Page 4 of Two Secrets to Surrender (Blackwood Legacy #2)

Chapter Three

“ Y ou’re a worthless mongrel. A blight on the bloodline.”

Although the jeering words filled him with rage, there was nothing he could do. Not with his face in the dirt, his tormentor’s boot on the back of his neck. Even if he could get up, he wouldn’t win—not against the three of them, all bigger, stronger, and more powerful than he was.

“Your mother’s a whore. Say it.”

He wouldn’t. Not even if they killed him. The heel of the boot cut into his neck, and he felt wetness trickle, his blood mingling with sandy gravel. The boot’s downward pressure increased, cutting off his air. Gasping, choking, still he said nothing. Suddenly, he was jerked up to his knees. While one bastard held him by the throat, the leader stood before him.

“Nothing to say, rat?” Robert’s gaze blazed with the joy of cruelty. “Kiss the ring, then. Kiss it and say you’re sorry for existing, and I’ll let you go.”

He stared at the ring—the gleaming oval ruby, the scrollwork on the heavy band. It would be easy to give in, but he couldn’t do it. Powerless as he was, he could choose not to yield. The kick to the stomach came without warning. Agony exploded.

“Hold him steady,” Robert said. “The little sissy needs a lesson.”

I will not cry, he told himself. Whatever they do to me, I will not cry.

In the end, he screamed.

Conrad opened his eyes, fully alert, his hands fisted and ready to swing. However, a quick glance revealed that violence was unnecessary: he was alone in his bedchamber. Exhaling a slow breath, he let the shadows fade. He rubbed his hands over his face, relieved that Isobel was not presently beside him. He’d brought her home from the Temple of Flora, and they’d played out one of his fantasies, but the scenario had fallen flat. There’d been nothing nymph-like about Isobel, and she was a shoddy actress. She’d been too lazy to run and too fussy about comfort to enjoy being swived on the carpet.

“ The rug will chafe my knees. Forget the games and fuck me ,” she’d cajoled.

He’d given up and obliged her. She bore no resemblance to his fantasy female anyway, and no amount of chasing her around would change that. Thus, he had plowed her in bed and, after they both spent, rolled to his side of the mattress and fallen asleep.

Sitting up, he ran a hand through his hair and wondered where Isobel had gone. Seeing the closed door of his attached bathing room, he guessed she was inside. His gaze veered to the pile of clothing on the carpet. Noting her garments entwined with his, he sighed. It had been too much to hope that she was getting dressed and ready to leave. The chamber smelled of sex and cloying rose perfume. Isobel had wanted champagne at some point, and the sour note of alcohol added to the pungency. The mix of smells was familiar—what he privately termed Eau de Regret .

Grunting, he flopped back down and draped an arm over his eyes. He cursed himself for giving in to Isobel. Now he had to deal with her in the light of day when she was someone he only got on with in the dark. He’d had a rare moment of weakness last night, and he knew the cause of it: the country maid. Dwelling upon her had stirred his adolescent fantasies…desires he hadn’t felt in a long time. Not since his ill-fated affair with Lady Victoria Jordan five years ago. He knew the folly of his secret longings. Life had taught him repeatedly not to trust a woman’s promises, even—nay, especially —if the woman claimed to love him.

I’ll come back for you, his mother had said. I promise, darling. Your stay at Creavey Hall will be temporary.

Temporary had turned out to be ten years, and he’d never seen her again.

Annoyed at the direction of his thoughts, he turned onto his side. What the bloody hell was wrong with him? He was no maudlin fool, yet that country maid clung to his imagination like the sticky, reddish streamside mud had to his boots (his valet had complained for weeks after). She stirred up stupid, irrational longings. It was her fault that he’d taken Isobel to his bed because he’d wanted, in that moment, to feel less...less alone.

Less like an unwanted beast running around in the dark with a raging cockstand.

Now he would pay for his decision because he was stuck with Isobel. At minimum, courtesy dictated that he should offer her breakfast. Talking to her would be unavoidable, and he’d never enjoyed her conversation, which consisted mostly of gossip. Outside of bed, they had little in common.

No, he didn’t have the patience for her this morning. Then the idea struck him, and he felt instant relief. Yes, jewelry would do the trick. He would say that he had to leave for an early meeting and, in lieu of his company, he would send her to Garrard to pick out a trinket. She would be dashing out the door in no time.

Pleased with his stratagem, he wondered what the hell was taking her so long in the bathing room. He decided to hasten the process and went to rap on the door. When no answer came, he looked inside.

No Isobel.

His nape prickled, and since his instincts rarely steered him wrong, he shoved his feet into slippers, donned a robe, and exited his bedchamber. He descended the mahogany staircase, listening for unusual sounds. He followed them to his study, and his tension grew when he saw that the door was ajar. He pushed it open. Isobel, dressed in one of his dressing gowns, was at his desk, rifling through one of the drawers. She jerked upright as he crossed the navy and gold Kidderminster carpet to face her.

“What the bloody hell are you doing?” he demanded.

“Conrad.” She gave an uneasy laugh. “You startled me.”

“What are you looking for?” he said coldly. “Who paid you to spy on me?”

She regained her composure with an ease that made him revise his earlier assessment of her acting skills.

