Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
Dominic strode from the cottage, his pulse kicking like pistol fire. Ahead, Ramsey loitered on the path, no less irate.
“Tell me Irving is in his carriage, and you didn’t let him through the blasted gate,” Dominic snapped. “If I get within three feet of the fool, I’ll throttle him with his own cravat.”
Ramsey scrubbed a hand over his mouth. “Crocker had no choice, but he made them walk up the drive.”
“Them?”
“Irving’s not alone. He brought the magistrate.”
Dominic stopped dead. “Sir Lionel?”
Ramsey gave a grim nod. “Seems the contract is binding.”
“The devil it is.” Fury surged through him. “Remain with Miss Harland. Lock the doors. I’ll handle this.”
Ramsey caught his arm. “Sir Lionel would love nothing more than to see you swinging from the gallows. Take Beattie with you. He’s the voice of reason.”
Sir Lionel Deane was a puritan who’d loathed Dominic’s father. He would burn Shadowmere and all its sinners to ash, if the law allowed.
“Whatever happens, Miss Harland mustn’t leave these grounds.”
“Understood.”
Dominic gripped Ramsey’s arm. “She’ll want to face Irving and curse him to Hades. Neither of them must know she’s here.”
“You’re asking me to restrain her?”
“No.” He was the only man who’d ever put his hands on her. “Just convince her it’s wiser to stay out of sight.”
He didn’t envy his friend the task.
“Tell her I’ll pay for her obedience. She may name her prize.” She’d want something more precious than money. A piece of his soul.
Ramsey’s brow shot up. “Dominic Hawke cowing to a woman?”
“You know how I am when faced with injustice,” he said. “She doesn’t deserve any of this. An honest man uses whatever means he has to make it right.” If he could free her from Irving, perhaps the weight he carried would ease.
Ramsey gave a measured smile. “You can depend on me to do whatever you ask.”
“I’ve never doubted it.” He gripped Ramsey’s shoulder in silent thanks, then turned and entered the house.
He passed through the hall, his pulse in time with his strides. The scent of Sir Lionel’s sickly cologne lingered in the air. He was tempted to tell the man his wife brayed like a donkey in bed, that her lover was forever demanding her silence.
At the study door, Irving’s coarse voice carried through the panels, insisting Beattie account for the delay. Dominic cricked his neck and flexed his fingers, though instinct urged him to curl them into fists.
“Sorry to keep you waiting.” He sauntered into the room keen to look upon the blackguard who’d chosen the wrong adversary.
Beattie made to move. “Shall I fetch refreshment, sir?”
“No. These gentlemen are leaving. You’ll remain until they do.”
“I’ll leave once I have what I came for,” said the pudgy man in the ill-fitting coat, easily sixty if he was a day. A sheen of perspiration clung to his upper lip.
The sight of him made Dominic’s jaw tighten. This was the man who meant to claim her. What in God’s name had Harland been thinking?
Dominic allowed himself a faint smile. “Tickets for the Masque are reserved for the well-bred. I’ll need proof of your lineage if you mean to take part in the frivolities.”
Sir Lionel scoffed. “You know full well why we’re here.”
“Do I?” Dominic replied. “Last time you came with unfounded allegations. I indulged you then. I won’t today.”
Today, he would not rely on violence, but on the skills he had honed while playing host to the depraved.
Irving reached into a leather satchel as creased as his brow. He pulled out a bound document and brandished it as though it were a royal decree. “I’ve come to claim my property. It’s all here in the contract. Signed by the girl’s own father before he passed.”
Dominic fell silent, though his blood roared in his veins. “Did Sir Lionel not offer counsel?” he said smoothly. “Did he not quote from Blackstone’s Commentaries on the Laws of England?”
The men shared confused glances.
“Explain the problem with the contract, Beattie.”
Beattie stepped forward. “At three and twenty, a lady has full legal capacity and is not bound by her father’s authority. The courts look unfavourably on marriages arranged for financial gain. With the father deceased, any supposed obligation lapses. And no money ever changed hands.”
Dominic gave a smug grin. “Even if Miss Harland were here—and let me be clear, she is not—you have no legal right to enforce the contract.” He tipped his chin at Sir Lionel. “As magistrate, you know that.”
Irving was undeterred. “Here’s a document dated the day before Mr Harland’s body was pulled from the river.” He thrust it at Beattie. “Miss Harland accepted Bank of England notes to the value of three thousand pounds, the balance payable upon exchange of vows.”
“By accepting the notes, Miss Harland agreed to the terms,” Sir Lionel added, his tone thick with self-satisfaction.
