Page 76 of When a Lady Desires a Wicked Lord
Heavy footsteps announced the men approaching. She stilled. It would do no good for them to see her struggling against the restraints.
The door swung open. Nelson walked in, alone.
His breath reeked of liquor. Did this task try his conscience?
“You’d better pray he brings us that map,” he said, keeping his distance.
“He?” She feigned confusion. “I don’t understand why you’d believe someone else has that map.”
Nelson scowled. “You know damned well I was referring to Marlsbrook. If you don’t have the bloody thing, you’d best hope he does.”
Shoring up her frayed composure with a low breath, Alex pressed on. Unpleasant as this cowardly sot was, she had to find out what he knew. That information could prove vital once she managed to get out of the restraints. “Precisely where do you believe we obtained this imaginary treasure map?”
“Stockwell gave it to you. Of course, you know that.” Nelson scowled. “And if he didn’t—if by some chance you’re telling the truth—Marlsbrook has it. Stockwell would have entrusted it to one of you.”
“And why would he do that?” Alex persisted. “I was his research assistant. I was no one to him.”
“Now, Miss Quinn, why would you underestimate your importance in such a manner?” the second man asked as he approached the open door. Standing outside the chamber, just beyond the entry, shadows concealed his face.
Dear God. I know that voice.
Suddenly, it all made sense.
Professor Stockwell’s son.
“Modesty is a virtue, but in this case, it poses an insult to my intelligence,” he continued, contempt infusing every syllable as he crossed the threshold. “Really, Alexandra, do you take me for a fool?”
“My heavens, it’s you.” Shock propelled the words from her lips.
She’d never realized how very similar the brothers’ voices were. She’d expected Raymond Stockwell to enter in that theatrical way of his. Instead, the professor’s studious son closed the distance between them with relaxed strides.
Ugly amusement pulled at Harold Stockwell’s mouth. “Ah, the grief-stricken offspring, so overcome with pain he plays the drunken fool for the public. I do believe I’m a more accomplished actor than that brother of mine.”
“Actor?” she gasped. “Last night—that was a performance?”
His smile widened. “I take it I was rather convincing. Perhaps I’ll pursue the theater after this business is over and done. What do you say, Nelson?”
“You could not possibly be a bigger arse on the stage than your brother,” Nelson said blandly.
“Faint praise, indeed.” Stockwell frowned as he surveyed her condition. “I say, Nelson, you are a clumsy fool. You might have secured Miss Quinn in considerably more comfort.”
“I’m not running a blasted hotel here,” Nelson grumbled.
Stockwell gave a sharp shake of his head. “I do regret that I cannot afford you more hospitable treatment. Unfortunately, circumstances are not in your favor. But you have my assurance you will not be here for long.”
“What the devil do you think to accomplish with this stunt?” she demanded. “I understand your grief at the loss of your father, but this is not a solution. Benedict had nothing to do with his death.”
Stockwell’s brows drew together in confusion. Understanding filled his eyes. “Well, I must admit, this is rather unexpected. As I understand it, you mean to assure me that Marlsbrook had no role in my father’s death… You believe I have been driven mad with grief and seek to avenge the old man.”
The icy derision in his tone unleashed a wave of fear. Gathering her courage, she swallowed hard against it. “Benedict was not even in the country when your father died.”
Stockwell’s grotesque sounds of amusement were amplified against the walls of the cavernous room. He turned to Nelson. “Bloody hell, that’s rich. This brilliant young woman expects to convince me that her lover is innocent of my father’s death. How very ironic.”
Nelson laughed in turn. “Not so clever, is she?”
Stockwell drew a finger along the curve of her cheek. “The truth of the matter is, you’re greatly mistaken, Miss Quinn. Despite what you believe, Marlsbrook played a significant role in my father’s death.”
“That cannot be,” she said, choking back her terror. “Your father was killed after Benedict had departed for England.”
