Page 77 of When a Lady Desires a Wicked Lord
Stockwell smiled, his eyes gleaming with malice. “So very impatient. You have not allowed me to finish my statement. Listen, Miss Quinn—youalso played a role in my esteemed patriarch’s demise.”
Fear gripped her, and she tugged against her bonds. “What in blazes are you talking about?”
A cold mask fell over Stockwell’s features. “I felt no sadness at my father’s death. By the time he left this earth, I’d grown to hate the man. I despised the way he squandered the family fortune on his bloody artifacts. Have you any notion of the enormous sums he wasted on his blasted expeditions, while taking nothing in the form of profit? At the rate he was going, the entire estate would’ve been drained—and for what?”
A horrible dread crept over her. Stockwell’s words were a confession. But she could not bear to accept that. There had to be another explanation. There had to be some truth she wasn’t quite seeing.
“I…I don’t understand.”
“I do not mind offering an explanation. You deserve to understand why this is happening,” he said, pinning her with his gaze. “A few months ago, I learned of my father’s discovery of the Pharaoh’s Sun. After recovering the artifact, he implied he was close to a major discovery, a royal tomb that had escaped the notice of grave robbers—a spectacular treasure. Even if one claimed only a fraction of the artifacts, the gold and jewels would bring a fortune. A man would live in luxury for the rest of his days. My father knew I was tiring of the West African explorations. Determined to finally claim my share of his legacy, I expressed my desire to join him in the quest. But he would not even consider my plan.”
“He never found that tomb,” she said. “Your father was killed before he could even set out on a search.”
“He had no intention of bringing me into the venture. Once again, he’d pushed me aside. Marlsbrook was always his favorite, the student he would have preferred as his son.”
“Surely, you can’t believe that,” she said, attempting to calm his agitation. “Your father was not a cruel man.”
“Not cruel. But weak. Easily swayed. In his eyes, I fell short. I would always be compared to Marlsbrook. And to you.”
“Sadly, you are mistaken. Professor Stockwell spoke so fondly of you.”
“Fondness does not compensate for a lack of respect.” He gritted the words between his teeth. “It does not repay the debts of an estate. Finally, I’d endured enough of his indifference. I decided to take action. You see, Marlsbrook usurped my role in my father’s life. I should have been the one to accompany him on those expeditions throughout the years Marlsbrook and I spent at the university. I should’ve been the one my father entrusted with his research. Instead, I was regarded as somehow inferior.”
“That is simply not true. Your father held you in the highest regard. You are his son. It goes without saying he was proud of the man you’d become.”
“You’re wrong. For years, I was the one who’d curried his favor. But that all changed. Without warning, my place in my father’s life was overtaken by that unscrupulous scoundrel, Marlsbrook.”
“No one took your place,” she protested. “Your father cared very deeply for you.”
“You’d like to believe that, wouldn’t you? Does it ease your conscience to believe you played no part in the divide that separated us?”
“I cannot speak to whatever difficulties existed in your relationship with the professor, but Benedict and I had nothing to do with it.”
“Liar,” he said, his harshness like a verbal slap. “You know the truth. But you won’t admit it. You’d rather pretend I’m a fool. Not that it matters. It’s too late. For Marlsbrook. And for you.”
…
“Marlsbrook, I cannot allow you to do this. The jackals have made their intentions clear. There must be another way.”
As Matthew Colton holstered his Webley revolver, preparing for the violent confrontation he knew would soon come, Benedict considered the man’s objection. Logically, he could not disagree with the seasoned investigator. God only knew what Alexandra’s captors intended. They had no way of knowing how the situation would unfold. Colton’s people had discerned that the plotters were few in number. Field agents had uncovered no talk of the scheme in the usual places—the pubs, gambling hells, and streets where one might expect talk of a criminal’s enterprise to slip from an inebriated conspirator’s mouth. But that was of small comfort. Someone had Alexandra at their mercy, someone who’d put a despicable bounty on Benedict’s head—Alexandra’s life for his.
God above, how much hatred must the devil harbor?
He’d searched his memory since Professor Stockwell had first revealed his fears of a curse. Even then, Benedict had known the danger lay not in some legendary evil, but in the very real doings of a person who still walked this earth, hatred driving a murderous scheme. Who might have such a grudge against him?
The answer to that question was a long list, indeed. But who in blazes would have reason to hate Alex? She conducted herself with the utmost integrity, a resourceful, intelligent woman who displayed kindness at every turn. She’d never harmed a damned soul. Why would someone single out Alex—of all people—as a victim of their wrath?
Did the scoundrel intend to punish him? Did he know of the relationship Benedict had shared with her? Or had her ties to the professor brought her into the ruthless schemer’s sights? Had Professor Stockwell’s high regard made Alex a target?
“I do not see that I have a choice,” he said, stripping his voice of feeling as he loaded his pistol. “I have committed my fair share of sins in this world, but I am not a coward. I will not stand by and allow Alexandra to pay the price for whatever this vile dog believes I have done to wrong him.”
“Have you considered who might be behind this plot?” Jennie Colton asked, surprising him. Did his face so clearly display his musings? “The common link between the murders is Professor Stockwell. Who would have the most to gain from his death?”
His thoughts flickered to the night before. In his mind’s eye, he pictured Alex. And their host, with his dour, cynical tone. Raymond Stockwell had not displayed the slightest hint of grief over his recently deceased sire.
“Would his sons profit from their father’s death?” Benedict inquired.
“We’ve looked into that,” Colton said. “Of course, the elder son is the heir, though our sources indicated that Stockwell also provided an inheritance for his second son. Evidently, the funds came through their mother’s side of the family. Do you suspect Raymond Stockwell’s involvement?”
