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“No, this involves more than money, Thornton. What is it you really want from me?”
A glint of hatred darkened Pierce’s eyes to near black. “More than you could possibly offer.” He came to his feet. “Every iota of which I intend to collect in due time. For now, I’ll expect my first payment by week’s end.”
“But that’s impossible.”
“Find a way. Should I not receive your money by Friday evening, I’ll have no choice but to contact the London Gazette and have your name published for all to see. Then, I’ll arrange for everything in this manor to be confiscated and everyone living here to be tossed into the cold. Is that understood?”
“You filthy bast—”
“Bastard,” Pierce finished, his voice eerily devoid of emotion. “And I believe we’ve already established the accuracy of that term. Now, as I was saying, you have until Friday. Or the actions I take will make your traumatic little robbery last night seem like a minor incursion.”
“Before you carry out your sordid threat, let me issue one of my own,” Tragmore shot back, triumph blazing in his eyes. “I gathered a bit of personal data on you, just in case your strategy for buying my notes included blackmail. Should you even attempt to publicly ruin me, I will tell all the world that the wealthy, polished Pierce Thornton sprang from the womb of a workhouse whore.”
Pierce went ominously still. “I would suggest you never breathe my mother’s name, Tragmore. Not if you want to live. As for the information your pathetically transparent investigators uncovered about my past, you can publish the details on the front page of the bloody London Times for all I care.” Pierce cocked a brow, enjoying the look of shock on Tragmore’s face. “Did you think I didn’t know of your men’s recent inquiries? I assure you, Tragmore, I know every arrangement you make, everything you do. As I said, I own you.” Pierce’s lips curved into a mocking smile. “You wasted your money, what little of it remains. I would have told you anything you wished to know, free of charge. I’ve never made a secret of my past—not my place of birth, nor my unknown parentage. You had only to ask.”
“Then I’ll keep searching until I find something else,” Tragmore roared, words of enraged impotence. “A lowlife such as yourself must have scores of reprehensible secrets. I won’t rest until I find—”
“Then you’ll expire from exhaustion and have nothing to show for it.” Pierce took a subtle, menacing step in Tragmore’s direction. “Drop your investigations. You’re squandering what is now my money. That angers me. Continue and I’ll be forced to call in my debts that much sooner.”
“Why are you doing this?” Tragmore exploded in frustration. “Why are you single-handedly purchasing all my notes? And why do you hate me so?”
“You’ll have your answers when I’m ready to supply them. Not one moment sooner. And Tragmore,” Pierce added with icy reserve, “if you ever attempt to blackmail me again, I’ll ruin you without a backward glance.”
The marquis drew a slow inward breath. “You’re obviously far more cunning than I realized.”
“One of the benefits of growing up on the streets.” With bitter finesse, Pierce set his glass on the desk and rose. “Good day, Tragmore. I’ll expect my first payment Friday.”
With deadly calm, he crossed the room and left.
Outside the manor, Pierce unclenched his fists and inhaled sharply, trying to dispel his tightly coiled enmity. There was no record of what the marquis sought, just as there was no measure for Pierce’s hatred. Tragmore didn’t even recall the skinny urchin of eighteen years before. But then, why should he? To him, all workhouse children looked alike, were alike, fit for naught but abuse. Pierce was just one of them; a nameless, faceless lowlife, common filth in the sea of riffraff that defined the House of Perpetual Hope. And, as the only witness to the marquis’s corrupt exchanges with Barrings, Pierce accepted that role gratefully, blending in, biding his time, anonymously plotting his vengeance.
At long last, Tragmore’s undoing loomed near.
Heading for his waiting carriage, Pierce wondered for the hundredth time if killing the son of a bitch would prove more satisfactory and infinitely quicker than draining his funds and driving him to his knees. But, no. For all Tragmore’s crimes; the blood money he’d stolen, the indignities he’d rendered, he deserved a prolonged agony far more heinous than death.
An unconscionable thought sprang from that reality.
How could Pierce destroy Tragmore without subjecting his family to the same devastating end?
Beside his carriage, Pierce came to a grinding halt. Averting his head, he scanned the woods instinctively for a sign of Daphne.
Suddenly, obsessively, he needed to see her.
“Ride to the main road,” he advised his driver, already walking away. “I shall meet you there shortly.”
“Yes, sir.” The driver urged the horses into a trot, and disappeared around the curved drive.
Cautiously, Pierce made his way through the trees, along the leaf-strewn paths, searching for the enigma who’d haunted his memories since Newmarket.
He was just about to try a different direction when he heard the muted sound of a stick snap.
Shading his eyes from the late-afternoon sun, Pierce assessed the area until he saw a moving spot of color by a small pond. Noiselessly, he followed it, then stopped in rapt fascination to watch.
Across the pond, Daphne
was creeping along, silent and careful, her attention riveted on a snake that was slithering forward, preparing to prey on an unsuspecting chipmunk. Slowly, Daphne approached, sidestepping sticks and leaves that might emit telltale sounds and reveal her presence.
Twenty feet away, she stopped.
