“To ask for your daughter’s hand in marriage?”
Hm. Was it? The Cordell lad expressed interest in marriage now, too, and had agreed to a marriage without a proposal even, on the small stipulation he meet Willow and find her unobjectionable. But who wouldn’t? She was a duke’s daughter. Even the man who’d jilted her now ran back to her. In the end, the traditional importance of titles and family would always win out over this newfangled folly called love.
Valingford weighed the two men against one another. It felt like power. Moments ago, his choices had been culled to one. Now, another door opened. Lord Rigsby or Lord Cordell?
Having the Blake chit murdered had been an excellent plan indeed, with unforeseen benefits.
And the fact she’d been killed by a stray bullet at a duel—it absolved him of all guilt. Not that he felt any.
“An interesting proposition, Lord Rigsby,” Valingford said. “But another man shows interest now. Lord Cordell. What can you offer that he cannot?” Yes, Valingford’s financial woes could be solved with this one question, this one checkmate move of killing the queen and pitting two knights against one another.
“I can’t believe it,” a voice sneered through the darkness. “My sister lies dead not ten feet away and you’re plotting to marry the duke’s daughter? I was right, Gray, you are not fit to be food for worms.”
“Mr. Blake,” Lord Rigsby said calmly, “life goes on, even after tragic death.”
Mr. Blake swung a fist at Lord Rigsby, who ducked quickly enough.
The other mourners—Valingford’s duchess, the Duke of Devonmere, Lord and Lady Bennington—trotted across the room.
Lord Bennington’s hands fisted as he approached. “What’s going on here? This is a place of mourning!”
“What’s going on here is a farce,” Valingford announced. Best to take control of the absurd situation before it deteriorated further. He gestured to Mr. Blake. “This young man has accosted Lord Rigsby for doing nothing more than securing his future and the future of his descendants, the future of, in fact, this great nation.”
“What the hell are you going on about, Valingford?” the old earl demanded.
“You will not address me so informally.”
“I’ll call you what I like.”
The absurdity, the disrespect, stopped now. “You think because you have money, you have power—”
“Duke.” His wife’s timid voice slid through the gloomy darkness.
He ignored it. “You do not. Power comes from knowing what you can do and doing it, not being afraid to take what is yours. Who my daughter marries—that choice—is mine and mine alone. Whom he marries”—he pointed at Lord Rigsby—“that choice is his. It’s a power he takes for himself. It is his birthright.”
“Duke, dear.”
He ignored his wife. “Only a truly strong man can put aside the frail emotions of others to do what is best for himself.”
“Christopher.” His wife’s voice rose at the use of his Christian name. High pitched. Scared?
“What?” He’d raised his voice, spittle collecting in one corner of his mouth. He’d not be undignified and wipe it away.
His wife pointed at the coffin, at what was moving within it, rising from it, shirking the velvet shroud and climbing out of it.
The duchess screamed.
A shiver ran down his spine. Of annoyance, not fear. They’d lied, all of them. This was a ruse. The girl was not dead. But why?
She was a pretty chit, but the smirk in her eyes and on her lips ruined whatever beauty she possessed. A girl with a brain. He hated those.
“You are everything I’ve ever been scared of,” she said, sliding through the darkness toward him.
Another shiver raced through him. No wonder. The way she glided like a ghost, the vengeance in her voice. A worthy adversary.
She stopped right in front of him and raised a pointed chin, meeting his gaze directly. “You are certain of your superiority, aren’t you? But your position in society is nothing but a chance of birth. You don’t deserve it. You would ground those you think beneath you with the heel of your boot without a moment’s hesitation. You tried to ground me down, but only when your secrets were at risk. Your only hesitation, likely, my grandfather’s status as a peer.”
“You’re dead!” the duchess cried, trembling. “You’re dead!”