A cold suspicion slipped beneath Dominic’s composure.
Ink had ruined more lives than bullets. These men were capable of far more than petty contracts. He didn’t doubt Miss Harland, only the hands that drafted the paper.
He took the document from Beattie and scanned it, noting the date and signature. She couldn’t have visited Irving after the ball. He’d already examined the timeline. And had she fleeced the fellow, she would not be living in a small cottage on an estate steeped in sin.
One detail stopped him cold.
The clerk’s signature. Edward Brown.
The missing witness?
A common enough name. Too common.
Yet coincidence had a habit of circling him like a vulture.
Brown had drafted the contract. Witnessed Miss Harland’s signature. Sworn he’d seen Harland murdered on Blackfriars Bridge.
Dominic said nothing.
He would let these men dig their own graves.
“If Miss Harland has any sense, she’ll be miles away.” He crossed the room, fixed the merchant with a hard stare, and thrust the document back into his hand. “Take it to Bow Street. They’re better at chasing shadows than I am.”
“We need to search the house,” Sir Lionel said.
“Do you have a warrant?” Dominic folded his arms across his chest. “You presume a great deal. I met Miss Harland but once. We shared a waltz. Why would she come here?”
“You shared more than a waltz,” Irving countered, his face darkening like a bruised plum. “After the debacle at the Templeton ball, the girl ought to be grateful I’m willing to take her.”
“Why are you?”
How did the bastard know?
Dominic braced himself. One coarse word about her and he’d forget every lesson in restraint.
“I have business in India and won’t depart without securing my legacy. Her reputation is of no consequence. The arrangement serves my purpose.”
“Oh.” Dominic turned to Beattie. “Tell Mr Irving what we learnt about his licence for those ammunition factories in India.”
Beattie inclined his head. “The latest dispatches from London ensure the Governor-General in Council will find reason to deny the application. Mr Hawke has secured a promise from a friend on the Secret Committee; should Chairman Sterling whisper a word of concern, any contract signed in India will be vetoed before the first pound is spent.”
It wasn’t set in stone. But he trusted Virginia Passmore to repay her debt to him, and mention her reservations to the Chairman while entertaining him in bed.
Irving stilled. Just for a second. Then he scoffed. “You wouldn’t dare interfere in Crown interests.” His fingers creased the edge of the contract.
“Wouldn’t I? I’m capable of causing a damn sight more trouble than that. Consider it a matter of protecting the realm. The Crown must guard itself against vile vermin.”
Beattie gave a discreet cough. “You omitted your recent dinner with the Lord Lieutenant, sir.”
“Ah yes. I mentioned to Lord Bromley that our magistrate has a habit of bending the law when it suits him.”
“You tread on dangerous ground,” Sir Lionel snapped.
“As do you. You stand here without a warrant or lawful cause. Leave, before I give you a reason to regret lingering.”
Sir Lionel held his gaze for a beat too long. Then he gathered his gloves from the desk with stiff fingers.
Irving stuffed the contract back into his satchel, the only proof of Edward Brown’s involvement.
“After you, gentlemen.” Dominic stepped aside, one arm extended towards the door. “I’m sure you’d appreciate an escort to the gate.”
They didn’t argue.
Hands clasped behind his back, he kept pace as they moved through the hall like condemned men.
On the steps outside, Irving muttered under his breath.
Dominic did not ask what was said. His voice cut through the murmur. “I’ll see you broke and destitute if I have cause to look upon you again.”
He did not slow as he escorted them down the sweep of gravel. Beyond the avenue of limes, Irving’s carriage waited on the lane, dwarfed by the iron gates. Crocker was already out of the gatehouse and unfastening the chain.
Sir Lionel paused, as if he expected a final word.
Dominic gave him one. “Next time, bring a warrant.”
He waited until the gates clanged shut behind them, and the carriage wheels rattled back along the lane.
Only then did the pressure ease.
St. Alard’s Priory
Near Headley Heath, Surrey
The light was failing by the time Dominic reached St. Alard’s Priory, the last smear of sunset fading behind the black ribs of the broken nave. Autumn had crept in without permission; the air carried that thin, metallic chill that sharpened the lungs and stilled the blood.
He pictured Miss Harland beneath a blanket, chocolate warming her hands, her eyes lifted to a sky not yet dark enough for stars. Had this been a summons from the devil, he would have ignored it. But these men were not so easily dismissed. They were brothers by circumstance, not blood.
His boots struck old stone as he crossed into the roofless chapel. The saints had long since lost their faces, worn smooth by rain and neglect. Men were easier to trust when their virtues had eroded.
He wasn’t the first to arrive.