Unclaimed Page 12

  But Nigel Parret had found Lady Eugenia before her affections had a chance to alter. He’d spoken to her, and she had told him every detail of her unrequited fancies. She’d outlined her childish plan to win Mark’s affections—mainly this had involved looking radiant in his presence. She’d enumerated the children she planned to have with him once they were married. Mark still winced, thinking of it.

  Parret had published her juvenile dreams on the front page of his paper. Mark’s reputation hadn’t suffered—the article had made it painfully clear that Mark had done nothing whatsoever to encourage the girl—but children of that age hardly needed encouragement to dream. There was no way to stop them from wishing for the impossible.

  No way, that was, except to expose their aspiration to the ridicule of all London society.

  Lady Eugenia had become a laughingstock; Nigel Parret had collected a small fortune selling papers. And Mark had stopped talking to young, impressionable ladies.

  Parret stared up at Mark now with a certain speculative hunger. Mark could almost see the next article brewing in those calculating depths. Maybe, this time, he’d analyze Mark’s woodpile. What his column would make of Mrs. Farleigh, Mark didn’t want to know.

  “One little interview,” Parret said, in what Mark supposed was intended to be a cajoling tone. “Just a few questions.”

  “Not a chance. You are the last person on earth to whom I would grant an exclusive interview.”

  Parret nodded as if Mark had not just insulted him, pulled out his notebook and started scribbling.

  Mark glanced down uneasily. Parret wrote in a large, round hand—visible even upside down at two paces.

  Your correspondent met with Sir Mark in his birthplace of Shepton Mallet. The man wrote with astonishing speed. Upon seeing his dear friend—for so, my readers, I dare to believe Sir Mark thinks of me—Sir Mark greeted me with effusive superlatives.

  “I did not!”

  “Last person on earth,” Mr. Parret contradicted aloud. “Very superlative indeed.”

  He continued writing. He displays his usual good humor and humble nature, disclaiming the compliments I bestowed upon him.

  Enough of that game. Anything Mark said would be twisted to feed Parret’s rapacity for gossip. Mark folded his arms and tried to figure out some way to ask Parret to take himself to the devil—in a way that couldn’t be twisted about. Parret looked up at him, his head tilted, as if waiting for Mark’s next comment.

  Mark pressed his lips together and tapped his fingers against his elbow.

  My kindness in visiting him, however, mostly shocked him speechless. Still he agreed to conduct an exclusive interview with me—one which I now convey to you.

  “I agreed to no such thing,” Mark said through gritted teeth.

  Parret’s head bobbed as he wrote. “Here I am, speaking with you, no other reporters present. This implies a certain degree of exclusivity.”

  Mark shook his head, turned and walked away. Naturally, Parret followed. “Communication,” he said, “is an amazing thing. I can read responses in the turn of your head. The set of your chin. So long as I don’t put quotation marks about your words, and I speak no ill of you, you can’t possibly stop me.”

  Mark didn’t respond and lengthened his stride.

  Parret trotted beside him, his breathing labored. “I am the only reporter here,” he continued. “No matter what any other enterprising souls may say. And you know, it is I who have investigated some of the cruder reports about you and discredited them as jealous whispers. If it were not for my tireless reporting, that incident last year with Lady Grantham might have taken hold.”

  “There was no incident with Lady Grantham,” Mark said. “Everybody knows that. Nobody believes the lies that some people try to spread about me.”

  “True,” Parret said. “But, I flatter myself, I have done quite a bit on that count myself. If you knew the number of stories I had heard about you, the number of allegations made without support.” He shook his head. “And that little bit of wordplay I heard the other day…that was not an allegation made without support, was it?”

  Mark stopped dead and turned to Parret. “Are you trying to blackmail me into giving in to your demands?”

  “No, no!” He paused and rubbed his mustache. “Well, only if it would serve.”

  Mark rolled his eyes. “You may put quotation marks about this, if you choose, and place it in your paper—I would rather sell my soul to the devil than have you make another shilling off my reputation.”

  “The devil can have your soul. I just wish to maximize my income.”

  Mark turned away once more, walking as swiftly as he dared. He could see the churchyard now, and a knot of townspeople collected in front. Maybe if he waved them over, he could…

  He could what?

  Have them toss Parret out on his ear? Lock him up on trumped-up charges? Either option seemed a fine idea. Almost as good as getting his hands on the man, lifting him bodily by the collar…

  Mark shook his head to clear it of the violence of those thoughts. He wasn’t about to lose his temper, his balance. Not to a little puddle of ethics like this man.

  “And if you won’t speak to me,” Parret said, “someone else will. I’d love to write about the woman you spoke with—Mrs. Farleigh, was it? It could be like Lady Eugenia all over again.”

