The Heart of a Duke(87)

She could almost see the wheels spinning in his head, moving him to his next thought. He was the businessman riffling through all the information to complete the full picture.

He stopped and swung toward her. “There is blackmail here. Shaw and Reilly were blackmailing my brother.”

She gasped. “How did you conclude that?”

“It explains Edmund’s debts. Where his profits went, why he needs more money. You heard what your father said. Reilly retired grandly, traveled the continent, bought a plum piece of property. My father was generous, and I am sure he left him a stipend on which to retire, but to purchase acres on the coast? To travel extensively? He was a doctor, not an aristocrat with deep pockets.”

“What about Shaw? He did not live extravagantly.”

“No, but he was a gambler, a cardsharp. He bled Edmund to feed his habit and pay off his creditors. But he was afraid, scared of something that had him drafting a safeguard for his life. What did Fuller say? He had a letter to be made public should Shaw meet with an untimely demise? Fuller thought he feared creditors. He feared Edmund. But Edmund’s fear of Shaw’s revelations being publicized was greater. Thus Edmund did not touch him, and Shaw lived to a ripe old age.”

“Yes, but afraid and guilt ridden, so he wrote to you. He wanted you to hear his confession, but you were too late,” she added.

“Too little, too late,” he murmured softly, his expression sad. “The epitaph on my grave.”

She gasped and stood up. “Do not speak of such things. There will be no epitaphs on any graves. Least of all yours. As I said, I am a crack shot, and I will shoot anyone who tries to get near you.”

The look Daniel gave her had her holding up her hands and backing away.

“Do not come any closer! Stay back! Remember my father’s words. No battering permitted.” He ignored her words and stalked her, his eyes hot. She kept talking. “Reilly’s death changes nothing. We still do not know Edmund’s motive for trying to kill you. We need to speak to Shaw’s sons. Time is . . .” her words trailed off, for Daniel had caught up to her and was drawing her to him. “We need to . . .” It was no use. She could no longer remember what she was nattering on about. “Daniel,” she breathed.

“Julia,” he whispered back, his eyes roving over her face. “My fierce warrior. You have looked after your father, your brother, your sister. I appreciate that you are a crack shot, but I hope to never have that put to the test. Now I think it is time someone looked after you. And that is what I intend to do.” His head lowered and his lips played over hers in teasing, light nibbles that had her legs weakening.

“We will look after each other,” she whispered, tilting her head back to give him better access to the column of her neck. His lips curved against her skin.

“Of course we will. Together. Don Quixote and Sancho Panza.”

“Yes . . . but . . . it is time we changed literary references. I was thinking Robin Hood and Maid Marian.”

He lifted his head, his eyes bright as he appeared to ponder it. “Fine, but even if you are a crack shot, I still get to be Robin Hood.” He nodded. “It is apt in this situation. A displaced aristocrat—that is me—saving the poor people—the tenants—from a penny-pinching king—Edmund. And in the end, he wins the hand of the fair Maid Marian.”

She smiled. “And they live happily ever after if Robin Hood doesn’t get shot, or do anything foolish, or . . .”

He kissed her to silence, which was fine, because she did not really like that ending. She had a far better one in mind.





Chapter Twenty-three





SO how should we proceed?” Daniel asked as he settled back into the upholstered seat of Taunton’s elegant town coach.

“I think you should impersonate Edmund again,” Julia suggested as she neatened the skirts to her carriage dress. “Ducal power humbles everyone. Once they finish bowing and scraping, they scramble to do his bidding before they consider whether they want to or not. And toss in a level of charm. Edmund is haughty, but he could be so very charming and quite dashing, he wasn’t all—What is it? What are you scowling about?”

“For God’s sake, Julia, the man’s a cold-blooded murderer and you are talking about him as if he is a prince.”

Julia drew herself up. “Well, the best villains aren’t just black and white. They are multilayered.”

“Right. Like an onion, and no matter how many of those layers you peel back, all of them still stink.” Daniel snarled, crossing his arms over his chest. Charming and dashing, his arse. How about cruel, duplicitous, and murderous.