibly the villain who was going to try to kill him.

Connor restlessly prowled the length of his extravagant suite, waiting to be summoned for supper. Although the towering mahogany four-poster that dominated the bedchamber was larger than some of the jail cells he'd frequented over the years, he still felt as if the walls were closing in around him. At least each time the law had tossed him in jail, he'd known there was some chance of escape. He slipped a hand beneath his collar, rubbing the scars left by the hangman's noose.

He'd spent too many years roaming the mountains and moors, wild and free. He could barely breathe in here.

It was the perfect den for a gentleman. The plaster walls had been painted a warm burgundy and were trimmed in forest green wainscoting. The furniture was all carved from rich warm cherry or gleaming mahogany the exact shade of Pamela's hair. A pair of comfortable chairs upholstered in buttery brown leather sat in front of the black marble hearth.

The air was redolent with the masculine scents of wood and leather, and there wasn't a speck of dust to be seen. It was almost as if the suite had been waiting for him.

Not for him, he corrected himself grimly. For the duke's son.

When the duke had touched his cheek and gazed at him as if he was the answer to the man's every prayer, he had expected to feel a rush of triumph, not an overwhelming wave of pity and guilt. In that moment he would have given anything to be back in the Highlands, thundering across the moor on his horse with the law fast on his heels.

His clansmen had once looked at him the same way—as if he had the power to make all of their dreams of reuniting Clan Kincaid come true. For almost a decade they had ridden by his side, thwarting the redcoats at every turn. They had been closer than brothers, the cords of loyalty that bound them thicker than blood. But eventually Connor had realized that the only place he was leading them was straight into a noose. So five years ago, on a misty Highland morning, he had mounted his horse and ridden away, leaving his men and his dreams far behind.

Wheeling around, he strode to the window overlooking the gardens, desperate for a gulp of fresh air to fill his starving lungs. He grasped the window sash in both hands and tugged it upward. It did not budge. Judging from the thick layer of white along its seam, the window had been recently painted.

Cursing the careless handiwork, Connor looked around for something to help him pry it open. He strode to the hearth and returned with an iron poker. He was on the verge of loosening the paint's grip on the sash when the poker slipped in his sweaty hands. Its tip went crashing through one of the lower panes, sending tinkling shards of glass raining down on the cobbled walk far below. A cool rush of night air came pouring into the room. Connor swore, staring in dismay at the destruction he had wrought.

"Ye're supposed to use the poker on the fire, lad, not the window."

Connor turned to find Brodie grinning at him from the doorway. With his knee breeches, white stockings and buckled shoes, he looked more like an overgrown schoolboy than a valet.

Connor pointed the poker at him. "Sneak up on me like that again and I'll use it on your thick skull."

His high spirits undampened by the threat, Brodie strutted across the room to the bed, clanking with every step. He opened his coat and a veritable treasure trove of booty came spilling out onto the counterpane, including a pair of silver candlesticks, a delicate gold thimble, a small bird cage, a porcelain butter dish, and a filigree clock.

Connor blinked at the impressive haul. "I don't suppose the butler asked you to bring all that up here to polish it."

Brodie plucked a silver spoon from the pile and admired his reflection in the shining bowl. "I'm just plannin' for the future. If this duke o' yers decides to toss us out on our ears tomorrow, I've no intention o' leavin' empty-handed. Besides, he has so much o' this pretty stuff lyin' about, it'll be months before he misses so much as a thimble."

Connor returned the poker to the hearth before Brodie could steal it. "I hate to point this out, but if I'm to be master of this house someday, those are my things you're stealing."

"In that case I'll just consider it a wee advance on me salary."

"I'm not paying you a salary."

"Then I'd best go back for that silver-plated snuff box I saw in the library."

Brodie started for the door, but Connor stepped neatly into his path, forcing him to execute an abrupt about-face.

"Aren't you supposed to be polishing my boots or something?" he asked as Brodie made himself at home on the bed—reclining against the headboard and lighting a fat cigar he'd no doubt pilfered from the duke's private stock.

