Her entire being wrenched with horror. "You are threatening to kill my husband, the heir to the Duke of Pembroke, or members of that esteemed family? I shall report you to the magistrate this very instant."

"That would be pointless," he said, unruffled. "I'd only deny it, and a day or two later, evidence of your father's ghastly crime would appear on that same magistrate's desk. Then the esteemed Pembroke family would not be quite so well regarded, because of their connection to you."

She shook her head. "There was no crime. There could not have been."

She wished her father had answered her letter.

Rushton handed her a note with the Creighton family crest printed at the top. It was the stationery from her father's desk, dated five years earlier. Written upon it was a note to a jeweler, asking about repairs to a bracelet. It was signed: Miss Serena Fullarton…

"What is this?"

"It identifies the victim," he casually said. "Your father gave that bracelet to her, and she is buried with it on his estate. I know exactly where."

Her stomach clenched. "Is this your handwriting?"

She knew it was not her father's…

"No, it is hers."

A sickening lump lodged in her gut as he plucked the note out of her hands and slipped it back into his pocket.

"Accept it, Rebecca. You do not know everything about your father."

She had no answer to that.

"If you want to protect your husband," he said, "leave him. Flee the palace in the night like you did when you left home, and write him a letter explaining that you made a mistake, and that you love me."

"And you think he will just let me go? Has it not occurred to you that I might be carrying his child-the ducal heir?"

Mr. Rushton turned away and started walking toward his coach, parked on the other side of the street. He glanced over his shoulder as he spoke. "For your sake, and for your father's, you better pray that you are not. And if you are, it had better be a girl. But do not worry. There will be other heirs in your future. I will see to that. Now off you go. You need to go home and pack your things."

He stepped into his coach, and the driver closed the door behind him. As soon as the man climbed up onto the seat, the door opened again, and Mr. Rushton peered out at her.

"By the way," he said, "I liked the hat with the yellow feathers. Purchase it when you go back inside and bring it home with you. I expect to see you wearing it with a smile, at my door, by tomorrow, midnight."

With that, he shut the door, and his shiny black coach rolled away.

Chapter 21

That evening after dinner, Devon made his way through the dimly lit palace corridors to his wife's bedchamber. Rebecca had been quiet and without smiles at the table during the meal, and afterward had insisted on speaking with him privately. He knew something was wrong. He intended to find out what it was.

Arriving at her room, he knocked gently. There was no answer, so he knocked a second time. He waited, then lifted his fist to knock a third time when the door finally opened, and his gaze fell upon his beautiful wife, already dressed for bed. He was relieved to see her, though he did not quite understand why.

"I've decided I prefer the secret passageways," he said. "When I use them, I do not have to wait so long at your door."

With notable wariness, she stepped back and invited him in.

He entered the room. A hot fire was blazing in the hearth. He stood for a moment looking at the flames, then turned to her.

"Rebecca, you were not yourself at dinner this evening."

She closed the door behind him, went to the bed and climbed onto it. "I know."

He studied her tentative posture, her fingers fiddling with the coverlet, the absence of light in her eyes. "Tell me what is wrong," he said. "It is obvious you are troubled. Whatever it is, I will fix it."

She frowned at him. "I thought you did not wish to be my hero, yet here you are offering to rescue me again."

A dozen misgivings began to spin through his mind. "Is there something you need to be rescued from? Or someone?" he added, feeling that familiar spark of obsession and jealousy, which he did not welcome. It made him feel like he was not in control.

She slid off the bed, covered her cheeks with her hands, and strode to the opposite corner of the room. "It is not easy to say. I am so afraid of what you will think, Devon, but I know I must tell you." She faced him. "I am in a terrible bind, and I do not know how to resolve it."

"What bind?" he asked, incredulous that something was distressing her so, and that she had not yet told him what it was.

"I…I encountered Mr. Rushton in the village today."

His jaw clamped together. "He spoke to you."

"Yes."

"What did he want?"

She stared uneasily at him, then dropped her hands to her sides. "Me. He still wants me."

Devon labored to keep his breathing under control. "But you are my wife."

"That doesn't seem to be much of an obstacle as far as he is concerned. I think he is insane."

Devon paused, swallowing hard. "Why did you not tell me about this sooner?"

"I am telling you now."

"But why did you not tell me before now?" He heard the irritation explode in his voice and knew she heard it too.

"You were gone out to the fields when I returned," she explained, "and I couldn't bring it up at dinner."

"You should have sent a groom out with a message to me the minute you returned from the village! I would have gone immediately after the man. I would have caught up with him and instructed him never to come within a ten-mile radius of you again. I would have educated him as to how my wife-the future Duchess of Pembroke-is to be treated and esteemed."

She stood silent, staring uncertainly at him, her face as pale as candle wax. "I wasn't sure how you would react."

"That is how I would have reacted, had I known. But now there is nothing I can do but stand here and interrogate my wife."

Suddenly he wondered what would be happening presently if her father had not come to the palace on their wedding day and revealed the truth to him about her previous engagement. Would Devon even know about it? Would Rebecca ever have confessed, and if she had not, would she be telling him that she had met her former fiance in the village today? Or would he never know?

He remembered how she had answered his earlier question, and something inside him wrenched with dread. "What is this bind you are in?"

Was she confused about her feelings? Was she torn?

God help him, he had thought this marriage was a straightforward affair. Rebecca had seemed enamored with him and eager to be his wife. From what he understood, she had lived her whole life sheltered in her father's home. He had assumed there would be no complications, that he was marrying an innocent without a history. He had even allowed himself to become enamored with her in return, despite the fact that he knew how painful and disappointing love could be, and had never intended to venture near such perilous affections again.

He thought of his mother suddenly, how she had suffered through her marriage because she had been forced to marry a duke, when the one she truly loved was lost to her. Was that how Rebecca was feeling, or was he being completely obsessed and unreasonable?

Rebecca touched a trembling finger to her mouth. "He accused my father of something terrible, and he told me that if I do not leave you, he will reveal my father's crime to the world."

Devon closed a hand into a fist, while he carefully directed his thoughts and emotions to the practicalities of what she had just told him. "What is the accusation?"

She hesitated, then spoke in a near whisper. "Murder."

He stared at her in disbelief.

"It cannot be true," she insisted. "My father may be many things, but he is not a killer."

"So you believe Rushton is lying."

There was a slight faltering in her tone. "He must be. At least, that is what I am telling myself."

"But you are not sure."

She bit her lip and looked away. "To be honest, I do not know. I thought I knew my father. He was everything to me when I was a child, but over the years he has changed, and when he promised me to Mr. Rushton, I realized I did not know him at all." She met his gaze again. "What kind of father forces a daughter to marry a man she despises, when that man is not only a bully, but beneath her in rank?"

Devon spoke in a matter-of-fact voice. "A father who is being blackmailed for murder."

She shot him a look. "So you think he is guilty."

He strode across the room to stand before her, and spent a long moment studying her glistening green eyes, her moist, cherry lips, and her creamy white complexion. He found himself aware of her anguish and vulnerability, but in light of what was happening, in light of his own anguish and dismay, he strove to ignore that awareness, to crush it and cling to the particulars of the situation.

"What I really want to know," he said, "is why Rushton is so fixated on you. Why he cannot let go of his desire to have you as his wife, and would blackmail an earl for that purpose, despite the fact that you have already married another man and have shared your bed with him. Tell me, Rebecca, are you sure you never once encouraged his affections?"

He thought of the diary. He remembered how she had surprised him that night in the gallery with her knowledge of all things sexual. How she had known so much and been so naive of the sexual power she wielded.