Unclaimed (Turner, #2)

“And if you won’t speak to me,” Parret said, “someone else will. I’d love to write about the woman you spoke with—Mrs. Farleigh, was it? It could be like Lady Eugenia all over again.”


A swell of ugly emotion bore down on Mark. It slammed across him, knocking him practically breathless. He felt like a chip of wood, riding raging floodwaters. And before he could think better of it, he turned, abruptly, and tripped Nigel Parret. As the tiny man went sprawling, Mark grabbed his arm and wrenched it around. His other hand twisted in the collar of the man’s greatcoat. He picked the man up bodily.

“Sir Mark!” Parret squeaked, his feet kicking out in midair.

Mark had a mental image of himself slamming the man repeatedly against the stone wall of the tavern. The thought was almost too satisfying— Parret’s nose bleeding, his hands scraped.

Mark took two steps toward the nearest house.

Stop. Stop.

But he didn’t want to. He fumbled for calm. It felt like floundering. His knuckles scraped against the greasy fabric of the man’s collar.

Mark turned to the side and lifted the man skyward. Parret gave a little shriek, one that was all too pleasing to some corner of Mark’s vengeful soul. His feet kicked out. And then Mark let go.

The resulting splash sent a shower of droplets into the air, misting Mark’s face.

In the murky water of the horse trough, Parret sputtered and wiped his face. A horse, tied to a ring nearby, let out a great sighing bluster, as if to say, Oh, please. Not in my water.

“You’re wrong,” Mark said. “I can stop you.”

But there was no sense of righteous victory in these words. Instead, he felt a sick, hollow regret. He’d lost his temper. Again.

That vision—of his slamming Parret’s limp body against the stone wall of the public house—lingered still, an uninvited, unsavory guest. Mark could almost feel the reverberations in his arms, as if the ghost of his awful want had taken up residence.

Parret stared up at him, speechless for once.

It wasn’t the first time Mark had crossed the line between that red, hazy want and violence. It wasn’t the first time he’d regretted it, either.

Mark sighed and shook his head. “Understand, Parret. You are not going to have an exclusive interview with me. Not in reality, nor will you print one in the public imaginings you call articles.”

“But—”

“No.”

“But—”

“Certainly not.” Mark set his hands on his hips.

“But—”

“And not that.”

“Sir Mark,” Parret pleaded. “I have a daughter. I—I have cultivated your reputation, as carefully as any steward. Have I ever printed anything maligning you? I’ve made my reputation—my career—on telling the truth about you. Should we not work together on this?”

The crowd of women was beginning to drift from the churchyard. No doubt they were intent on finding out why Sir Mark had just dumped a man in the horse trough.

“I know what it is,” Parret said, a sudden note of jealousy infecting his voice. “You have had a better offer from someone else, no matter what…what I said. That other reporter has offered you a cut. What was it? Ten percent? Fifteen percent?” He dropped his voice. “I can better it. I will. I promise.”

“I’m not interested in your promises.” Mark could not make himself focus on any of the people who were coming this way. None of them, that was, except one. Jessica. Mrs. Farleigh was there. She was not a calming influence; she never had been. But his attention focused on her.

“You think you’re more powerful than me,” Parret spat. “That your run of popularity is your own doing. I made you, Sir Mark. I could break you, if I chose. You owe me your success.”

Mark shook his head and turned away. “I don’t owe you a thing,” he said. “And I’m only going to warn you once. Get out of here. Leave town.”

Parret scrambled out of the slick trough, doing his best to invest the clumsy exit with a sullen dignity. “Someday,” he said formally, “you will regret this.”

“Interview me in London,” Mark said with a wave of his hand, “and I’ll tell you precisely how much I regret it.”

JESSICA HAD WANTED to see Sir Mark again but not now. Not like this. Not with the letter from her solicitor folded in her skirt pocket, with its precise measurement of her freedom—or lack thereof.

Over the past few weeks in this small town, she’d found some sense of peace. She had begun to reclaim herself. But the first paper from her solicitor laid out her debts—too many—and her assets—too few. Rent on a flat in London, the amounts she’d spent here… In three weeks’ time, when the quarterly bills came due, she’d find herself at the end of her savings.

The other paper, enclosed by her solicitor, had come from Weston.

Sir Mark’s decision is expected in the next few weeks, the man had written. Seduction is of no use to me if it comes too late. Finish it now.