Page 13 of Some Like It Wild
“There is no Mr. Darby,” she informed him. “Unless you count my mother’s father, and he died when she was still a babe.”
Her matter-of-fact confession only served to remind Connor that he had once been blessed with two parents who adored him. “So after your mother died, you decided to journey to the Highlands and kidnap the first highwayman who crossed your path.”
“Need I remind you, sir, thatyouwere the one who accosted us,” she said with an exasperated sniff. “We came here searching for a man, not a highwayman. And not just any man, but the heir to a vast fortune.”
Connor dragged a second chair around to face her and sank into it.Nowshe had his attention. “How vast?”
“His father is one of the wealthiest nobleman in all of England. And one of the most powerful. The Duke of Warrick can command a dozen households of servants, a fleet of trading ships and most of the members of Parliament with nothing more than the snap of his fingers.” She boldly snapped her own fingers beneath his nose to illustrate her point. “But none of his wealth or power has been able to win him the one prize he desires above all others—the return of the son who went missing nearly thirty years ago.”
Connor frowned. “What happened to the lad? Did he run away? Was he kidnapped for ransom?”
“Neither. Apparently, when he was younger, the duke had a bit of a roving eye. Most pampered ladies are content to look the other way when their husbands stray, but not his duchess.” An admiring glow warmed Pamela’s amber eyes. “After she found the duke’s mistress in their bed during a ball, she bundled up their newborn babe and ran away with him.”
Connor’s voice reflected his incredulity. “And the duke’s been searching for the lad for nearly thirty years?”
“I believe he lost hope a long time ago, but he’s recently redoubled his efforts.”
“Why now, after all this time?”
“Because he’s dying,” Pamela said flatly. “His health has been declining for several years now, and according to gossip he has only months—if not weeks—to live. I’m convinced that’s what prompted him to offer the reward.”
“Reward?” Connor edged his chair even closer to hers. He knew all about rewards. There was a rather hefty one on his own head right now. He also knew a reward on a man’s head didn’t mean he was worth anything.
Pamela leaned forward in her chair, her eyes sparkling with excitement. “The duke is offering ten thousand pounds to anyone who can bring him proof that his son is still alive.”
Connor let out a low-pitched whistle. “With a prize like that at stake, I gather you and your sister aren’t the only ones out searchin’ for the lad.”
“That may be true, but we were the only ones searching in the right place.”
“How can you be so sure of that?”
She tilted her head to study him. “I’d be a fool to trust a man like you, wouldn’t I?”
“Aye,” he agreed solemnly. “That you would.”
She studied him for a few seconds longer, then shook her head. “I don’t suppose any of it matters now that we’ve learned the truth.”
Connor had believed his interest had reached its peak when the wordsvast fortuneandrewardhad been introduced into the conversation. But he was wrong. As Pamela slipped a hand into the bodice of her pelisse, rooting around between the generous swell of her breasts, he sat up straighter in the chair, feeling the rest of his body snap to attention with equal fascination. He was on the verge of offering her his eager assistance when she finally drew forth a folded scrap of foolscap, yellowed with age.
She laid the paper in her lap, handling it with the utmost of care. “For almost thirty years, everyone has believed the duchess took the baby and fled to France, which is why all of the searches have been centered there.” She tapped the paper with one neatly trimmed fingernail. “This document proves otherwise.”
“What is it?”
“A letter the duchess penned the night before she ran away. A letter addressed to her dear childhood friend—a woman she could no longer acknowledge in polite society without fear of damaging her own reputation but who had always been her most faithful and treasured confidante—one Marianne Darby.”
Pamela’s amber eyes grew misty as she tenderly stroked the crumbling wax seal that had once shielded the letter from prying eyes. “This is the only document proving the duchess had no intention of ever boarding that ship for France. She confessed to my mother she booked that passage to France to deliberately mislead her husband, all the while planning to seek asylum with her maternal grandfather—a man who had once been a powerful laird in the Highlands of Scotland but—”
“—who had lost everything to the English,” Connor finished for her. Too many stories had the exact same ending. Including his own. He nodded toward the letter. “How did you come by it? Did you find it among your mother’s things after she died?”
Pamela’s face hardened. “Her belongings were all destroyed in the fire that killed her. The letter was presented to us by her solicitor upon her death.” The corner of Pamela’s mouth quirked in a rueful smile. “Unfortunately, it was all she left us.”
“And your mother never received any other letters from this grand lady? Not even a note sayin’ she’d arrived safely at her grandfather’s house?”
“Not another word from her for all these years.” Pamela shook her head sadly. “But now we know why. According to an old woman Sophie and I found in Strathspey, they never made it that far. It was a harsh winter and both she and the babe died of a fever somewhere near Balquhidder.”
They were both silent for several minutes.
“Wouldn’t this duke be equally grateful for proof of his son’s fate?” Connor finally asked. “At least the poor man could die in peace, knowin’ his search was over.”
