Warrister nodded, unsurprised. “I suspect you didn’t tell me that you saw him because that would lead back to the maid. The maid had ensnared you, as well, despite what you said at the ball.” Then softly, he added, “She was likely playing her part with both of you.”
“I was supposed to go to her that night but I waited. And then I waited . . . and all because I didn’t want her to think she had power over me.” Herrington cursed, a low mournful sound. “Uncle, you don’t know how often I’ve regretted making her wait and what could have happened if I’d been there sooner.” He gripped the earl’s hand. He held it for a moment, then let it drop and looked to Raven. “But that still doesn’t mean that this man is my cousin’s child.”
Warrister drew in a deep breath, then turned to Raven. “Show him the mark, my boy.”
Numbly, he stood and shrugged out of his coat. His thoughts lingered on the horrifying image of his father emerging from that house on the hill, determined and skin still burning as he carried his child to safety.
Overwhelmed by a torrent of emotion, Raven didn’t bother to remove his shirtsleeves. He just took hold of the linen and ripped.
The sound echoed in the room. It was followed by Herrington’s choked sob as he staggered back from the sight of the scarred shoulder.
“The ring,” he whispered. “That’s from the signet ring I found on my cousin’s body. He was sprawled on the ground, arms outstretched. And his hands were”—he broke off, slowly lifting his own hands in imitation, his gaze haunted—“as if he were holding a chalice or something precious.”
Warrister stood and walked across the room, looking away from the fire and toward the new snow falling outside the window. He withdrew a handkerchief from his pocket.
Raven sat down in his grandfather’s chair beside Jane. He felt her brush the pads of her fingers against the wetness on his cheeks.
After their collective shuddering breaths fell silent, Warrister said, “Nephew, you’ll make it known that Merrick Northcott survived. That Viscount Northcott lives.”
“I will,” he said. Then looked to Jane. “I apologize for what you’ve endured since the night of the ball, Miss Pickerington. I wish you had slapped me instead of the glass from my hand. I deserved it, and much more.”
Raven looked at Jane, curious. He didn’t know about this. Damn, he wished he’d seen it. In fact, he wished he’d punched Herrington, and much more. Unfortunately, they were family. Bloody hell.
Jane nodded to Herrington in forgiveness. She was far too generous, in Raven’s opinion.
“And I realize now that you didn’t try to murder Raven, after all,” she said. “It’s here in my uncle’s confession.”
She showed Raven the letter.
He saw that the scrawl was much altered from the one he’d read in those ledgers. The hard slant was barely discernible, and the words were like the ramblings of a madman.
Apparently, Mr. Mayhew had been blackmailing Pickerington for years.
The beadle at the foundling home had been watching from an upper floor window the night Pickerington had left an infant on the doorstep. Then, once word had spread about the fire and the earl’s belief that his grandson survived, Mayhew approached Pickerington.
The tutor had been terrified about anyone associating him with the fire and having his treasonous activities discovered. Mayhew used this to his advantage, as well as all the other information he had in his possession. He knew all of Pickerington’s secrets because he, too, had been working for le Sinistre.
But while Mayhew had carefully covered his own tracks, Pickerington had not. So Mayhew used everything he could against Pickerington, including the one thing that mattered most—family.
Pickerington knew that if his treasonous secret came out, it would have signed his own death warrant. But worse, in his opinion, a public trial and hanging would forever blacken the family name.
The threat had been enough for him to pay Mayhew any amount, even enough to beggar himself.
But as the years dragged on in debtor’s prison, Pickerington had decided that it would serve him better to get rid of the only real link between him and his crimes.
And the only way to do that was to have Raven killed.
“Now, I understand why all the money my father has been sending has barely kept my uncle in coal. If he wasn’t paying Mr. Mayhew, then he was hiring murderers to—” Jane’s voice broke as she turned away from the page, her forehead pressed to his chest. “He isn’t the man I remember at all, and I cannot apologize enough for all he has done to you.”
Raven dropped the letter on the floor, dismissing it, and took her face in his hands. “No. It is not your place to apologize. And, besides, there is nothing either of us can do about our relations,” he said with a wry glance to Herrington.
The man chuckled in response and cursed under his breath. “Further proof that you are your father’s son. Edgar was ever-quick with the quip and I received the lash of it more times than not.” He sighed, resigned. “I suppose I deserve to be plagued by you.”
Warrister turned away from the window, a pleased smile on his lips. “At last. And to celebrate the reunion of our family, I’ll host a dinner this evening and—”
“Beg pardon, Grandfather,” Raven interrupted and shrugged back into his coat. “Jane and I have a previous engagement in Gretna Green. We’re on our way there now.”
Warrister started to bluster. “No grandson of mine is getting married over a blacksmith’s iron. No, you’ll have the wedding here in London. The banns will be read—”
“I’ve spent a lifetime apart from her and I refuse to wait a minute longer.”
Warrister’s mouth set in a stubborn line. “I’ll secure a special license with the archbishop post haste. You’ll be married tomorrow and then we’ll have a wedding breakfast.”
Raven took Jane’s hand and curled it over his sleeve. “On this topic, I’m afraid, I cannot be moved. Jane needs a new chapter for her book—How to Marry a Scoundrel.”
Acknowledgments
I’d like to thank my editor, Nicole Fischer, and the entire Avon Romance team. This book would never have found a reader without your dedication and efforts. Thank you, all, so much! In my thoughts, I’m always sending hugs to you. And many thanks to my agent, the lovely Stefanie Lieberman, for your support in keeping this dream alive.
A huge thank you goes to my sisters. To Cyndi, for being my cheerleader, champion, and first-draft reader. To Deanna, for your generous insight, encouragement, and conversations. And to Katie, for your wry humor and our shared laughter.
And finally, I want to thank all the readers at Avon’s KissCon Chicago 2018, who rallied on my behalf for a chance to write this Tarzan in London story. This one is for you.
Announcement
The Mating Habits of Scoundrels
continues with Ellie’s story . . .
THE WRONG MARQUESS
Coming 2021