"Ye don't have any boots yet. The cobbler's comin' first thing in the mornin'."

Raking a hand through his hair, Connor wheeled around and resumed his pacing. "So I've been told. Along with the tailor, the linen draper, the haberdasher, the hatter, the stationer, the jeweler, the fencing master and some fellow whose sole purpose in life seems to be helping me pick out the right case for my toothpicks." He swung around to glower at Brodie. "I don't even have any bloody toothpicks!"

Brodie fished a silver toothpick from his heap of treasure and offered it to him. "I don't know why ye're so crotchety, lad. Ye've barely been here for an afternoon and ye've already found yerself a bride. How do ye think that makes me feel?"

Connor folded his arms over his chest. He didn't want to confess the stab of panic he had felt in that moment when Pamela had turned to walk out of the solarium. Didn't want Brodie to guess that his ears had suddenly echoed with the damning clang of cell doors slamming shut. "You know very well that I've no intention of marrying Miss Darby. I just wasn't about to let her stroll out of here and leave us imprisoned in this gilded cage. For all I know she could be planning to make off with the reward, then send the authorities an anonymous note telling them I'm an imposter."

"So you don't trust the lass then?"

Connor felt his face harden. "Of course I don't trust her. She's English, isn't she?"

"Well, that's a relief, isn't it? I always thought I'd see ye hanged before I saw ye leg-shackled to some lass for the rest o' yer life." Brodie blew out a smoke ring, watching Connor from beneath his heavy eyelids as it floated toward the medallioned ceiling. "'Twas a wee bit odd, wasn't it, when the duke said ye had eyes just like yer mother? Gave me a bit of a shiver, it did."

Connor shrugged off another uncomfortable pang of guilt. "Gray eyes are common enough. Both of my parents had them. Besides, Pamela was right about one thing. People tend to see exactly what they want to see instead of recognizing what's right in front of them."

Pamela lost her way three times on her way to the dining room. The maid who had knocked on her door to inform her that supper was being served had pointed her in the right direction, then vanished down a back staircase. Pamela quickly discovered that Warrick Park was a maze of long, soaring corridors and immense rooms that led one into another with no particular pattern or predictability.

Her stomach growled a protest as she took another wrong turn. She hadn't eaten since that morning and was beginning to fear that some haughty footman would find her bones months from now at the end of a dead-end corridor.

After an arduous trek through a portrait gallery lined with generations of dour Warricks who all seemed to be sneering down their aristocratic noses at her, she was finally rewarded for her persistence. As she approached a tall oak door, a bewigged footman dutifully threw it open, pausing only long enough to cast her ensemble a withering glance.

Slowing her steps, she smoothed her skirt, suddenly wishing she had remained lost until supper was over. Since she'd worn her best frock to their audience with the duke that afternoon, she'd had no choice but to don her second-best frock for supper.

The white poplin gown with its blonde lace flounce was more suited to morning wear. The gown's deep, square-cut neckline only served to make her feel more woefully exposed. Fearing the sharp-eyed duke and his sharp-tongued sister would recognize paste jewelry when they saw it, she'd had no choice but to leave her throat and the creamy swell of her bosom unadorned. At least no one could see the toe peeping out of her ragged right stocking or would know that she'd squeezed her long feet into Sophie's only decent pair of slippers.

Tilting her chin to a defiant angle, she swept past the footman and into the dining room. If she embarrassed Connor in front of his new family , he had only himself to blame. In truth, it would serve him right if she made him the laughingstock of all London!

She had time for only a fleeting impression of a long linen-draped table with the duke seated at its head and Lady Astrid at its foot before Connor rose to greet her, his imposing figure filling her vision. He was still wearing the stolen shirt, kilt and plaid he had donned that morning in the seedy inn where they'd passed the night. It galled her that he could travel most of the day, suffer any number of insults and indignities, and still look so deliciously fresh.

The burnished maple of his hair was neatly bound at the nape by a velvet queue and his jaw was perfectly smooth, which meant he'd already shaved a second time that day. Perhaps he'd ordered a footman to do it for him, she thought unkindly, already missing the surly ruffian with the wild hair and beard-stubbled jaw.

