Heart of the Hunter by Wulf Linda Anne

Author:Wulf, Linda Anne [Wulf, Linda Anne]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Hydra Publications
Published: 2012-01-30T04:30:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

"Holy Saint Peter," Fianna breathed, her eyes widening as she read the missive Gareth showed her--the same one a footman had handed him in the courtyard that afternoon. It was the latest, Gareth explained, in an exchange of communications between himself and the agent he had hired to investigate Anne Pembroke's background.

"She was already wed? To her pimp...pimp?" Frowning, Fianna looked over the top edge of the parchment.

"The man," Gareth said, his back to her at the sideboard, where he was pouring a glass of what Fianna had used to disinfect his hand, "who made her available for certain...services...to a particular male clientele."

Feeling suddenly under-dressed, Fianna tucked her feet under her in the chair and hoped Gareth wouldn't notice her blush. "'The first marriage is legal enough, as Fleet weddings go'," she hastily read aloud. "'But the marriage between Anne Tidwell--one of her many aliases--and Sir Timothy Pembroke was a sham, the debt-ridden clergyman who officiated having been paid quite handsomely by one Richard Farnsley, Anne's husband and pimp.'"

Gareth quaffed the scotch he'd poured, then set the glass down hard on the sideboard. "You needn't read it to me, Fianna...every bloody word is seared into my brain."

"Sorry," she said, and bit her lip, but eagerly perused the rest of the shocking account. Upon marriage to Timothy Pembroke, 'Anne Pembroke' had, according to Gareth's agent, proceeded to spend Timothy's modest fortune in a manner more suited to women who ranked much higher than she in the Peerage. "A viscount's daughter?" Fianna arched her brow upon reading that information.

"Aye, and with papers to support the claim." Gareth poured a fresh drink and then pulled a banyan on over his bare torso. Without bothering to belt it, he slumped down in the other fireside chair, glass in hand.

"What papers?" Trying not to stare at the expanse of dark fur between Gareth's banyan revers, Fianna trained her eyes on the letter.

"Her so-called 'father's' last will and testament, for one. The document was genuine, but the daughter named therein died two years ago. She had a Roman Catholic baptismal certificate as well."

"Anne Tidwell." Seeing the name, Fianna shook her head. "Clever as well as beautiful."

Gareth snorted. "Farnsley is the mastermind, never doubt it. And where you saw beauty in Eliza Farnsley--her true name--is beyond my reckoning."

"Only from afar," Fianna admitted.

"Or until she opened her mouth. Particularly when she was in her cups."

"You speak as if she is dead."

Gareth shrugged. "She is to me." He drained his glass, then bent over and slid it across the oaken floorboards, saying, "Enough of that."

He leaned back in the chair and, sweeping a hand through his disheveled hair, sighed with what appeared to be relief. "I had to lead her on, let her think she had a chance at me and my 'fortune,' so that she wouldn't abscond before my agent had finished his investigation. I wanted inarguable proof of her scheming. Her penchant for alcohol helped, made it more likely she'd slip up and say something incriminating. You guessed rightly, by the way--it was her bottle I had in my hand the night you arrived.

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