“So what is? The Deveril estate? It’s going to be a damn chilly comfort with no money to go with it, isn’t it?”

His father glared, but said, “You have a point. That is why I have come up with a solution. You are not a bad-looking man, and you have a certain address. Marry the heiress.”

Hawk laughed. “Marry a ‘poxy chit’ to rescue you? I think not.”

“To rescue Hawk in the Vale, George.”

It hit home, and his father knew it.

All the same, every instinct revolted. He had made one vow, many years ago—that he would not repeat his parents’ mistake. He would not marry unless he was sure of harmony. He’d accepted that it meant that he would likely never marry, but that would be better for everyone than more bitterness and bile.

“I have a better idea,” he said. “Do you have any cogent reasons to believe the will is false? What arguments have your lawyers made in court?”

His father glowered, but he said, “It was handwritten, and it left all his money to this girl, to come under her complete control at twenty-one.”

“Absurd.”

“Quite. And the heiress is one Clarissa Greystone. You may not have heard of the Greystones. Drunkards and gamblers, every one.”

“And yet you failed to break it. Why, apart from better lawyers and influence in high places? Our courts are not so corrupt, I hope, that they would overrule reason.”

“Because the will was in Deveril’s hand and found in his locked desk with no sign of a break-in.”

“Witnesses?”

“Two men in his employ, but they went missing after his murder.”

“Murder?” Hawk repeated. “How did he die?”

“Stabbed in a back slum in London. His body wasn’t found for some days.”

“Good God. So he was murdered and this Greystone chit has all his money and no one has been able to prove she did it?” He laughed. “And you think I will marry a woman like that?”

“That, or lose Hawkinville, dear boy.”

Hawk gripped the back of the chair tightly. “You’re finding a kind of satisfaction in this, aren’t you? Does it give you so much pleasure to see me wriggling on this hook?”

The twisted smile was definitely a sneer now. “It gives me pleasure to see you taken down a peg or two. So superior you’ve been, especially since returning home. You’ve always despised me for marrying for money, haven’t you? Well, what are you going to do now the shoe’s on your foot, eh?”

“What am I going to do?” Short of throttle you? “I’m going to prove that damn will false, and if possible see the Greystone creature hang for murder. And then, I hope, I’ll see you out of here, and begin to repair the lifetime’s damage that you’ve done.”

The sneer became somewhat fixed, but his father disdained to answer.

“When does the loan come due?” Hawk asked. His father laughed. “The first of August.”

“Two months!” Control. Control. Hawk carefully let go of the chair. “Then I had best get on with it, hadn’t I?”

It was only as he left the stuffy room that another disastrous aspect hit him. Titles were hereditary. One day he would have to be Lord Deveril.

For the first time he sincerely wished his father a long, long life.

But away from here. At his precious Deveril estates. Instinctively he sought his mother’s rose garden, even though this mess was her fault. He’d heard that there had been solid, reliable local men courting her.

He shook his head. That was all past history. For the present and the future, the Hawk had one more hunt to fly, and as reward, a golden future tantalized.

If he could prove the will a forgery and get the money for his father, the new Lord Deveril would move away from here. After paying off Slade, of course.

Twenty thousand pounds. It was a sum that staggered him, but he put it aside. Five times that much waited if he did his job right.

Then he would have Hawkinville. His father called it a farmhouse, and he was right. It was two stories and contained only four bedchambers. The ceilings were low, the fixtures practical, the “grounds” merely the courtyard and a garden at the back.

But it was his piece of heaven. He would not let it be torn down, nor would he let Slade rip the heart out of Hawk in the Vale village.

He walked back out onto the green. A few people called to him, waving, with no idea that their world was threatened. He waved back but turned to look at the manor house and the line of cottages.

Most of the front doors were open, with children running in and out. Old people, who had lived in their cottage for most or all of their lives, sat hunched on chairs, watching their generations enjoy themselves. Mothers, babies on hip or even at the breast, chatted together as they kept an eye on their families.

