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“Indeed,” Hollingsby agreed, tactfully ignoring Pierce’s cutting sarcasm. “No expense will be spared—”
“How much do all these assets amount to?” Pierce interrupted suddenly.
“Pardon me?”
“I want to know exactly how much my poor mother was being denied.”
A pause. “If you’re asking what the total worth of the duke’s estate is, it’s in excess of twenty million pounds.”
“Hell.” Pierce raked furious fingers through his hair. “Bloody, bloody hell. If the spineless coward weren’t already dead, I’d kill him myself.”
“Nevertheless, now that you’ve heard all the facts, I’m certain you’ve amended your earlier decision.”
“I’ve amended nothing.” Pierce yanked open the door. “Tear up that bloody codicil, Hollingsby. I don’t need or want one shilling from the scum who sired me.”
“Think about—”
“It’s too late.” Pierce stalked out without a backward glance. “Thirty years too late.”
7
PIERCE HAD NO IDEA how many trips his carriage had made around Town, nor how much time had passed since he’d stormed from Hollingsby’s office. Pausing only to purchase a bottle of whiskey, he’d climbed into his carriage and ordered his driver to circle the congested London streets until otherwise advised. Sliding to the far corner of the seat, Pierce then proceeded to toss off half the contents of the bottle while staring moodily out the window, his thoughts slamming against his brain like a hammer. we? A duke?
Never. Never.
To hell with Markham. To hell with his title, his money, his name. To hell with—
His father.
Fortifying himself with another deep swallow of whiskey, Pierce forced himself to confront the situation and its consequences.
The Duke of Markham was his father.
All the pieces fit: his mother’s talk of her nobleman lover, Markham’s consistent but inexplicable workhouse visits, the background details Hollingsby had just revealed.
The story was true. Pierce’s instincts confirmed that without question. Much of it was also unsurprising. After all, he had always known of his noble lineage, just as he’d long ago discerned his sire’s reasons for denouncing him and abandoning Cara. Having a name to put to the anonymous blackguard who’d sired him was unexpected, but inconsequential at this point in his life.
But having a face to accompany the name, especially Markham’s face, now that was disconcerting. How vividly he recalled those brooding eyes, that air of reserve. God help him, he could even see the resemblance. Yes, now that he knew the truth, Pierce realized the likeness between him and Markham was startling.
But even that was endurable.
What was unendurable, unconscionable, untenable, was what the arrogant bastard demanded of him now.
After a lifetime of rejection, to become a son.
Abhorring the highborn, to become a duke.
A shout from ahead brought Pierce up short. As he watched, a dirty lad of perhaps twelve darted down Regent Street, weaving his way among the pedestrians and carriages, a wallet clutched in his hand. In his wake, a distinguished gray-haired gentleman waved his fist furiously, bellowing for the authorities, urging a small group of sympathetic onlookers to apprehend the culprit.
They’ll never catch him, Pierce thought, mentally gauging the distance between the boy and the oncoming mob. At least not if he’s any good. If he knows what he’s doing, in precisely twelve paces, he’ll veer down Conduit Street and duck down that tiny alley just shy of the corner. It’s so narrow no well-fed person can fit. By the time the crowd gives up trying, he’ll have scaled the low wall at the alley’s end and be long gone.
No sooner had Pierce assessed the situation than the urchin came to a halt, and swerved down Conduit Street. Five steps in he flattened his skinny frame against a brick wall and slithered down the nearly invisible alleyway.
Moments later, as Pierce’s carriage rumbled by the cross street, the raging masses were still gathered at the alley opening, commanding the lad to emerge with the stolen wallet.
The boy was safe—this time.
Pierce leaned his head back against the cushion. How many this times had there been for him? How many escapes had he made down that very alley, his heart pounding so furiously he feared it might burst? How many almosts, when he’d nearly been caught?