“I don’t know what you are talking about, darling,” she said coyly. “Since I woke up early, I couldn’t resist giving myself a tour. I didn’t think you would mind. Your home is so grand that I got lost and wandered in here?—”

“And decided to pick the lock to my desk?”

Tossing her hair over her shoulders, she traded her mask of innocence for one of outrage.

“How dare you accuse me of such a thing?”

He’d definitely underestimated her dramatic ability. If only she had applied herself more while playing the role of the nymph.

“I always secure my drawers,” he said evenly. “If I were to search your person, would I find a lock pick?”

Fear flashed in her eyes, but she held onto her bravado.

“You are an unfeeling bastard,” she hissed. “I will not stay and be slandered in such a fashion.”

When she tried to move past him, he blocked her exit.

“You are not leaving until you tell me who hired you to snoop in my affairs.” He took her by the arm. “Was it Trowbridge? Smedley?”

Fellow industrialists Arnold Trowbridge and John Smedley were Conrad’s fiercest competitors, and both had bones to pick with him. Last year, Conrad had outmaneuvered Trowbridge during a deal involving factories in Sheffield. The tidy profit he’d made selling off the works had resulted in the other man barging into his offices, uttering threats. As for Smedley, Conrad had gotten wind that the other had sent spies to infiltrate his business. Conrad had deliberately circulated false information, and when Smedley had acted upon it, he’d lost a fortune. A few weeks later, a blaze had erupted at Conrad’s offices in Manchester, and while he’d lacked concrete proof of Smedley’s involvement, his gut told him the fire had been no accident but an act of retaliation.

“I don’t know those men.” Isobel’s breath hitched. “You…you’re hurting me.”

He realized that he’d tightened his grip on her arm. With an oath, he released her. He did not hurt women, and Isobel was merely doing someone else’s dirty work. Luckily, she’d only gained access to a drawer of his desk. He secured his most important documents in a strongbox hidden in the wall.

“I have a message for whoever you are spying for,” he said.

Her gaze darted, a telltale sign. “I told you I’m not spying?—”

“I will find out who they are. And they will regret it when I do.”

She blanched.

He yanked on the bell. Within moments, his butler Yardley appeared. He’d hired Yardley for two reasons: the fellow’s discretion and the fact that he was built like a brick tower.

Yardley bowed, his thick, brown hair gleaming. “How may I be of assistance, sir?”

“Keep an eye on Mrs. Denton while she collects her things,” Conrad said. “Then escort her out.”

“This way, madam,” Yardley said.

Isobel kept her head held high as the butler marched her out.

When the door closed behind them, Conrad examined his desk. Nothing looked out of place on the organized blotter. The drawer that Isobel had managed to open contained a report he’d asked his chief manager, Lionel Redgrave, to compile on failing works that might be worth investing in. All of it was public information, and even if Isobel managed to recall the dozen-plus businesses and conveyed them to Trowbridge or Smedley, it would not be the end of the world. However, Conrad’s jaw tautened when he saw the file peeping beneath; it was labeled “Chudleigh Bottoms Spa” and contained his research.

Did Isobel see this file? Will she mention my interest in the spa to the bounder who hired her?

Exhaling, Conrad told himself it mattered naught. Even if his competitors learned of his interest in the spa, they would assume it was for business reasons. No one knew about his personal motivations. Not even his solicitor Marvell, who knew more about his past than anyone since he had needed the fellow’s legal expertise on the matter of his birthright. While he had thoroughly vetted Marvell and the others who worked for him, he furnished only the necessary information. As far as he was concerned, less was more when it came to knowledge about his private affairs.

His secrets were his own…until he chose to reveal them.

He went upstairs to get ready for the day. His valet was putting on his cuff links when Yardley informed him that Marvell had arrived.

Finally, some good news.

The solicitor’s early return from Chuddums must mean that he’d negotiated the purchase of the spa. With the business under his control, Conrad could shut it down and seal the fate of Chuddums.

“Tell him I’ll be down shortly. By the by.” Conrad cocked a brow. “Did Mrs. Denton go quietly?”

“I believe she had a few opinions.” Yardley cleared his throat. “About the status of your parentage. Or, ahem, the lack thereof.”

He smiled without humor. “I’ve been called worse. In case I did not make it clear, she is not to be allowed on the premises again.”

“Understood, sir.”

When Conrad strode into his study, Marvell shot up from his seat. Despite being in his fifties, the solicitor had no grey in his short, brown-black hair. He’d always reminded Conrad of a mole with his pale, twitchy nose and habit of squinting through his spectacles. Marvell’s looks belied the fact that he was a top-notch negotiator who had a habit of getting things done. However, he looked more nervous than usual, and Conrad’s mood soured.

“Don’t tell me that Caldecott woman refused to sell?” Conrad demanded.

Marvell scrunched his nose. “I did all that I could, Mr. Godwin. After she rejected the written offer, I personally delivered a higher bid to her. She turned that down, too. When I doubled that offer, she said, and I quote, ‘ I will never sell this spa .’ Rather dramatic, I daresay, but those were her words.”

Bloody hell. If you want a thing done, do it yourself.

“Never say never,” he said.

The solicitor blinked. “But she ejected me from her property and told me not to return?—”

“You are not going to the spa, Marvell,” Conrad said grimly. “I am.”