Surrender to Me (The Derrings #4)(16)

“It’s been in my family for generations. Take it home with you as proof of my death. Once I’m declared dead, you are free.”

Free.

Free of the constant strain of trying to keep the Derring holdings afloat—the derelict countryseat, the cavernous townhouse in Mayfair.

She could walk away from it all, wash her hands of it—of him—and let some distant cousin claim the Derring’s endless yawning maw of debt. She would be free.

For a few moments, she continued to weave the fantasy in her head, imagining herself retiring to some country cottage. Perhaps giving music lessons or providing some other genteel service in which to support herself.

A cozy home of her own. Occasional visits with Jane and Lucy. She wouldn’t need much. Privacy and solitude…and ample food. She could raise a pig or two. Ham. Bacon. Kippers whenever she wanted. The gnawing ache in her stomach intensified and she quickly released the fantasy. For it was no more than that. A fantasy. An illusion. She would still be wed. Would still possess a rascal of a husband leading a secret life somewhere far away.

Walking stiffly to the dresser, she set the ring down with a clink that resounded in the room. “I don’t think so. I cannot live the rest of my life under such a lie.” I live under dark enough clouds as it is. “And I don’t see how you can either. Bertram, someone alerted me to the fact that you were here pretending to be this Sir Powell. You can’t think to get away with such a foul deed. I’m not the only one—”

“Who?” he demanded, scowling. “What busybody came prattling to you?”

Astrid shook her head. “I don’t know. I received an anonymous letter.”

“Then I doubt anything will come of it.” He shook his head stubbornly, blue eyes hard and defiant. Desperate. “If this individual wanted to cause trouble for me, they already would have done so.”

“They did,” Astrid reminded, pressing a hand to her chest. “I am here.”

Mirth entered his eyes. “You’re hardly the trouble I mean, Astrid. I’m referring to people that actually might do something to see the Duke of Derring hang for forging bank notes. You may never have held any particular affection for me, but I don’t think you wish me dead. You’re softer than you let on.”

She shook her head firmly. “I won’t let you do this.” Not again. Not to another woman. If she only did one decent thing in her life, it would be saving an innocent female from Bertram. Astrid swallowed and lifted her chin. “Don’t force my hand on the matter, Bertram. You cannot succeed in impersonating this Powell fellow.”

“Yes. I can.”

The hairs on her neck tingled at the absolute certainty in which he spoke.

“Sir Powell is dead,” Bertram continued in a chillingly even voice.

“How do you know this?”

“I know. Trust me. The man is dead. And no one knows. No one has seen him in years. Of this, I am certain.”

She edged back a step, not liking his cool, calculated expression…or the dark weight of suspicion that settled in her stomach.

A knock sounded at the door just then, so sharp and firm it sent a jolt through her, shaking her from her unsettling fears.

Bertram lurched to his feet, color bleeding from his face. His eyes dilated, the dark centers nearly blacking out the blue as he looked wildly about the room. Motioning for her to remain silent, he indicated she should hide beneath the bed.

“What?” she hissed, shaking her head.

His fingers closed around her arm in a fierce vise, his hushed voice desperate in a way that made her heart race harder. “Only for a moment, Astrid. I’ll get rid of whomever it is and we can discuss this further.” His eyes drilled into her. “I vow we will reach an agreement on the matter that you will find satisfactory.”

Astrid hesitated, doubting that he would bend enough to grant her the outcome she sought. Still, she relented with a brisk nod and eased herself under the bed.

Who else could be calling on Bertram at this late hour? A chill feathered her skin at the prospect of coming face-to-face with his fiancée. The unfortunate female likely believed herself in love with the wretch. True, Astrid intended to stop their farcical wedding from ever occurring, but there were better ways to end the relationship than breaking some woman’s heart with the appalling truth—with the direct evidence of Bertram’s forgotten wife.

Under the bed, she tried not to think about creatures of an eight-legged variety that might be occupying the same space. Listening closely, she took shallow sips of air, not breathing too deeply of the dust and cobwebs surrounding her.

“Good evening,” she heard Bertram say, his voice overly cheerful. She winced, hoping only she detected the edge of nervousness to his crisp accents. “This is an unexpected pleasure. Come in, come in.”

“Hope you don’t mind,” a man’s voice, thick with a Scottish burr replied. “I noticed your light.”

“Not at all, not at all,” Bertram replied, his voice effusive, and Astrid couldn’t help wondering if he intended to repeat everything he said.

As they chatted, she fought to hold back a sneeze. Terribly sensitive to dust, she pinched her nose while her gaze followed a pair of dark booted feet. They circled Bertram, each footfall a heavy thud that vibrated against the floorboards.

At the stranger’s next words, her blood turned to ice.