Recalling his reaction, annoyance edged through him. Ridiculous. His physical response to her absolutely bordered on the ridiculous. Perhaps that blow to the head he'd suffered had damaged him in some way. A fine theory… until faced with the fact that she'd affected him from the moment he laid eyes on her.

No, if he were to be scrupulously honest with himself, she'd affected him even before he saw her. His interest, or whatever name he chose to put to this preoccupation, had started when Elizabeth had given him the sketch of a beautiful, laughing, vibrant young woman.

Damn it all, if a mere charcoal image of her had fascinated him, he should have known that the actual woman would affect him profoundly. And perhaps, in the inner recesses of his mind, he had. But he hadn't known she would make him feel like… this. So unsettled and frustrated.

His gaze skimmed over her black mourning dress and his jaw clenched. Bloody hell, those morbid clothes irked him. She should be garbed in pastels and airy muslins. Rich silks and satins. Yet there was more to it than that. The fact that after three years she still proclaimed her devotion to a dead man through her attire disturbed him in a way he was reluctant to examine. He did not consider himself a saint by any reckoning, but he did pride himself on being a man of integrity. A man of decency. And surely a decent man of integrity would not harbor lustful urges for a grieving woman. Wouldn't long to erase the image of her dead beloved from her mind, or be so utterly, painfully attracted to her that he'd rack his brain for any excuse to touch her.

The carriage jerked to a halt, and he expelled a breath of relief when he saw they'd arrived at the town house. He helped her from the carriage, noting that she did not look at him, and pulled her hand away from his the instant her feet touched the cobblestones-facts which surely should have pleased him, not left him feeling both irritated and mildly hurt. He led the way up the walkway, chiding himself the entire distance. She doesn't feel it, you dolt. Clearly she has no trouble resisting you. But what about that moment in the billiards room this morning? She'd sure as hell felt something then. 'Twas obviously just a momentary lapse of judgment on her part. She s forgotten it. Now he needed to do the same.

Just as they climbed the steps, the double oak doors flew open. Robert's greeting to Carters died on his lips when he saw the butler's stricken face. Striding into the foyer, he grabbed the man's upper arm. "What's happened? Is it Elizabeth?"

Carters swallowed hard, then shook his head. "No, Lord Robert. No one is injured."

"But something is wrong."

"I’m afraid so. I'm sorry to tell you, but the town house has been robbed."


********

Darkness had fallen by the time Geoffrey walked with deliberate calm up the brick steps leading to his town house. The instant he set foot on the top tread, the oak-paneled front door opened inward on silent, well-oiled hinges. Willis bowed from the waist as Geoffrey entered the foyer.

"Any messages arrive for me?" he asked the butler.

"Two arrived earlier this afternoon, my lord," Willis said, accepting his hat, coat, and walking stick. "But I did not forward them to you at White's, as neither was from the gentleman you were expecting to hear from. The letters await you on your desk."

His hands clenched. "I'll be in my study. Unless another message arrives, I do not wish to be disturbed." "Yes, my lord."

Seconds later, Geoffrey entered his private study and headed directly for the decanters. The pain in his head had swelled to an unbearable, rhythmic pounding that set his teeth on edge. He tossed back a fingerful of brandy, relishing the slow burn edging down to his belly. The liquor did little to ease the thumping behind his eyes, but it helped settle his nerves, which teetered dangerously close to the edge.

Damn Redfern to hell and back! He'd give the bastard one more hour. If he had not heard from him by then, he would be forced to put his plan into action. This uncertainty had dragged on far too long. The possibility that he could be destroyed… sometimes he felt as if he were going mad.

No! Not mad. It's simply the strain. This impossible state of suspense. Wincing, he pressed his palm to his temple in a useless attempt to stem the relentless banging. He would not, could not, lose what was his.

