Page 115 of Counting on a Countess
“And then,” Jory went on, “the next year, you’ll give me twenty thousand more. And so forth.”
Tamsyn’s stomach dropped.
“You’re fit for Bedlam,” Kit growled.
“Maybe so,” Jory agreed pleasantly. “But then, I’m not the one running a smuggling gang, am I?”
She barely resisted the urge to slam her fist into Jory’s face. The need to fight tightened her muscles, and her neck protested when she turned her head to look at Kit. The cold fury in his face was terrifying as he stood poised to fight, balancing on the balls of his feet and his hands forming fists at his sides.
“A wild accusation,” Tamsyn said, her voice seething with fear and fury.
Jory threw her a contemptuous look. “You’d been acting strange ever since his lordship arrived. Something was afoot. I followed you out to the garden yesterday. Heard a few things. Heard what you’ve been doing beneath my own roof.”
Tamsyn’s stomach pitched. In the garden, she’d been too consumed with her thoughts, and hadn’t heard Jory at all.
Her uncle vied for a sorrowful expression. “Fair broke my heart,” he said mournfully. “The gel I’d fed and clothed and kept out of the rain wasn’t nothing but a viper. An ungrateful viper at my bosom.”
Anger was a living thing that raged within her, demanding release.He had ignored her for years, and now he saw her only as something to be exploited.
“Must say,” he went on, “eight years is a damned long time. Me and Gwen didn’t have a crumb of knowledge about it.” He crossed his arms over his chest, and his look of woeful reproach faded. “That time’s over. Now you pay me.” His voice hardened with his threat.
“The hell we will,” Kit spat.
“Ah,” Jory sighed, “I thought you’d give me trouble. So I took myself to Newquay yesterday and brought back with me two customs officers.”
Shock reverberated through her as if someone had detonated a bomb. Jory didn’t give a damn that they were of the same blood. Her uncle couldn’t wait to betray her.
“As we speak,” he continued blithely, “they’re having a spot of tea in the parlor with Lady Shawe.”
“Blackmail,” Kit snarled.
Jory shook his head. “No need for ugly words.”
“But that’s what it is,” Tamsyn insisted hotly. “We don’t agree to your demands, you sic the customs officers on us.”
“I invited them to Chei Owr,” Jory acknowledged. “For tea. Just being polite to the local law. And if it happens that you don’t agree to my terms, then”—he shrugged as if the matter was out of his hands—“I tell them everything.”
Tamsyn’s rage grew as her mind desperately searched for a way out. But none came.
Jory threw up his arms as a shield when Kit took a threatening step toward him.
“What’s to stop me from beating you senseless?” Kit said tightly.
“Lady Shawe also knows about your smuggling,” Jory muttered. “Told her yesterday. If anything happens to me, she’ll spill everything to the customs officers.” He lowered his arms and breathed with relief when Kit backed off.
“You’re a son of a bitch,” Tamsyn spat.
Her uncle clicked his tongue. “Here I thought going to London would make a lady out of you.”
“Go bugger yourself,” she snarled.
Jory strode to the door and opened it. “Two minutes. That’s all the time you get to make your decision. I hope it’s the right choice.”
Her uncle walked away.
Kit slammed the door behind him. He looked around the chamber, his eyes burning. “Anything here you don’t value?”
“The vase,” she answered bitingly after a moment. “It’s Gwen’s.”
