In My Wildest Fantasies

Chapter 24

The Pembroke coach pulled up in front of Mr. Rushton's country house shortly before midnight. It was a large home of Dutch design, flanked by two pavilions, which gave it balance and breadth.

Though the rain had stopped, a thick, heavy fog blanketed the land and put a damp chill in the air. Devon stepped out of the coach, offered his hand to Rebecca, and walked with her to the front entrance. Blake followed a few steps behind, carrying a pistol.

Before Devon knocked on the door, he looked into his wife's face and saw her distress, for she did not know whether her father was lying or telling the truth. Quite frankly, neither did he.

Leaning forward, he kissed her on the cheek. "We shall get to the bottom of this. You have my word."

She only nodded.

Devon rapped the heavy brass knocker. Blake stepped to the side and pressed his back against the wall, remaining out of sight.

The door opened, and Devon faced a well-dressed gentleman who was clearly not a servant. He wore a dark jacket and looked to be in his mid-forties with strong facial features, a long, straight, patrician nose, and golden brown hair. He was fit and slender. There was confidence in his smile. It was Rushton, without a doubt.

His smug smile disappeared, however, the instant he met Devon's gaze.

"I thought you were going to leave him," he said to Rebecca, his blatant arrogance causing Devon to squeeze his hand into a tight fist. "Was he not willing to let you go?"

During the brief coach ride from Creighton Manor, they had discussed exactly what needed to be said, but suddenly Devon was hard-pressed to hold to the plan, when what he really wanted to do was walk in, grab the slimy worm by the throat, and toss him out a window.

"I am not leaving my husband for you or anyone else," Rebecca said. "Go ahead and expose my father if you must, but I think you will have a difficult time proving anything, because I shall be the first to appear as a witness and tell the court how you issued threats against the Marquess of Hawthorne and his family, in order to pressure me to become your wife. If anyone has a history of wrongdoing, sir, and a motive for misconduct, it is you."

A contemptuous frown set into Rushton's features. He looked at both of them as if pondering how best to proceed, then he glanced over their shoulders at their coach.

"I don't think you understand what is at stake here," he said. "Why don't you both come inside, and I will ring for tea. We will discuss the matter in some depth."

"No," Rebecca said. "There is nothing to discuss. I came here only to tell you that-"

But now that Devon was here, seeing for the first time the man who had once torn his wife's skirts and attempted to force himself upon her, he could not simply walk away. He stepped forward and pushed the door open, forcing Rushton to step back onto the black and white checker floor and make way.

"I beg your pardon, darling," Devon said to Rebecca. "I've decided I would like to hear him out after all."

He could almost feel Blake's grimace just outside the door, for they had not intended to enter the house, and now his brother would have to wait in the chilly darkness or somehow sneak inside.

Standing nose-to-nose with Rushton, Devon kept his gaze fixed on the man's brown eyes. He was aware of Rebecca stepping quietly into the hall behind him and waiting in silence for the two of them to step apart.

Rushton backed away first, then turned to the footman across the hall. "Bring tea."

The young man made himself scarce, and Rushton escorted them to the drawing room, which was adorned in blue and yellow drapes and furnishings. Once inside the room, Devon looked up at a large family portrait in a gilt frame over the fireplace-a mother, father, and son. They were dressed formally. The mother wore a blue satin gown, pearls and diamonds around her neck, and a tiara on her head.

"My parents and me," Rushton said. "I had it painted last year. The artist was able to copy our likenesses from our individual portraits, and create this masterpiece."

But Rebecca had once mentioned Rushton's father was a merchant. "Where is your family now?" Devon asked.

"Dead, for twenty-five years."

"My condolences." Devon strolled around and looked carefully at the furnishings and other paintings on the walls. "You wish to enlighten us about the situation…" he prompted.

"Yes. I don't believe you understand the significance of it." He sat down and crossed one leg over the other. "Please, sit down. Would you care for a biscuit?" He casually pointed at a plate of cookies on a side table.

Rebecca dropped her hands to her sides in obvious frustration. "Do not continue, sir, with this ridiculous attempt to arouse our apprehensions by keeping us in suspense. Come out with it, if you please, or I will walk out of here this instant."

He smirked. "You've obviously had your hands full with her," he said to Devon, "while I have been missing out."

Devon's blood went cold at the mere insinuation that there could ever be anything between them. "You heard my wife," he said. "Say your piece."

"Very well," Rushton replied, rising from his seat. "Five years ago, I became acquainted with a woman named Serena Fullarton at some local gatherings in the village, and discovered she was having a secret affair with your father."

"I find that difficult to believe," Rebecca said. "My father has always been a very private person. I would have known of it."

