Black Silk by Sharon Page Page B

A parting note from Verity? Then he remembered. Anne’s letter. Anne’s irritation. Dash reached for it, smiling even at the neat, crisp folds his sister had made. It was so good to know she was safe, now Lady Moredon. He owed Sophia the world for taking in Anne and protecting her. If his mad uncle had had the chance, he would have used Anne as a pawn.

    Hell, it was long in the past. But he felt the cold grip of fear on his heart.

    For reassurance, he opened Anne’s letter and read it again in the daylight filtering through gaps in the drapes.

I do not want to come to London and subject myself to a physician’s expertise. I shall be perfectly fine under the watchful eye of Mrs. Castle, the midwife. Really, you do fret too much. And it is far too late for me to journey to London. I can barely move.

    And Moredon is anticipating the hunt—he is quite concerned that his child is refusing to make an appearance and might delay his season. After all, heavens, his heir was expected a week ago. He is both concerned and elated that this shows his son will have a strong character. Of course, I believe this evidence of decided opinions indicates our child will be a girl. Though, as is expected, I do hope most sincerely for a boy, and then I shall not have to listen to much well-meaning advice on how one begets a boy.

    You must put your attentions to securing yourself a bride, my dearest brother, and filling a nursery of your own. I do think that is the solution, for then you will hardly have the time to be issuing orders to me….
    He could almost hear her laughing as she wrote it, along with the unladylike snort she made when doubled up with mirth. She didn’t understand. He’d spent his life concerned about Anne’s protection, taking care of her. A man did not relinquish care of his family so easily.

    Not even to the care of a good husband.

    Would she write such lighthearted letters to him if she knew what he’d done? If she knew the truth? Would she forbid him from seeing his niece or nephew?

    He would be an uncle, and the term uncle brought bile to his throat.

    He still couldn’t push aside the sight of Simon’s dead face. The stunned expression, the glassy, lifeless eyes. Some perverse need to punish himself had driven Dash to stand in the distance as his cousin had been interred. And he had been haunted by the sight of his uncle’s ashen face and sunken posture, strangely haunted by the fact that the man who had once terrified him was now weak and paralyzed by the shock of the loss of his eldest son. He hated his uncle, but he couldn’t forgive himself for Simon’s death. Ten years—thousands of nights of perverse sex and excessive drinking—and he still couldn’t forget.

    Dash stretched to reach the bellpull and tugged. Shut his eyes and relived that moment in Mrs. Master’s salon….

    He’d thought Robert hadn’t known exactly what happened to Simon. Then, at the salon last night, when Robert’s hand had clamped down on his shoulder and Dash had turned to have the word murderer spat in his face, he’d thought justice might finally be done.

    Robert, blistering drunk, should have challenged him to a duel last night. Dash had already been thinking ahead. What would he do? Fire into the air, spend his shot uselessly, and wait to see if his cousin’s aim was true, if fate would mete out punishment?

    Robert had tried to shake him, but he’d shrugged off his cousin’s hand. “No more than your father,” Dash had answered coolly, to Robert’s accusation.

    “Someday you’ll pay.” His cousin’s voice had been shrill with drunken fury.

    “For ten years, I already have.” And he’d moved on, tense, waiting for the shout behind his back, waiting for anger and youthful pride to set them on a course that would end in his death.

    But Robert had let him walk away.

    He’d thought there were only two people who knew he had let Robert’s older brother Simon walk into the death trap intended for