Sweet Surrender (5 page)

They stared and stared, but Duncan had always been a cool customer, which was why he was such a good gambler.  Nothing rattled him, and though Jackson could intimidate even the most obstinate person, his glower had no effect on Duncan.

They were too well acquainted, had brawled extensively as children, and neither of them was afraid of the other.

Jackson relented first.  "You don’t
think
she’s lying?  Or you
know
she’s not lying?"

"I know she’s not lying," Duncan softly muttered.  "Dammit!  I can’t believe this!" 

There was a decanter of liquor on the table next to him, and he picked it up and hurled it at the fireplace.  It smashed into a dozen pieces, large shards flying across the floor and embedding in the priceless rug.

"Do you feel better now?" Jackson caustically asked.

"No, actually, I don’t."  He went to the window and gazed out to the road again.  He was miserable, lost in thought. 

Jackson let him fume and worry. 

When he turned, he said, "It was a joke.  It was a…"  He flung up his hands, unable to find the proper words.  "No, it wasn’t a joke, but it was stupid and reckless, and he proceeded anyway.  I couldn’t stop him."

"Couldn’t stop him from what?" Jackson furiously inquired.

"He met a pretty girl, fell in love, and married her."

"Don’t jest about this."

"I’m not, and it appears they had a child."

"Shut up," Jackson said. 

"Did you talk to the boy?"

"The boy was…here?"

"Yes, and he’s the spitting image of Edward.  Anyone who sees him will realize the truth.  It will be impossible to hide it."

"What would I
hide
?  She’s an imposter, spreading vicious rumors."

"No, she’s not, and the boy is bold as brass.  He walked right up to me and announced that Edward is his father.  They’re on their way to the village, and once they arrive, they will—"

"What’s his name?" Jackson cut in, weary of Duncan’s theatrics.

"Michael Scott."

Jackson gasped.  "He’s taken our last name?"

"His parents were married!" Duncan spat as if Jackson was a dunce.  "Of course, he’s taken your last name.  Why wouldn’t he?"

"You’re claiming Edward wed this woman?"

"I’m not
claiming. 
I’m flat-out telling you what happened.  His wedding to Georgina was probably six months before his wedding to Susan."

"When he married Susan, he was already married?  Michael was born first—before Percival?"

"Most likely, yes.  I was so stunned that I didn’t ask his date of birth."

"You’re the only one who ever knew.  Is that what you’re saying?"

"Except for Grace Bennett.  She wasn’t aware of Edward’s true identity, but she knew about the marriage."

"Edward lied in order to induce a common girl to wed him?"

"There was nothing
common
about her."

"Oh. I’m sure there wasn’t," Jackson scoffed.  "With his society wedding to Susan quickly approaching, Edward totted off and wed the girl of his dreams?"

"Yes."

"Seriously?  Perfect, honorable, dependable Edward behaved that way?"

"He pretended to be a businessman who traveled frequently."

"How did he explain his marriage to Susan?  Georgina couldn’t have been too happy about it."

"He didn’t explain—he was too much of a coward—but guilt ate him alive."

"Guilt, really."

"He had me send her a letter, informing her that he…he died in an accident."

"An accident?"

"He had me embellish a bit so she wouldn’t expect to visit his grave—or your mother."

"Embellish?"

"I told her he’d been buried in France…and that Beatrice…well…"

"My brother did that to a woman he supposedly loved?"

"He wasn’t a total ass.  He provided for her.  She had a house and a stipend."

"How magnanimous of you both."

"You don’t know how it was," Duncan mumbled. 

"Obviously."

"Edward was distressed over you and Susan and your mother, and he couldn’t figure out how to…to…"

Jackson’s scowl ended the pathetic sentence.  He glared, a muscle ticking in his cheek. 

When he’d fled England a decade earlier, he’d left because of Edward and Susan and their pending nuptials. 

With the ardor only an immature swain can muster, he’d loved Susan for years, and he’d believed she loved him in return.  They had often talked of marriage until Beatrice had decided Susan would be the ideal bride for Edward instead.

The moment Susan learned she could wed an earl—rather than the brother of an earl—she immediately noted that Edward would make a fine husband. 

Jackson had pleaded with the three of them, had begged and debased himself in his attempts to stop the match.  He’d been particularly strident in imploring Edward.

Don’t do this to me,
he’d beseeched. 
Please don’t hurt me this way.

But their mother was like a force of nature, like a hurricane with winds that couldn’t be resisted.  Edward had been kind and easy-going, and he’d hated discord.  He never could stand up to Beatrice, not as a beleaguered boy, then a beleaguered man. 

He’d accepted her decree with the same resignation he’d accepted every other of her dictates, but Jackson had continued to fight her.  So she’d cut off his funds, hoping a dose of poverty would bend him to her will, but she was a fool.  She’d never been able to manipulate him, which was the reason they’d always battled so fiercely.

The night before Edward’s wedding to Susan, Jackson had left England on a freighter, had worked to pay his fare to the Mediterranean, arriving in Alexandria without a penny in his pocket.  Yet he’d thrived there, being completely determined to succeed despite how his heart had been broken, despite how he’d been betrayed.

He’d never corresponded with any of them again, although British acquaintances occasionally mentioned that Edward was trying to locate him, to arrange a reconciliation.  Jackson had ignored all overtures and had received no pertinent news until a letter had notified him of Edward’s death and that Jackson was needed at home to oversee Percival and the estate.

Curiosity had brought him back—as well as his enormous pride and conceit.  He’d wanted Susan and Beatrice to realize how he’d flourished.  And as the oldest male in the family, he now held the purse strings so he held all the power.  At least until Percival grew up and Jackson’s guardianship was over.