He glared at her. "Ask him."

"I did. He denied it."

"Then he's lying."

She was taken aback. Devon merely watched and listened to all of it with great scrutiny.

Rushton continued. "I saw them together on numerous occasions at your father's rotunda by the lake, where I often went walking on warm days, and on one particular afternoon, I heard them arguing. The young lady was distraught, and I could not help but move closer and listen to their conversation, uncertain about whether or not I should intervene. Consequently, what followed will haunt me forever. I remained too far away, you see, and could do nothing but watch from a distance as your father wrestled the young lady to the ground and strangled the very life out of her. I, of course, hurried to the scene, but was too late. When I arrived and pulled your father to his feet, she had already expired."

The color bled from Rebecca's cheeks. "I don't believe it."

Devon went to her side.

Rushton continued. "Your father confessed to me that Miss Fullarton was carrying his child and demanding that he marry her. He did not want her as his wife, however, only as his mistress, so he lost his temper. Once the ghastly deed was done and he collected himself, he buried her there by the rotunda, where she lies to this day without a headstone. I can even attest to the fact that she was buried wearing the bracelet your father gave to her. I am sure the magistrate will find it a pleasant challenge to trace the bauble to its purchaser."

Devon looked at Rebecca whose brow was knitted in disbelief, and strove to focus on the details. "How would you even know the bracelet was from him? Perhaps it was you who killed her."

He shook his head. "As I tried to explain, I had become acquainted with her in the village, and she had revealed some of her secrets to me." He approached Rebecca, who was breathing heavily. "Perhaps what you need to do is question your father about all of this again, and watch the color drain from his face when he is reminded of the gruesome details. Then you will know the truth, won't you?"

Just then, a noise from the hall diverted their attention, and they turned. Lord Creighton came hobbling into the room with his cane in one hand, a sword already drawn from its scabbard in the other.

Rushton immediately withdrew a pistol from his jacket. Devon grabbed hold of Rebecca's arm to pull her out of the way, and Blake came running into the room, his pistol aimed at Rushton.

"She shall have the truth now," Creighton said. "You sir, are a villain and a blackmailer, and I will not permit you to cause my daughter further anxiety. She has chosen her husband and will not be bullied."

"Pity you missed it," Rushton replied, "but I have already delivered the truth to her, so you are too late with your attempt at heroism. She knows what you did."

The earl raised the sword, but his stiff, misshapen hand could barely keep it steady. The tip of the sword dipped low. Rushton aimed his pistol at Creighton, then at Blake, then back at Creighton.

"Give her the whole truth," the earl said.

Rebecca tried to go to him, but Devon held her back. "Father, tell me it is not true," she said. "Tell me you did not kill anyone."

The earl glanced briefly at her. No one made a move or uttered a word for a long, tense moment. Then at last he answered in a tremulous voice, his whole arm shaking from the weight of the sword. "I was in love with Serena, and I was with her that day at the rotunda."

"But what happened?" Rebecca asked. "Did you kill her?"

The earl seemed barely able to form words. "Not on purpose."

"Father…"

Devon moved to take her hand, but she was distracted.

"I confess, I was involved quite improperly with her, and we argued that day."

"Over your bastard child in her womb," Rushton put in.

The earl raised the sword again and garnered his strength. "No, sir. It was your bastard child she carried. I always understood that, which is why I would not marry her."

Suddenly he strode toward Mr. Rushton, aiming the sword at his heart.

"Father, no!"

Devon dashed forward, but Rushton fired his pistol and the shot rang out before anyone could stop the earl from his useless attack.

Creighton dropped the heavy sword and crumpled to the floor.

"Father!" Rebecca flew to him and dropped to her knees beside him.

Rushton scrambled to reload his pistol, but Devon lunged at him and knocked it from his hands, sending it clattering across the shiny floor, while Blake stood back with his own pistol aimed and ready to fire.

Devon pinned Rushton down, but somehow the man swung a fist and punched Devon across the jaw. A shrill, sharp pain rang inside his skull.

"You had no right to marry her," Rushton ground out. "She was already spoken for."

"She was not given the chance to speak for herself," Devon ground out in reply, landing his own punch to Rushton's side.

They rolled into a table and knocked it over, then Rushton straddled Devon and wrapped his hands around his neck. He began to choke him. "That pistol shot was meant for you."

Gasping for breath, fighting to suck in air, Devon swung a fist and knocked Rushton over with one blow. The man rolled to the side, picked up the sword, knelt behind Rebecca and pressed the point into her back. She froze on the floor at her father's side.

"No…" the earl pleaded, clutching the dark stain of blood on his stomach.

