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Were it only to bed, he wouldn’t feel this acute sense of alarm. Lust could be—would be—tempered. His compulsion to shelter Daphne was more powerful than his craving to possess her. He’d protect her from everyone, even himself.
But he wanted so much more than her body, and he knew it. He wanted the rare and precious quality that was Daphne herself, the beauty she submerged, the fire she restrained, the compassion she stifled.
The spirit of adventure he knew he could induce.
It was there. He’d seen sparks of it. And so had the Tin Cup Bandit.
A wave of arrogance surged through Pierce as he evaluated the dilemma of his dual identity. True, Daphne was doubtless still enamored with her mysterious champion of the poor. But after today Pierce harbored not the slightest doubt that she was also captivated by Pierce Thornton. That bloody bandit didn’t stand a chance.
George Hollingsby rose when Pierce entered, gesturing for his clerk to close the door and leave them alone.
“Mr. Thornton.” He extended his hand. “Thank you for traveling to London on such short notice.”
Warily, Pierce shook the solicitor’s proffered hand. “Your message sounded quite urgent. And quite mysterious, I might add.”
“I apologize for that. In a moment, you’ll understand why the matter is both urgent and somewhat delicate. Please, have a seat. May I offer you some refreshment?”
“No, thank you.” Pierce lowered himself into a chair. “Only an explanation.”
“Very well.” Adjusting his spectacles, Hollingsby glanced down at the document on his desk. “Does the name Francis Ashford mean anything to you?”
“Ashford?” Pierce repeated woodenly, instantly accosted by waves of hateful memories.
“Perhaps by his titled name then,” Hollingsby clarified, mistaking Pierce’s silence for non-comprehension. “The Duke of Markham.”
“Yes, I’ve heard of him.”
Everything inside Pierce had gone cold. Heard of him? Markham was the one sketchy link to his puzzle, the one aspect of Tragmore’s visits to the workhouse that Pierce had never quite understood.
Markham had accompanied Tragmore on almost every occasion, shared the covert meetings with Barrings that Pierce continued to observe. But rather than actively participating in the division of illegal funds, Markham usually remained silent, aloof, as if he didn’t give a damn about the money Tragmore was procuring for him. And when Tragmore went on a rampage, shouting his hatred to the children, Markham would detach himself, strolling idly in the garden or wandering aimlessly about the building, surveying the occupants with dark, brooding eyes.
What was he seeking? Why was he there?
Pierce had tortured himself with those questions for years, both during his workhouse days and long after he’d left the hated walls behind. A decade before, when he’d begun actively plotting Tragmore’s demise, he’d made some discreet inquiries into Markham’s life. He’d learned nothing of what the duke’s motives might have been for his workhouse visits, but he did learn that Markham’s duchess had since died and that he’d recently lost his only child, his beloved son, to a riding mishap, after which the aged duke had become a recluse. Armed with that knowledge, vengeance had suddenly seemed unduly cruel, especially since, in Pierce’s mind, Markham had been no more than Tragmore’s passive companion. It was Tragmore Pierce despised, Tragmore he intended to destroy.
But the unresolved questions persisted.
“Mr. Thornton?”
Pierce blinked, returning to the present, meeting Hollingsby’s quizzical gaze. “Hmm?”
“Are you well? You look a bit green.”
“I’m fine.” Pierce’s jaw tightened fractionally. “You were saying about the Duke of Markham?”
“Yes, well, the poor soul passed away several days ago. No one has been notified because, quite frankly, he hadn’t any friends or known living relatives. In truth, he hadn’t even ventured from his estate in more than ten years.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. But what has it to do with me?”
The solicitor shifted uncomfortably. “More than you could ever imagine.” He cleared his throat. “Any way I phrase this, it’s going to come as a shock.”
“Then I suggest you merely state what you must.”
“Very well.” Hollingsby gripped the edge of his desk. “As of two days past, you are the Duke of Markham.”
r /> A ponderous silence.
“Is this some kind of a jest?” Pierce managed at last. “Because I’m decidedly unamused.”
