Beguiled by a Baron (The Heart of a Duke Book 14)(2)

Her breath caught and she froze, unmoving. “Chaucer,” she breathed. Impossible. Predating the fifteenth century, that great work was a rarity that every last bibliophile would be champing at the bit for.

And my brother wants me to steal it.

Bitterness and hatred turned her blood hot. Bridget shoved to her feet. “I cannot help you in this.” Not even if I wanted to, which she most decidedly did not. “One cannot simply steal a first edition of Chaucer’s work and then sell it without the whole of the world knowing one was complicit in that crime.”

Archibald wagged a finger. “Ah, yes. But, you see, I’ve already found a buyer.” Of course he had. The rotted bastard. The men and women he kept company with were people whose souls would one day make up Satan’s army. “We’ve made arrangements. I acquire the copy and he’ll turn over twenty-five thousand pounds.”

She choked on her swallow. Her brother named a vast sum that could ensure the livelihood and security of an entire family for two generations to come. “You’ll simply squander those monies on whores and your clubs and wicked parties, Archibald.” Bridget gave her head a disgusted shake. “I’ll not steal for you. You’ll do your own theft,” she said, infusing an air of finality to that vow. “I’ve done much for you.” Certainly more than he’d ever done for her. No, Archibald had only ever brought shame, pain, and turmoil. “But I’ll not do this.” She took a step toward the door. “We’re done—”

He jumped up. “What you’ve done for me? The only reason you’ve found work with Lowery—”

“Lowell,” she forced out past her fear. The funds she received from the ancient bookkeeper were what afforded her the money to feed her son and see him cared for. If Archibald yanked that away, with it would go the fragile security Bridget had established for her boy. “His name is Mr. Lowell.”

“Regardless. You have your employment because I secured work for you with those bloody books of his.”

Indignation driving back fury, she went toe-to-toe with him. “Do not pretend you’ve done any of this for me, or…Virgil,” she seethed. “You were always self-serving.” The funds she earned were split half with her wastrel brother, all because he’d found her the post. “You simply used my skills to pay for your gaming and whoring.”

The air slid from her lips on a painful hiss as he shot a hand about her wrist. He crushed the delicate bones in a punishing grip. Tears dotted her vision. “You do not end discussions, Bridget,” he whispered against her right ear. “The only reason you exist in any way is because I allow it,” he threatened, tightening his hold.

She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from crying out, refusing to let him see he hurt her. Not allowing him to know he terrified her still. She knew the evil he was capable of and didn’t doubt he’d choke the life from her without compunction if the mood struck him. But she also knew that to answer him now and cede this point would only empower him.

With a growl, he flung her arm. She resisted the urge to rub the tender flesh and, instead, planted her feet. “Damn it, I need that book, Bridget.”

He asked her to steal and risk her name, reputation, and very life. And then, where would Virgil be? Unbidden, her gaze went to the closed doorway and, for the first time since Archibald had put to her his scheme, dread iced her spine. For this plan moved beyond her and the greedy monster before her. It involved her ten-year-old son, Virgil, who’d find himself motherless if she were caught in a criminal act…against a nobleman. “I have responsibilities here in Kent. I earn coin that you benefit from, I’d remind you.”

“Pfft.” He scoffed. “A damned pittance that won’t solve—”

“—the mess you’ve made of the Hamilton fortunes,” she cut in. And he’d demanded her hard-earned coin countless times or he’d threatened to reveal her identity to the community as no widow, but an unwed whore of seven and twenty as he’d too often called her.

“This will solve all my problems, though,” he said with a pleased smile.

His problems. In short, she’d benefit not at all from the book he expected her to steal. Not that she’d seek or take a pence of stolen coin but, nonetheless, it still spoke to her brother’s self-centeredness. He proceeded to enumerate a tidy list. “I’ll not need to live in hiding anymore,”—she far preferred him slinking in shadows—“I’ll pay off the damned bastards holding my debt. I’ll wed a fat-in-the-pockets heiress who’ll deepen my wealth. It’s really quite brilliant.”

Yes, as far as villainous plans, it rather was. “I won’t,” she said with an air of finality.

He let out a beleaguered sigh. “You’ve always been an obstinate one. Always trying to be proper and well-behaved. As though that would have earned you anyone’s regard or note.” She curled her fingers reflexively into tight balls. “No one will ever notice you. They never did,” he said without inflection.

Bridget brought her shoulders back. “I’d rather be invisible than seen for a blackness in my soul, as you are.”

Archibald lifted one shoulder in a casual shrug. “If I cared about another’s opinion, I’d have been destroyed long ago. You, however, are the one hiding in the countryside, living a pretend life and poring over your,” he nudged his chin at the books scattered upon the table. “Dull books.” He caught his chin between his thumb and forefinger and proceeded to walk about her very much a predator sizing up its prey. “I wonder… hmm.”