Devon slowly, carefully got to his feet. "Don't hurt her." He should have kicked the sword away. Why hadn't he?

All at once, he was sliding back down that muddy hill again, helpless, out of control, and regretting all the little decisions he had made that had brought him to this horrific moment in time. He should have knocked Rushton in the other direction just now. He should have brought his own pistol. He should never have brought Rebecca here in the first place. But he had, and now he was forced to face the possibility of a loss greater than any he had ever known. If Rushton drove that sword into her heart and took her life, it would take Devon's soul.

Rebecca was still watching her father, who was groaning in pain. "Let me help him," she pleaded, struggling. "He's in pain."

Rushton gestured toward Blake. "Tell your brother to drop the pistol and kick it to me."

When Blake held firm, Rushton pushed the sword against Rebecca's back, and she lurched forward with a cry of agony.

"Blake, put it down," Devon ordered, his eyes trained on Rushton's.

Blake set the pistol on the floor, but kicked it to the side.

Rushton frowned. "I spent all my life fighting to recover what was taken from me-my home, my family. The Creighton name owes me that at least, and this woman was going to give it to me."

"Why do we owe you that?" she asked.

The earl tried to speak. "Rebecca, your grandfather…" But he could not go on.

"Just lie still, Father. Please."

Rushton continued the explanation for him. "Your grandfather won my family home in a card game twenty-five years ago, and came to claim it the very next day, turning us all out onto the street. My mother died two weeks later giving birth to my younger brother in a boardinghouse, then my father, in his grief, took his own life."

Rebecca looked down at her father. "Is that true?"

He closed his eyes and nodded.

She turned her head to the side to address Rushton. "I am very sorry to hear that," she said shakily. "Perhaps we could offer you some compensation."

Devon had been listening to all of this with increasing fury at the sight of that sword at Rebecca's back, and her father lying injured on the floor. She had come here with him believing he was her hero, and he had intended to protect her.

Rage-so powerful that it burned away every regrettable thing he'd ever done in the past-flooded his head. He could not repress the violent instinct to retaliate. It was festering in his gut, shuddering in his bones. He felt like a wild animal in a cage-captive, threatened, and vicious.

"If it's compensation you want," he bluntly said, "go ask your dead father. He's the one who gambled away your home."

Rushton's gaze turned to him in shock, and Devon shot forward. He threw his body into Rushton's. The force of the assault carried them both flying through the air to the other side of the room. The sword dropped with a clatter. They landed with a crash, and Devon's chin hit the ground.

He scrambled to his knees and bashed his fist into Rushton's face, then straddled him and grabbed his whole head with both hands. He smacked it once, hard, against the floor.

Shocked and disoriented, the man blinked a few times, parted his lips as if to say something, then fell unconscious.

In the meantime, Rebecca had torn off her cloak and was trying to stanch the flow of her father's blood.

Blake seized the pistol and hurried to Devon. "Are you all right?"

"I am," Devon replied, barely conscious of what he had just done. He accepted his brother's hand and let him pull him to his feet.

Blake aimed the pistol at Rushton's heart, should the man awaken and wish to make another move. Devon met Rebecca's gaze. He knelt down beside her. She was gently stroking her father's head. The earl's breathing was ragged.

"We have to do something!" she cried.

"I'm sorry," the earl whispered. "I never meant to hurt you, but you must know, the child was Rushton's. Serena was going to pass it off as mine. I don't know what happened to me that day. I couldn't control my anger. I pushed her down and she hit her head. Her death was my fault. It has haunted me ever since."

"Try to calm yourself," Rebecca said. "You're still bleeding."

"I did care for her," he tried to explain, "but she was his lover. He wanted his son to have my title." He began to gasp for each costly breath. "I have come to realize that he would have killed me after the child was born, then married her. But when she died, he turned his ambitions toward you."

"Why didn't you tell me any of this?" Rebecca asked. "I would have stood by you. You should not have given him that power over us."

"I was ashamed and ridden with guilt. And the scandal…I couldn't face the disgrace of a trial, the destruction of my family's good name." He squeezed her hand. "It was wrong of me. I should never have believed you would be safe with him. In my fear I was not rational. But you are free now. No need to protect me. I was brave tonight. At last. Brave for you."

He gazed at her for a moment, then a shadow passed over his eyes, and they fell closed.

Rebecca bowed her head and wept.

Devon placed a hand on her shoulder to offer what comfort he could, then turned to see the young footman watching from the door, his eyes wide as he held a silver tray with tea.

"Go and instruct the driver outside to fetch the magistrate," Devon said.

The young man nodded, set down the tray, then turned and ran out.

Rebecca buried her face in Devon's shoulder. He held her close.