It had taken months for his small army of lawyers to work through the terrible legal tangle that had been created when he’d ordered two of his stepbrothers’ wives kidnapped. The stupid oafs he’d hired had pushed Morgan’s wife, Anne, down the stairs into the cellar where they’d been held. The bitch had been pregnant, and she hadn’t survived the fall. A ton of money in the right pockets had rightly proven that Roger had not been to blame. His lawyers had argued that he’d had no knowledge of the kidnapping and therefore, couldn’t be held responsible for what the men who worked for him had done. They’d had their own agenda, probably planned to ransom the women for money.
So now, after all this time away, he’d finally been able to return home.
A small retinue of huge, hard-looking men approached him, and the largest one stuck out a beefy hand. “Good to meet you, sir. I’m Mr. Phelps. I’ll be providing the security you require.”
“Very good.” Roger nodded, well-pleased with the look of them. He knew that the moment his stepbrothers discovered he was back in England, they’d want nothing more than to finish the job they’d started. They would not rest until he was dead.
Lucien, Adrian, and Morgan had ruined his life. They’d killed his father, forcing him to take on the role of earl far earlier than he was ready to do so, then Adrian had made it his mission in life to destroy Roger’s businesses by donning that stupid cape and mask and stealing his property and burning down his buildings. They’d deserved Anne’s death. He only wished that Vanessa had died as well.
He’d heard that while he’d been gone, Lucien had married Serenity Pratt, the woman who’d borne his bastard child many years ago. His wonderful stepmama had been distraught over the thought of her oldest son, the heir, marrying so far beneath him. At her request, Roger had taken the baby and fostered him in one of his brothels, told Serenity the baby had died, and had made her believe that Lucien wanted nothing to do with her. She’d been working in his own house as a housekeeper when he’d left.
He wasn’t certain how the two of them had come together again after all this time, and he seethed with anger that they’d somehow gotten their child back as well. He’d been convinced for quite some time that it had been that scarred monster Adrian who’d killed his father, but he’d recently changed his mind. It had to have been Lucien. Neither of the twins, at age fourteen, had been strong enough.
As Mr. Phelps directed some of the other men to ensure his baggage was unloaded and secured in the coach, Roger followed two of the other men to the vehicle to wait for them. As he settled comfortably in the seat, glad to be on solid land again, he sized up the men who were now at his disposal.
He had big plans for his stepbrothers, and he did not doubt that these hired men would be instrumental in helping him carry them out.
***
FIONA HAD JUST FINISHEDhelping Cook serve the children lunch when Bridget approached her in the dining room, looking nervous once again. “The gentleman, ma’am. Mr. Strathmore. He’s here again. In the parlor.”
With an inward curse, Fiona looked across the huge dining room, where Molly stood with a few girls close to her own age. “Can you take Molly upstairs to her room and keep her occupied until he leaves?” she asked Bridget urgently. “It’s very important that he doesn’t talk to her.”
To her credit, Bridget did not ask any questions. She’d been Adrian’s last rescue, and she’d been through hell before she’d arrived here, and her loyalty was absolute. Her eyes widened, and then she nodded abruptly. “Of course, ma’am. You can count on me.”
Fiona gave her a quick smile. “I never doubted it.”
As soon as Bridget hurried Molly out of the room, Fiona strode toward the parlor. Wiping her sweaty hands on her skirts, she once again had the fleeting thought that she was probably a mess. She could feel sticky tendrils of her wild hair sticking to her forehead, the heat of the ovens having caused her to perspire in a very unladylike way.
With a sigh, she shook her head, wondering why she cared what Morgan Strathmore thought of her. They were worlds apart. He likely didn’t think of her at all, and if he did, he’d certainly never mistake her for a lady.
But when she entered the room and he turned his ice-blue gaze on her, that frisson of desire and awareness she’d felt the other night rose within her again. He was a wildly attractive man, and she supposed her feelings for him were quite normal. That didn’t mean she had to act on them.
Blinking, she realized that he’d done as he’d said and brought his children along. In his arms, he held a child of a year or so who could only be Felicity, and she regarded Fiona with wide blue eyes, a cloud of blonde curls around her chubby baby face. Fiona hadn’t seen Felicity since she was an infant, but she’d fallen completely in love with her during those weeks after her mother’s death when Mr. Strathmore had been so consumed with grief he hadn’t been able to bear the sight of the little girl.
Another little blonde girl of three or four clung to one of his legs, and a dark-haired little boy of five or six stood just to his right, looking around in mingled fear and excitement.
“You came,” Fiona said, a bit flummoxed. “I wasn’t certain you would.”
He gave her a reproving look, then gestured toward the older children. “I hope you don’t mind that I’ve brought Hannah and Samuel along. I thought they’d enjoy playing with the other children.”
“I don’t mind at all.” She gave the older children a wide smile, hoping to put them at ease. “We’ve just had lunch, and the rest of the children will be going outside to play in the garden for a while. Your children are welcome to join them.”
Hannah and Samuel’s eyes lit up, and Fiona called for one of the older girls, Nan, to take them outside and keep an eye on them. Then she turned back to Mr. Strathmore. “May I hold Miss Felicity for a moment?”
His arms tightened momentarily around the child, but then he relaxed and held Felicity out to her. Somewhat to her surprise, the little girl came willingly enough, looking up at her seriously, then reaching out a chubby hand to grab a handful of Fiona’s hair.
“I think she likes your hair,” Morgan said, his voice a little rough. “You have lovely hair.”
“Thank you.” Self-conscious, she raised a hand to her crazy auburn curls then dropped it quickly. “She’s a beautiful child. Is she doing well?”
He nodded, then cleared his throat. “I never properly thanked you for all you did for me back then. I know I was... unbearable, so caught up in my own grief I didn’t think of anyone other than myself... and I’d like to apologize.” He shrugged awkwardly. “For not being a better father, for not coming for her sooner.”
Fiona’s heart broke a little for him, and guilt surged through her for every unkind thought she’d ever had about the situation. Who was she to judge? She’d never loved anyone the way he obviously had, never endured such a loss. “Oh, Mr. Strathmore, it’s quite all right. I enjoyed having Felicity here, truly. And we all grieve in different ways.”
“Well, it’s nice of you to say so, but I know how much you already have on your plate. And that’s why I’m here, I suppose. To try and give a little back.” He spread his hands wide as he glanced around. “I’m actually very good at mending things and making repairs. Is there anything you’d like me to take a look at?”
She bit her lip, noticing for the first time that the clothes he was wearing, though still finely made, were probably his version of work clothes. A pair of buff trousers and a simple dark brown shirt. She couldn’t imagine that someone like him, someone who’d been born with a silver spoon in his mouth, could truly do the sort of rough labor that she needed to be done, but she decided to put him to the test.
