Unclaimed (Turner #2)(35)

“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—on 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.