None of the cottages had a straight line, and most of the thatch needed work, but that was all the responsibility of the manor, not the tenants. No roses bloomed at the front because the cottages opened right onto the road around the green and faced north, but he knew that in the long gardens running down to the river roses bloomed among the well-tended vegetables that fed these families. He watched Slade strolling around, beaming, clearly— in his own mind at least—already the master here. Perhaps he was envisioning a tidy clearing, a modern improvement.

A pure and simple urge to murder held Hawk rigid for a moment. But no. That would not serve. What if he couldn’t prove the will false? Then he would prove the Greystone chit a murderess. That would work just as well to throw doubt on the will. It probably wouldn’t even be hard for a man like him. His work in the war had included investigations, and he’d been very good at it.

He’d hoped never to unleash the Hawk again. Those investigations had left unpleasant memories, and sometimes pushed the borders of his honor.

But this, again, was war. He made a silent vow that greed and folly would not destroy Hawk in the Vale. Chapter Two

June 18, 1816, Cheltenham, Gloucestershire

Clarissa Greystone stared at Miss Mallory in shock. “You are saying I have to leave?”

Miss Mallory, neat and round, took her hand to pat it. “Now, now, dear. I am not throwing you out into the street. You have been welcome here for the past year, but that year is nearly over. And this is a school, not a home for stray ladies. I have been in communication with the duke, and with Beth Arden, and both agree that you must begin to take your place in the world.”

They were in Miss Mallory’s private parlor in the school, a cozy room warm with potpourri and lavender linen that had always held pleasant memories for Clarissa. Miss Mallory had an office, and that was where a girl went to be scolded for misbehavior. The parlor was for special teas and treats.

“But where am I to go? The school has been as good as a home to me since I was ten.”

“That is what you must think about, dear. I’m sure Beth would be glad of your company in time.”

In time, because Beth Arden was expecting her first child soon. But even in time, Clarissa didn’t want to live with the Ardens. She was fond of Beth, who had been her favorite teacher here, and who had helped her last year in London, but she disliked Lord Arden. He was a terrifying brute.

“Or the duke has offered you a home at Belcraven Park.”

Clarissa almost shuddered. She’d visited there once to meet the man who had taken over her guardianship from her father. The duke and duchess—especially the duchess—had been very kind, but they were strangers, and Belcraven was a place of such massive magnificence she could never imagine living there.

“I think I would prefer a small house with a companion. Perhaps here in Cheltenham.”

“No.” Miss Mallory’s voice was the one that all girls in the school learned to heed. “Not here in Cheltenham. You must start afresh. But a house and a suitable companion is a possibility. In London, perhaps. You should rejoin society, my dear.”

“Rejoin society!” Clarissa heard her voice climb too high. “Miss Mallory, I was never part of it. I was a Greystone, and Lord Deveril’s betrothed. Believe me, few doors were open. No, I will live quietly. Perhaps in Bath.”

It was a dismal prospect. She’d spent most of her school holidays with her grandmother in Bath. Lady Molson was dead now, but the place was doubtless as stuffy as ever.

But safe. Perhaps.

“Or in a little village,” she added. That was better. There she’d be less likely to be recognized as what society called the Devil’s Heiress.

A shudder passed through her at the memories the name brought back. She rose. “I will think about it, Miss Mallory. When must I leave?”

Miss Mallory rose too, and gave her a hug. “Oh, my dear, there is no great hurry. We simply want you to begin to think on it. But I advise you not to try to hide. You have your life before you, and your fortune can make it a good one. Not many young women have the choices you have. It would be a sin to waste them.”

Miss Mallory was a follower of Mary Wollstonecraft, author of The Rights of Woman, and she judiciously shared those beliefs with the pupils in her school, so Clarissa knew what she meant. Beth Arden was also an adherent, and had discussed these matters in more detail last year. After Deveril’s death.

She should be delighted to be free.

It was all very well in theory to rage against the shackles of masculine oppression, but as Clarissa left the parlor she couldn’t help thinking that it might be nice to be taken care of now and then. First a father, and then a husband—if one had a good father, not one like Sir Peter Greystone.

As for a husband, she sighed. She had little faith in the notion of a good husband. A woman put her fate so completely in his hands, and he could be a tyrant.