  A swell of ugly emotion bore down on Mark. It slammed across him, knocking him practically breathless. He felt like a chip of wood, riding raging floodwaters. And before he could think better of it, he turned, abruptly, and tripped Nigel Parret. As the tiny man went sprawling, Mark grabbed his arm and wrenched it around. His other hand twisted in the collar of the man’s greatcoat. He picked the man up bodily.

  “Sir Mark!” Parret squeaked, his feet kicking out in midair.

  Mark had a mental image of himself slamming the man repeatedly against the stone wall of the tavern. The thought was almost too satisfying— Parret’s nose bleeding, his hands scraped.

  Mark took two steps toward the nearest house.

  Stop. Stop.

  But he didn’t want to. He fumbled for calm. It felt like floundering. His knuckles scraped against the greasy fabric of the man’s collar.

  Mark turned to the side and lifted the man skyward. Parret gave a little shriek, one that was all too pleasing to some corner of Mark’s vengeful soul. His feet kicked out. And then Mark let go.

  The resulting splash sent a shower of droplets into the air, misting Mark’s face.

  In the murky water of the horse trough, Parret sputtered and wiped his face. A horse, tied to a ring nearby, let out a great sighing bluster, as if to say, Oh, please. Not in my water.

  “You’re wrong,” Mark said. “I can stop you.”

  But there was no sense of righteous victory in these words. Instead, he felt a sick, hollow regret. He’d lost his temper. Again.

  That vision—of his slamming Parret’s limp body against the stone wall of the public house—lingered still, an uninvited, unsavory guest. Mark could almost feel the reverberations in his arms, as if the ghost of his awful want had taken up residence.

  Parret stared up at him, speechless for once.

  It wasn’t the first time Mark had crossed the line between that red, hazy want and violence. It wasn’t the first time he’d regretted it, either.

  Mark sighed and shook his head. “Understand, Parret. You are not going to have an exclusive interview with me. Not in reality, nor will you print one in the public imaginings you call articles.”

  “But—”

  “No.”

  “But—”

  “Certainly not.” Mark set his hands on his hips.

  “But—”

  “And not that.”

  “Sir Mark,” Parret pleaded. “I have a daughter. I—I have cultivated your reputation, as carefully as any steward. Have I ever printed anything maligning you? I’ve made my reputation—my career—o
n telling the truth about you. Should we not work together on this?”

  The crowd of women was beginning to drift from the churchyard. No doubt they were intent on finding out why Sir Mark had just dumped a man in the horse trough.

  “I know what it is,” Parret said, a sudden note of jealousy infecting his voice. “You have had a better offer from someone else, no matter what…what I said. That other reporter has offered you a cut. What was it? Ten percent? Fifteen percent?” He dropped his voice. “I can better it. I will. I promise.”

  “I’m not interested in your promises.” Mark could not make himself focus on any of the people who were coming this way. None of them, that was, except one. Jessica. Mrs. Farleigh was there. She was not a calming influence; she never had been. But his attention focused on her.

  “You think you’re more powerful than me,” Parret spat. “That your run of popularity is your own doing. I made you, Sir Mark. I could break you, if I chose. You owe me your success.”

  Mark shook his head and turned away. “I don’t owe you a thing,” he said. “And I’m only going to warn you once. Get out of here. Leave town.”

  Parret scrambled out of the slick trough, doing his best to invest the clumsy exit with a sullen dignity. “Someday,” he said formally, “you will regret this.”

  “Interview me in London,” Mark said with a wave of his hand, “and I’ll tell you precisely how much I regret it.”

  JESSICA HAD WANTED to see Sir Mark again but not now. Not like this. Not with the letter from her solicitor folded in her skirt pocket, with its precise measurement of her freedom—or lack thereof.

  Over the past few weeks in this small town, she’d found some sense of peace. She had begun to reclaim herself. But the first paper from her solicitor laid out her debts—too many—and her assets—too few. Rent on a flat in London, the amounts she’d spent here… In three weeks’ time, when the quarterly bills came due, she’d find herself at the end of her savings.

  The other paper, enclosed by her solicitor, had come from Weston.

  Sir Mark’s decision is expected in the next few weeks, the man had written. Seduction is of no use to me if it comes too late. Finish it now.

  Weston had not said “or else.” He’d not needed to. Without his promised money, she would have no way to survive except to find another protector.

  And even that would only stave off the darkness for a little while. Once that man left her, she’d need another, and another, and another. Each time, she’d lose a little corner of herself. She had to do this. She hated to do this, to Sir Mark least of all. She liked him. But he looked up, away from—was that Mr. Parret he’d tossed in the water trough? Yes. Good. He saw her. His gaze fixed on her, and he strode forward until he stood before her.

  “Sir Mark,” said a woman next to her. “Did my son James invite you to our shooting competition next week? I know that—”

  Mark didn’t even look at Mrs. Tolliver. “He did,” he replied shortly.

  “And will you be there?”

  “As I told your son, I’ll be there so long as Mrs. Farleigh is invited, as well.”

  Jessica’s breath sucked in.