"Good evening, darling," he murmured, taking her hand. The tender smile that tilted his lips was belied by the wary glitter of his eyes. "I was hoping you wouldn't be too weary from our journey to join us."

"Don't be ridiculous, pumpkin ," she replied, her own adoring smile and the voluminous folds of the tablecloth hiding the fact that she was grinding the heel of her slipper into his instep. "You know that every moment we're apart is sheer torture for me."

Connor hid his grimace of pain with equal skill, leaning forward to brush her cheek with a chaste kiss. She turned her head at the last moment, hoping to force his mouth into her hair. But he anticipated the move, adjusting the angle of his descent so that the very corner of his mouth brushed hers with a possessive tenderness that made her toes curl.

The duke cleared his throat with a harsh bark. "I'd stand if I could, girl. But since I can't, you may as well sit."

He watched from his wheeled chair—his skin sallow but his eyes unnaturally bright in the glow of the candlelight—as Connor escorted her to a chair midway down the table, then returned to the place directly opposite hers. Given the size of the table it was fortunate the room had good acoustics, Pamela thought. If not, they would have all had to bellow at each other.

Lady Astrid dredged up a wan smile. "You should both be honored. It's been months since my brother has felt well enough to join us for supper."

Pamela stole a puzzled glance at the long rows of empty chairs that lined either side of the table. Since there was no one else there, she could only assume that Astrid's "us" was equivalent to the royal "we."

She felt a twinge of dismay. Although she wasn't exactly looking forward to coming face to face with her mother's murderer, she had hoped to be presented with a more promising list of suspects. Lady Astrid certainly didn't look the sort to dirty her lily-white hands by burning someone to death.

Before she had time to pursue that grim thought, a quartet of footmen appeared, each one bearing a steaming china bowl of haddock soup.

They had barely finished delivering them when Connor picked up his bowl and brought the rim to his lips. Oblivious to the horrified stares of the footmen and Lady Astrid, he took a deep sip of the broth, then sighed with satisfaction.

The duke pounded on the table like an overgrown baby, his lips curving in a doting smile. "Just look at that, Astrid! He has a healthy appetite. I've always admired that in a lad! Heaven knows I had a host of healthy appetites when I was his age."

Connor slowly lowered the bowl, suddenly realizing he was the object of every eye in the room.

"Oh, I'm sure he'll be in keen demand at every soiree and supper party," Lady Astrid replied, her thin lips pursed in a moue of distaste.

Unable to bear the woman's smug condemnation or the flush slowly creeping up Connor's throat, Pamela defiantly picked up her own bowl and took a loud slurp of the soup. Lowering the bowl, she beamed at the duke. "My compliments to the cook, your grace. 'Tis a delicious broth."

"Yes, it is, isn't it?" the duke agreed. He reached for his spoon, then waved it away with an impatient gesture and scooped up his bowl in both hands. They were trembling so violently that one of the footmen had to rush forward to help him steady the bowl before he spilled its contents in his lap. He did not stop drinking until he'd drained it dry.

Lady Astrid was gaping at them as if they'd all lost their wits. But when her brother lowered his empty bowl to glower at her, she put down her spoon with a defeated sigh and picked up her bowl. After a delicate sip or two, she set the bowl aside and dabbed at her lips with her napkin. "I don't wish to spoil my appetite. I do believe I've had quite enough for one evening."

Judging by her pained expression, she was talking about more than just the soup. They sat in awkward silence while the footmen whisked away their bowls and returned with the main course.

While one of the footmen filled their wineglasses, another servant circled the table with a silver tray, carefully placing a plump slab of braised trout on each plate. Pamela licked her lips, terrified the delectable aroma was going to make her stomach growl.

Judging by the voracious glint in Connor's eye, he was probably even more famished than she was. His brow furrowed as he surveyed the bewildering array of forks, knives and spoons grouped around his plate. He finally selected the most threatening-looking knife in the bunch and prepared to stab the piece of fish with it.