He looked around the room, at the opulent cream silk wall coverings, the handsome furnishings, the priceless works of art, and a red haze seemed to envelop him, cloaking him in a dark rage that thundered through his veins and threatened to suffocate him. This is mine. All of it. Every bloody last bit of it. I sold my soul for it… and I'm not the only one who did so. Like father like son…

That bastard David Brown had stolen the ring and its box- had discovered the truth. Had blackmailed him. And now the ring and the proof that could cast doubt on the validity of his parents' marriage was God only knew where. If the truth were discovered…

Sweat broke out on his forehead, and he clenched his snifter, the cut glass digging into his fingers and palm. His heart pounded so hard he could feel it beating in his ears. Forcing long, deep breaths into his lungs, he strove to compose himself. Can't lose control. Must remain calm. Focused.

He wiped his damp brow with his handkerchief, then, with jerky steps, crossed the maroon-and-gold Persian rug to his desk, where his gaze fell upon the two letters resting on the polished cherry-wood surface. Picking up the top one, he broke the seal and scanned the brief contents.

Dear Lord Shelbourne,

I am in possession of a ring that belongs to your family. I would very much like to return this ring to you at your earliest convenience. Please contact me at the Bradford town house on Park Lane to set up a meeting.

Yours truly,

Mrs. Alberta Brown


Stunned, he reread the missive, then crumpled it in his fist. A maelstrom of thoughts and emotions twisted through his mind, and he fought to sort them into some semblance of order.

She did have the ring. Thank God. He no longer needed to agonize over its whereabouts. Relief smacked him like a blow, only to be immediately replaced by fury at her gall.

She wanted to return his ring? A humorless laugh erupted from his lips. Of course she did-but at what exorbitant price? No doubt more than her bloody husband had demanded.

He heaved her letter into the hearth with a vicious oath, then watched the flames consume it. Redfern had failed yet again. Damn it all, why couldn't the man manage to steal one small ring from one small woman? Surely that was not too difficult a task!

Dragging his hands through his hair, he turned, and his gaze locked on the other note on his desk. What was this, a blackmail request? Snatching up the vellum, he ripped open the seal and quickly read the few lines.

A frown pulled down his brows and he pursed his lips. With the duke and duchess still in Kent awaiting the birth of their child, clearly Robert Jamison was serving as Mrs. Brown's escort during her London stay. And Jamison wished to introduce him to an American woman named Mrs. Alberta Brown whose deceased husband David-how had he put it? He scanned the letter again. Ah, yes… Whose deceased husband was an acquaintance of yours.

Bitterness burned Geoffrey's throat. Oh, he was acquainted with David Brown, all right. He recited a silent prayer of thanks every day that the bastard was dead. His only regret was that he hadn't had the pleasure of wrapping his hands around Brown's miserable neck and squeezing the life out him himself. If not for Brown, he'd not be in this damnable mess. And what about Jamison? What did he know? Was he somehow involved as more than Mrs. Brown's escort? Damn it all, he couldn't risk anyone in the duke's family finding out-

A knock sounded at the door, jerking him from his disturbing musings. "Come in."

Willis crossed the room, holding out a silver salver. "This just arrived, my lord."

Geoffrey accepted the missive. Anticipation curled through him as he saw his name scrawled in Redfern's familiar, coarse scrawl. The instant Willis quit the room, he tore open the seal.

I've got the ring. Expect me tomorrow.

He stared at that single line, his jaw working. Obviously either Redfern or Mrs. Brown was lying. Or foolishly attempting to play an elaborate game with him. Or perhaps not…

Willis had said the other two notes had arrived earlier this afternoon. Realization dawned, and a bark of laughter burst from him. Mrs. Brown must have sent her note before Redfern stole the ring. She no longer had it. But just as quickly as relief came, it vanished like a puff of smoke.

She might no longer have the ring, but that didn't mean she hadn't discovered its secret. She still might know… might know that another could rightfully lay claim to his title.

Pitching Jamison's and Redfern's notes into the fireplace, he grasped the mantel with a white-knuckled grip. He watched the flames lick at the vellum, his mind working at a feverish pace. There was only one answer. He'd have to meet with her. Get to know her. Find out what, if anything, she knew about his secret. Discover if she planned to blackmail him. Did she know the identity of the man who could destroy his life and take everything from him? If only I knew who he was. I could destroy him first.

He had to get that ring.

Walking to his desk, he composed a note inviting Mrs. Brown and Robert Jamison to call upon him the next morning.