  “She…she was invited.” Mrs. Tolliver didn’t look in Jessica’s direction. “And…and she’s very welcome indeed. But can we be of help?”

  Whatever emotion had prompted Sir Mark to dunk a man in water, it had left him angry. “In fact,” Sir Mark continued, “I had promised to see Mrs. Farleigh home earlier and never did make good on that promise.”

  She didn’t want to like him more, didn’t want to bring him that much closer to his downfall. She didn’t want to think of George Weston, waiting for the lascivious details he expected her to divulge. “I don’t need—”

  He glanced at her. “I know you don’t need the accompaniment. But I do.”

  He was going to create a scandal, speaking to her like that. Scandal was precisely what she was supposed to want him to cause. The women watched him turn and leave, and Jessica gave them one last unapologetic shrug before hurrying after his retreating form.

  “What are you doing?” she demanded. “Do you have any idea how…how much those women are going to talk?”

  “Let them.” His shoulders were taut. “What are they going to do? Talk to Parret?”

  Sir Mark made no attempt to moderate his steps to match hers, and Jessica found herself half running to keep up with his long stride. In the hot sun, she was overheated within several streets. Still, he kept the pace through the heart of town, past the point where the paving stones gave way to dust. Sir Mark stared fixedly at the horizon as he walked. It wasn’t until five minutes had passed that he addressed her again.

  “I was rather too unfair. I’m not much company right now.” Droplets from the horse trough had splashed him all over; the darker spots that the water had left across his coat had almost faded.

  Jessica didn’t say anything.

  “In truth,” he said, “I’m in a bit of a temper.”

  “I could never have guessed.”

  He did look at her then—a slow, sidelong glance. His eyes fairly snapped with intensity. And her insides sparked with the fierceness of his gaze.

  “You’re formidable when you’re angry,” she said. He jerked his head toward the front once more, and she breathed again.

  Formidable didn’t quite cover it. She couldn’t imagine crossing him in this mood. She wouldn’t have known how to seduce him from it. There was something about the way he walked, the way he held himself—he seemed larger and more lethal than he usually did. As if his anger had stripped away some civilizing influence and left this version of him: less voluble and more vicious.

  She should have been wary.

  “I don’t trust myself when I’m angry,” he said, as if hearing her thoughts.

  “Well,” Jessica said slowly, “I do. So that’s all right then.”

  “Hardly reassuring. You’ve no familiarity with my temper.” Little clouds of dust rose up from the ground with his every footfall. He walked so quickly, he could have kept time with the beat of her own heart.

  “I try not to lose my temper,” he said gravely, “because it is so very, very bad when I do. Even today, I nearly slammed that unfortunate scribbler into a wall. I only recalled myself at the last moment.”

  “Consider me shocked.”

  “I like balance,” he said. “I like quiet. I like calm.”

  “You must hate me, then.”

  “Hardly.” Sir Mark snorted. “When I was younger, I…I picked a fight with a distant cousin, Edmund Dalrymple. He’d been making some remarks about me, about my mother. I broke his arm in two places. The incident precipitated a rift between our two families. It took years to heal, simply because I couldn’t keep hold of my temper.”

  “I’m stunned,” Jessica returned. “Boys, fighting? How outrageous. How abnormal.”

  “Actually,” he said, “it was. Now my brother’s married to his sister—and doesn’t that make for the cheeriest of gatherings? Edmund and I still have not had a cordial conversation. By now, I suppose it will never happen.” Mark trailed off. “It’s more complicated than that. My elder brother, Smite, was once friends with Edmund’s elder brother, Richard. But after we fought, they argued. Now Richard won’t come to Parford Manor if Smite is there, and the same holds true in reverse. So, yes. I don’t trust my temper. When I truly lose it…”

  “Smite,” Jessica said. “Your brother’s name is Smite?”

  He let out a great sigh. “You see what happens when I’m in a temper? I can’t keep my mouth shut. He’ll hate that I mentioned that. These days, I’m Sir Mark, and Ash, of course, is Parford. Smite goes by Turner—just Turner. He hates his name, for reasons I am sure you can imagine.”

  “Your eldest brother is named Ash? That’s an…odd name. How did your brothers come to be named Ash and Smite, and you were lucky enough to be called Mark?”

  The ruddy flush of his co
mplexion had faded. Now he blushed—ever so faintly, back to his quiet, slighter self. “Listen here, Mrs. Farleigh. This conversation is going rather far afield. And I’ve just talked to a newspaper reporter, who reminds me that every one of these details would be worth a fortune to the right man.”

  “And yet I am the soul of discretion.”

  He cast her an unreadable look. “My brothers and I all have Bible verses for names. Mark, Ash—those are just shorter versions of our real names.”

  “What is your name, then?”

  “Soul of discretion or no, I’m not stupid enough to tell you that.” He looked up at her again. “It’s not the sort of thing one discloses to a woman when one is trying to impress her.”