Hunter Of My Heart. Janet Kendall

wouldn’t learn a thing. She had been born in Paris, and her mother had birthed the twins aboard ship and no records existed. When they arrived in London, Marga had lied to the minister at Wesley’s chapel. He entered her aunt’s name as the twins’ mother in his records. Sabrina had hidden the evidence of Alec’s heritage in a place no one would think to look. When her grandfather died, then she could take steps to help Alec claim his birthright.

      Protect the twins.

      “Depends what you ask.”

      Chapter Two

      

      

      Hunter regarded Miss Beaumont’s pale blue gaze, a fiery one that swept his face and stabbed his uncertainty. Innocent? Actress? He didn’t know, but her desperate and sincere tone gnawed at his conscience.

      As thunder clapped, something nudged his leg. Startled, he looked down and suppressed a grin as the filly licked the end of his crop. “Still hungry? Go back to the stall. Your mother will get anxious if she can’t see you.”

      “See to your animal, milord. Surely your questions can wait.”

      Her soft voice caused him to glance up. Miss Beaumont’s piercing eyes had melted to a different emotion. Sadness? Panic? Damn his conscience. Quickly reaching for the filly, he guided her to the mare, now shifting with unease. With a few strokes, he calmed her, wishing something could settle him as readily.

      Had his father found a way to leave Australia? Who else could or would impersonate Hunter? Had he coerced her into this scheme? Despite the cold panic knotting his gut, caution warned him not to speak of his father. Discussing him might lead to questions he must avoid, for in the legal world, he had committed a crime against the blackguard. Hunter had taken justice in his own hands. What could he do now? Leaning, he secured the stall’s rope closure.

      “Ma chérie! The fool raced by me!”

      Hunter whipped his head toward the stable door and quickly joined his guests. The intruder, a comely woman, curtsied. Water rolled off her hat brim and onto his boots as Miss Beaumont introduced them. “Oh, not an accomplice?”

      Frowning, the newcomer fumbled through her valise as water dripped off the tip of her nose. “Monseigneur? What are you saying? Accomplice? Mon Dieu. Where is my handkerchief?”

      Hunter reached into his frock coat pocket and offered his. “May I save you the trouble?”

      “Thank you, sir, but I’ll give her mine. You might accuse us of stealing if we forget to return it.”

      Shrugging, he tucked the cloth into his pocket. “A handkerchief hardly compares with six thousand pounds.”

      Rolling her eyes, Miss Beaumont unbuckled her bag and snapped it open. “Marga, what happened? Please don’t tell me the mail coach left. Didn’t you wave?”

      “Of course! I stood near the trees to stay drier. The idiot had his head burrowed into his collar like a turtle and never saw me. We’re stranded!”

      As Miss Beaumont searched her bag, a gardenia scent drew his gaze downward. He caught a glimpse of a pistol. His pulse beat out of time. Had she come with dark intent?

      Only one person harbored enough contempt to wish him dead. What if the debt was just a prelude of blackmail to come? Would Miss Beaumont use the gun as inducement? He watched her hands, but now she held a garment that might be a pair of drawers.

      Although his concern that Randall might harm another innocent person continued to grow, the gun heightened his uncertainty and curiosity about Miss Beaumont. Why would she carry a pistol? Did someone threaten her? Who sent her? Who was she?

      Rain pelted the slate roof and water gushed down the interior pipes into the horse troughs. Should he offer them shelter? As fast as the thought came, the words flowed. “You’ve missed the coach. Consider staying here.”

      Briefly, Kenilworth wondered if, during the night, he would find himself facing a pistol. But his worry that they might be his father’s victims concerned him much more.

      “No, thank you, milord. We’ll walk.” She pressed a handkerchief into her aunt’s hand.

      As Madame Beaumont dabbed her face, she turned to her niece. “Walk to Edinburgh? We will drown!”

      “His lordship refuses to pay us. I’ll not spend one night with that—” Miss Beaumont threw him a glacial look “—tyrant.”

      His goading and authoritarian manner had not affected her in the least, yet to show a softer side would be disastrous. If he didn’t stay alert, her beseeching eyes could weaken his resolve. He whacked his thigh with the crop. “That’s nothing compared to what I can be if you’re lying.”

      Madame Beaumont dried her brow then looked up at him with narrowed eyes. “Mon Dieu! Look at her young and honest face!” Cupping her niece’s chin, she turned it side to side.

      “His imagination blinds him to all else. Isn’t that so, sir?” Miss Beaumont smiled thinly.

      He arched an eyebrow. True, she possessed an innocent’s look, too young to let life harden her incredibly beautiful eyes, or etch lines on her porcelain skin. Her plaited mink-colored hair only added to her aura of youth. He had, however, learned to look past a lady’s appearance. Her connections and mind interested him more.

      “First, I need to confirm your story and identity. Are you acquainted with a person who might do so? Someone of repute?”

      Miss Beaumont chewed her plump bottom lip until she worked it to a rosy hue. For some reason, the chaste act seemed like something a child would do and stirred his watchful nature more.

      Finally she looked up with her white teeth still gripping her lip. “Geoffrey Norton. He’s our solicitor.”

      “Stay. I’ll send a message by ship to my man of business. With good wind, I might have an answer in a few days.”

      “So you really plan to be judge and jury, milord? We decline your offer. I’ve no wish to visit with the executioner too.”

      He narrowed his gaze. “The truth decides your fate.”

      “I think monseigneur is very generous, ma chérie. We will accept his offer.”

      Her pale blue eyes grew round. “Aunt Marga! An investigation might take longer. Investigation! We can’t afford—”

      Madame Beaumont shook her head, and a look passed between the ladies that Hunter couldn’t decipher. “Monseigneur might use the time to reconsider. Especially when Geoffrey proves our story.”

      Desperation flashed in her eyes, but she raised her chin a notch. “Considering my aunt’s condition, I might agree... if you promise to pay us before we leave.”

      “No assurances, Miss Beaumont. Confirming your story and identity is a beginning. Questions regarding the debt require a deeper investigation. Your aunt’s right. I’m being generous. You could spend the night in prison.”

      Her mouth opened and snapped shut. “I’ve no words to express your hospitality.”

      He threaded his crop through his fingers. “Scots are famous for it. You’re staying?”

      She glanced at his hands then looked up. Her dainty nostrils flared. “Only because of my aunt.”

      “Wise choice.”

      A short time later, his housekeeper ushered the ladies up the servant’s staircase. With his mysterious guests comfortable, he marched down the hall, which looked ghostly due to the sheets covering the furnishings. Miss Beaumont’s untimely demand irritated him anew and he yanked the covering off a Queen Anne side table. He threw the sheet onto another macabre heap.

      As he entered his study, the air still smelled musty, but at least the housekeeper had cleaned this room before his arrival. His oak desk and worktables gleamed