Page 67 of Some Like It Wild
“I’ve never denied that, have I, son?”
“Don’t call me that! You haven’t the right!”
When the echo of Connor’s shout had faded, the duke said quietly, “Well, that remains to be seen, doesn’t it?” He turned to Pamela, his voice dispassionate. “I hear that once again it is you, Miss Darby, who will provide me with the proof I need to convince me not to turn the both of you over to the constable for a quick trial and an even quicker hanging.”
The constable perked up at the prospect of a hanging, earning a fresh glare from Connor.
“So what’s it to be this time, my dear—a letter from the king himself vouching for the lad’s parentage or perhaps a wailing visit from the shade of his mother?” The duke snorted bitterly. “God knows the woman has haunted me nearly to my grave in the past twenty-nine years.”
Pamela reached into the bodice of her gown. It had been no easy feat hanging on to the locket when the constable’s men had seized her. But she had clenched her fist tight and held on for dear life, remembering how his mother had told Connor to guard it with his life.
She rose and moved to the desk. The duke stretched out his hand, but still she hesitated. Once she surrendered the locket into his keeping, there would be no going back. For any of them.
She slowly let the trinket slip through her fingers and into his hand. “I believe this will prove beyond the shadow of a doubt that this man is your son.”
She returned to her seat, still avoiding Connor’s eyes.
The duke’s hands were trembling so badly it took him three tries to pry open the locket. He sat gazing down at the miniature within for several minutes, his expression unchanging.
But when he lifted his eyes to Connor’s face, they were burning with an unholy fire. “Where did you get this?”
“My mother gave it to me. Right before she died. My father had it painted when a fair came through our village.”
“So she didn’t die on the road to the Highlands?”
Connor shook his head. “She didn’t die until I was fifteen.”
“How?” the duke demanded querulously. “How can any of this be possible?”
“How am I supposed to know?” Connor snapped, his own voice rising. “Perhaps my father found her when she was ill. He had a tender heart and a habit of taking in strays. Perhaps he took her and her babe in as well. All I know is that I never knew the woman in this portrait as anything but my mother and his wife.”
“She wasmywife!” the duke roared, pounding his fist on the desk. “He had no right to her!”
Connor gave him a long level look. “Apparently, neither did you.”
The duke seized the iron wheels of his chair and wrenched the chair to the side, as if he could no longer bear to look upon any of them. His hair fell in a lank curtain around his face. “So you came here to swindle an old fool out of his fortune only to discover that you were exactly who you were pretending to be.”
“Aye,” Connor confessed. “That seems to be the way of it.”
The constable stepped forward, hat in hand. “You’ve suffered enough of this pair’s nonsense, your grace. Why don’t you allow me to summon my men and have them locked up until you can determine what should be—”
The duke lifted his hand, stifling the man in mid-sentence. His shoulders began to shake. A strangled sound emerged from his throat, launching him into one of his more terrible coughing fits. Pamela inched to the edge of her chair, fearing he was going to expire right before their eyes, making Connor the duke.
But when he rolled his chair back around to face him, she realized he wasn’t coughing, but laughing. Laughing without a trace of bitterness. Laughing so hard that tears were streaming down his haggard cheeks.
Struggling to catch his breath, he pointed a palsied finger at Connor. “Such ingenuity! Such gall! There’s no denying that you’re my son now, is there? But the joke’s on you, isn’t it, lad? And I’ll wager you haven’t even thought about the worst of it yet. If I’m your father, then that means that Astrid is your aunt and Crispin is truly your—”
“—cousin,” Connor finished, dropping his head into his hands with a groan.
“Your grace,” the constable snapped, striding toward the desk. “Surely you’re not going to just let them get away with such a nefarious scheme!” He drew a piece of paper from his coat and shook it at the duke. “What about this broadsheet? It all but proves this man is guilty of any number of crimes against the crown.”
The duke took the broadsheet from the man’s hand and gave it a cursory glance. “This proves nothing. There may be a slight resemblance, but the man in this sketch is wearing a mask. He could be anyone.” He wadded the broadsheet into a ball and tossed it over his shoulder into the fire.
The constable began to sputter. “Wh—Wh—What about this woman then? Surely you’re going to allow me to arrest her. Why, she’s nothing but a common criminal!”
Connor tensed and started to rise, but the duke waved him back down before crooking a finger at Pamela.
She reluctantly rose and moved to stand before the desk like a recalcitrant schoolgirl, her hands clasped in front of her.