Beatrice and Susan were at his mercy, were relegated to subservient roles and could only engage in an expenditure if he allowed it.  They’d be fretting over their fates, stewing and pondering his attitude and willingness to be generous. 

He’d been in England for weeks, having come straight to Milton Abbey without calling on them in London.  They’d be in a dither, terrified over his lack of deference and what it might indicate.

He enjoyed having them anxious and off-balance, but he really had no designs on either of them.  He didn’t care how they conducted themselves—so long as they didn’t pilfer Percival’s fortune.  Jackson planned to hire stringent fiscal managers, choose that boarding school for Percival, then leave for Egypt.  He had a full and fulfilling life there, and he was eager to return to it. 

But if Duncan’s story was true, if Grace Bennett wasn’t a liar, if Michael Scott was Edward’s first-born son and Jackson’s nephew, Jackson would be trapped in England for ages.

He saw months—nay, years!—of legal wrangling and conflict.  Susan would never blithely submit to the notion that her marriage to Edward was invalid, that Percival wasn’t the earl.  Beatrice would never admit that Edward had defied her by marrying a commoner. 

Jackson would be stuck in the middle, forced to fix the mess Edward had made.  By the time he was back in Alexandria, he’d probably be a hundred years old.

Just then, if Grace Bennett had been standing in front of him, he’d have wrapped his fingers around her slender throat and throttled her for causing so much trouble.

He stood and approached Duncan again.  They were the same height, but Jackson was more brawny, tougher, stronger.

"I’m going to find your Miss Bennett," he said.

"She’s not
my
Miss Bennett."

"You lucky dog; you get to claim her."

"I don’t want anything to do with this—or with her."

"Too late.  You’re at the center of the entire debacle."

"I kept Edward’s secret.  Don’t I get credit for being a loyal friend?"

"No."  Jackson snorted with disgust.  "I have to stop Miss Bennett before she reaches the village.  I’ll bring her to the Abbey so she can’t spread any of her malicious mischief."

"It won’t help.  People will take one look at that boy and will instantly—"

"Shut
up,
Duncan!"

"Yes, I suppose I should."

"Since Edward is no longer with us, I hold you fully responsible."

"Me!  How is this my fault?"

"You told me your version of events."

"It’s the truth!"

"Exactly, and I’m thinking of killing the messenger."

He whipped away and stormed to the door, bellowing for a servant and waiting an eternity for one to appear. 

He gave hasty instructions to have a horse saddled, to have a carriage prepared, then he went to his dressing room to tug on a shirt and boots.

Within minutes, he was stomping down the stairs, Miss Bennett directly in his sights and on a collision course with his temper.

CHAPTER THREE

Grace heard a horse approaching.  From the sound of the hooves whisking across the gravel of the road, the rider was cantering at a fast clip.  She glanced over her shoulder just as their pursuer came into view.

"Hold it right there, Miss Bennett!" Jackson Scott called.

Michael and Eleanor spun to see who had hailed her.

"Keep going," Grace told them.

"Who is that?" Eleanor asked.

"No one, at all," Grace grumbled.

"Grace!"  Eleanor’s role for the day was that of perpetual scold.  "What is wrong with you?  You’re behaving like a lunatic."

"Keep going!" Grace repeated more sternly, but Mr. Scott was upon them.

He reined in and leapt to the ground with the agility of a circus performer.  Then he stomped over so they were toe to toe.  He jammed his fists on his hips and glared down his imperious nose.

He looked completely different from the lazy hedonist who had so thoroughly offended her.  Now, he was attired as the rich, spoiled gentleman he was:  velvet riding coat, white cravat, tan breeches, black boots.

The blue fabric of the coat set off the blue of his glorious eyes, deepening the hue, making them spark with temper. 

"What do you want?" she sneered.

"I’ve had a chat with Duncan Dane."

"Bully for you."

"I must insist you return with me to the Abbey."

"No."

"I won’t allow you to proceed on to the village."

"You won’t
allow
me?" Grace sputtered with outrage.  She didn’t like to be ordered about.  Especially by an overbearing, pompous lout.  "I am not your sister or your wife or your employee.  You’re in no position to command me, and you are possessed of an enormous amount of gall if you suppose I would heed a single word that spews from your rude, obnoxious mouth."

"Grace!" Eleanor wailed.

"Stay out of this, Eleanor," Grace warned.

"You can’t just…
talk
to him like that."

"Trust me," Grace replied, "he’ll get over it."

As to Mr. Scott, he was totally flummoxed.  Obviously, no one ever spoke to him as she had.  He was rendered speechless, and she used his bewilderment to escape, pushing Eleanor and Michael down the road ahead of her.

"Who is he?" Michael begged to know.  "Is he my uncle?"

He was gaping at Mr. Scott, and Mr. Scott was gaping, too.  Grace grabbed Michael’s arm, attempting to drag him away, but he wouldn’t move.

Mr. Scott marched over and yanked Grace away.  He squatted, his troubled gaze assessing Michael’s attractive face and black hair, the blue, blue eyes that were an exact replica of his own.  He reached out as if he might touch Michael, but at the last instant, he thought better of it and dropped his hand to his side.

"What is your name?" he asked Michael.

"Michael Scott.  And what is yours?" Michael asked in return.

"Jackson."  Undone by the introduction, Mr. Scott had to clear his throat before he could continue.  "Jackson Scott."

"Are you my uncle?  Mr. Porter told us you were, but Grace claimed you weren’t at home when we visited."  Michael frowned up at Grace.  "Why would you lie, Grace?  He must be my uncle, don’t you think?"