Bride for a Night(106)

“Then I will say that they have returned and have traveled to my brother’s estate in Scotland to recuperate from their ordeal.”

“And they took Lord Rothwell along as a chaperone?” Jacques scoffed.

Harry hissed with impatience, his face drawn with believable tension. Had Jacques not been so sadly familiar with the selfish cad, he might have been convinced Harry truly cared whether his brother lived or died.

“We can conjure some tale that will satisfy society.”

“I am not willing to risk our profitable arrangement on the hope you can deceive those who are already inclined to distrust you.” His lips twisted into a humorless smile. “And you cannot deny that your position as the Earl of Ashcombe would be worth a great deal more to me than a scapegrace younger son.”

Harry returned to his furied pacing, his jaw clenched and the sweat dripping down his narrow face.

“Dammit, I do not want the title,” he growled.

“Is that a jest?” Jacques demanded, watching the nobleman’s restless motions with a narrowed gaze. “You have spent your entire life consumed with jealousy.”

“I will admit that I have resented being forever found inferior to my perfect brother, but that does not mean I wish to step into his shoes,” Harry muttered. “And I most certainly do not wish to have him murdered.”


Jacques made a sound of disgust. “I could almost believe you if I had not spent hours listening to your drunken boast.”

His accusation brought Harry to an abrupt halt, his expression suddenly wary. And for good reason. Who had not been in Harry’s company and not had to endure his tedious complaints of the injustice of the world in general and his elder brother in particular?

“What drunken boast?”

“That the title of Earl of Ashcombe was wasted on a humorless prig who should have been drowned at birth,” he reminded his companion in sardonic tones. “That you would have been a far superior heir had fate not been so cruel.”

“A man will say anything when he is in his cups,” Harry said with a peevish frown.

“Oui, and almost always it is the truth.”

“No. I do not want this.” Harry tugged at his rumpled cravat, as if it was choking him. “You ask too much.”

“I do not ask, Harry,” Jacques corrected in soft, lethal tones. “I am informing you what is to occur.”

Harry’s throat convulsed as he struggled to swallow his swelling panic.

“You cannot force me to take the title,” he blustered. “If you kill my brother I will refuse to return to England.”

Jacques gave a grunt of disgust. “I notice you do not threaten to expose yourself as a traitor to your country. That, of course, would put any end to my hope of using you as a spy, but then you would have to face the consequences of your sins, would you not?” He watched the fear darken Harry’s eyes, sensing that he had the fool precisely where he desired. “Something you have never been willing to do.”

“Say what you will, I refuse to become the Earl of Ashcombe,” Harry warned, but his swagger had been reduced to a childish whine.

Jacques stepped close enough to grasp the lapels of Harry’s tailored coat, his expression merciless.

“Careful, mon ami, the moment you cease to be of use to me is the moment I lodge a bullet in your heart.” He smiled at the sound of Harry’s tortured struggle to breathe. “And make no mistake the pleasure it will give me to rid the world of your worthless presence.”

The pale eyes glittered with hatred. “Damn you.”