Read Online Dedicated Villain by Patricia Veryan - Free Book Online Page B

“I’ll accept that, and apologize for my doubts. I’ve never known my girl to lie to me, but—a young fellow with your looks and address … Still, Ishould’ve— Aye, you may grin, but only wait till
you
become a father! Gad, what a responsibility!”
    â€œA responsibility I’ve no least desire to take on, thank you, sir! But I can sympathize. To be left alone with children to be reared must be something of a task.”
    â€œAh. There you have come at the very hub of the wheel! I engaged governesses, of course, and I’ll own my boy …” the light died from Bradford’s face “was no trouble. But—Fiona …” He shrugged. “I’ve tried. I
meant
her to be properly instructed and chaperoned. But—I have suffered setbacks, Mr. Mathieson. Many cruel buffets of Fate, climaxed by a great financial—disaster’s the only word.”
    â€˜The tables, or the ponies?’ wondered Mathieson, cynically.
    Bradford sighed. “Lost everything. So ’tis we are reduced to these revolting vehicles. A nomadic life. And now I go to appeal for help from my childhood bosom bow.”
    â€œMr. Torrey’s uncle?”
    â€œWhat? Oh—yes! That’s true. The boy’s sadly smitten, as you saw. And there’s no doubting we are indebted to him already.” He drove a fist into his palm, his head bowing. “If you
knew
how it grieves me that my sweet child should be reduced to the humiliation of living in a caravan!”
    â€œShe don’t seem crushed to me, sir.”
    The dark head lifted. Bradford said proudly, “’Twould take more than the loss of our estates to crush my Fiona! She may grieve what we’ve lost, but she’d die sooner than let me see it! That’s what makes it so—so
damnably
hard, d’you see? She has such complete trust—such courage. Why, bless her brave heart, she’s never uttered one word of reproach, never blamed me. The dear little soul is as full of confidence in me as if I were—ten times the man I am! And I’ll tell you, Mathieson, a girl like that can
make
a man ten times himself!” He sighed wistfully. “But—never fear. I’d be granting you the greatest possible gift, but I’ll not demand you make an honest woman of her!”
    â€˜Hmmnn,’ thought Roland Fairleigh Mathieson, chilled.

    He was unarmed, alone, and desperate. He ran frantically, although his right foot dragged a heavy ball and chain. Behind him pounded Bradford and Torrey armed with great gleaming war axes. And in every pew of the great cathedral, ladies he had loved, men he had fought, and countless outraged mamas, howled encouragement—to his pursuers.
    â€œSt. Thomas!” he pleaded sobbingly. “Help!” But from high in the shadowed buttresses came a faint response, “Gone fishing …”
    He could see the altar now, the archbishop standing before it. A man of no great stature, with hands clasped, mouth droopingly contemptuous, and a great dog lying beside him, its head resting on one of his high-heeled shoes. “Muffin,” he groaned. “Help me!”
    The Duke of Marbury shook his stately head. “We do not help those who are beneath contempt!”
    Fiona Bradford walked slowly from the choir stalls and stood beside the ducal archbishop. She wore a glorious gown of white lace and satin, but her face was all mud.
    And he was doomed, for Bradford and Torrey had gripped him by the arms now and were dragging him forward.
    â€œNo!” he screamed.
    â€œWrong answer!” snarled Torrey, and raised his weapon until the razor-sharp blade of that great axe bit into the captive’s throat.
    The duke looked put out. “You must say—‘I do,’” he chided.
    â€œI won’t,” Mathieson cried defiantly. “Kill me, but I—”
    Another lady drifted into view. A dainty lady of peerless beauty