Pamela delicately cleared her throat. As he glanced up at her, she chose the small fork nearest her plate and used it to tuck a bite of the succulent fish between her lips. Connor hesitated for a moment, then laid aside the knife and followed suit.

"My son has already told me about the kindly couple who took him in after"—the duke hesitated, his face clouding—"after he lost his mother. But he thought you might want to explain how you happened upon him."

Pamela wondered what Connor would do if she blurted out, "Oh, he was robbing my carriage at gunpoint."

Instead, she smiled brightly and said, "Well, as he might have already told you, I'd followed up every lead and exhausted nearly every avenue in my search for him. It never occurred to me that I would find him studying for the clergy."

"The clergy?" both the duke and his sister exclaimed in amazement.

"The clergy?" Connor echoed, choking on a piece of fish.

"That's right." Pamela clasped her hands together beneath her chin as if in devout prayer. "I finally found him at the abbey in St. Andrew's, studying the commandments of God and living like a monk."

The dangerous set of Connor's jaw warned her he was currently contemplating breaking several of those commandments, starting with Thou shalt not kill .

"A monk, eh? Well, he certainly didn't inherit those tendencies from his father." The duke took a thoughtful sip of his wine. "I never thought we might have an archbishop in the family."

"Then your hopes won't be dashed, your grace," Connor assured him, "because I've decided to set aside my studies so I can devote my full attention to learning the duties expected of your heir. And to pleasing my darling bride, of course."

He lifted his wineglass to Pamela, the smoldering look he gave her over its beveled rim leaving little doubt as to just how full and pleasing his attention could be.

She inclined her head, hoping the flickering candlelight would hide the heat rising in her cheeks.

"Just how soon do the two of you hope to wed?" the duke asked.

"June," Connor said at the exact same moment Pamela blurted out, "Late December. Of next year."

Connor chuckled. "You'll find my bride-to-be has a rather droll sense of humor. Since our courtship was so hasty, the lass believes we should take some time to get to know each other before we wed."

"It sounds like a very practical notion to me," Lady Astrid remarked with her first hint of approval.

"Ah, but since when have practicality and passion ever gone hand in hand?" Connor gave Pamela another one of those scorching looks. "She knows very well that I've no intention of waiting that long before making her mine."

No longer able to hide her blush, Pamela crossed her feet at the ankles, wishing her legs were longer so she could kick him in the shin.

"Can we expect your family at the wedding, Miss Darby?" Lady Astrid inquired.

"I'm afraid not, my lady. I'm an orphan," she confessed, watching Astrid's face for any visible flicker of guilt.

"How tragic," the woman replied, washing down a dainty bite of the fish with a sip of wine.

Pamela sighed and finished off her own wine. At this rate it would be December of next year before she exposed her mother's killer.

But at the sound of a loud commotion outside the dining room door, Lady Astrid's indifference vanished. She rose halfway out of her chair, her spine ramrod stiff but her lips trembling.

"Sit down, Astrid," her brother snapped. "The servants will handle it. That's why we pay them so handsomely."

Quelled by his icy stare, Astrid sank back down in her chair, gripping the edge of the table with white-knuckled hands.

As the harsh cacophony of masculine voices swelled, Pamela shot Connor an alarmed glance. His hand was already inching beneath the table, probably to reach for a pistol he was no longer wearing. Or worse yet, she thought with a flare of panic, to reach for a pistol he was still wearing.

"Take your paws off me, Phillip!" someone shouted, the voice faintly slurred. "You've no right to keep me away from them!"

At that moment the dining room door came flying open and a man came staggering into the room. He yanked his arm free from the footman who had been struggling to restrain him.

The stranger glanced around the table, his contemptuous gaze finally coming to rest on Connor. "So, what they're saying in town is true, is it? After all these years, my uncle's long lost heir has finally returned to the adoring bosom of his family to claim his inheritance." He swept out one arm and sketched Connor an unsteady bow, his voice dripping with scorn. "I came as soon as I heard the news. I couldn't be more delighted to make your acquaintance, Cousin Percy ."