She was too numb to feel her heart breaking.
Chapter Four
October 1st ~ London
EDGAR ENTERED the boardroom of Hamilton Trading Company. The gentlemen assembled looked up in surprise, as well they might. Edgar had not attended a meeting of the stockholders for many months. He removed his cloak and hat and handed them to the porter.
“Gentlemen.” He nodded and claimed the seat at the head of the table, raising several eyebrows.
The boardroom at Hamilton Trading was luxuriously decorated in leather and hardwood panelling that had been polished to a high gloss. The intricately carved boardroom table commanded the middle of the room and between the high windows, hung the portraits of Hamilton directors and chairmen.
Into this established order, Edgar prepared to launch his first volley. Captain Strachan sat at the far end of the table. As the son of a Lord, Strachan was granted privileges above the merchants and businessmen who held shares in the firm. Edgar knew better than to force the gentlemen to choose between Lord Strachan’s son and Arthur Hamilton’s. He made a pre-emptive strike.
“Sirs, I am here with very good news. My cousin, Mr. Branson Hamilton has authorized a substantial investment in Hamilton Trading.”
His father entered at that moment. Finding his son seated at the head of the table, Arthur concealed his irritation, but not before Edgar had caught a glimpse of it and heard the falsehood in his father’s hearty welcome.
“Edgar, my boy! What a rare pleasure.” He clapped Edgar’s shoulder and gave him a light shake, as though to shift out of the chair.
“I was just making the announcement, Father, of Branson’s considerable investment in the firm. Taking into account the sacrifices you’ve made to secure the deal, I know you must be pleased.”
Arthur rubbed his hands together. “Mr. Branson Hamilton does us honour. Ah, where is the gentleman,” he said and glanced around the room. “I don’t see him.”
“Branson cannot attend, sir. Urgent business has called him away.” He withdrew Branson’s proxy from his vest pocket and opened it on the table. “He has given me his proxy; I am here on his behalf.”
Strachan interrupted. “Sirs, I really must protest!” He was smiling companionably at Edgar but his eyes were furious. “Arrangements have been made—that is to say, proceedings are underway for my investment in the firm. I have already spoken to Arthur about it; the details have been ironed out and it was my intention to make the announcement at this assembly. As you can see, there is no need for any further discussion of Mr. Branson Hamilton’s offer.”
“I’m not sure that I do see, Captain Strachan.” Edgar rose to his feet. “I congratulate you on your investment in Hamilton Trading. It is a sound move. But I don’t see what it has to do with my cousin’s prior interest in the firm. Perhaps you would care to explain?”
The colour rose in Strachan’s face but he hid his anger well. “I believe Arthur can answer that question. Our arrangement had certain conditions attached to it, and before we proceed I would like Arthur to confirm that those conditions will be honoured.”
Edgar gazed impassively at his father, wondering what the man would do now that he was faced with this unexpected windfall. Arthur would have to choose between Strachan’s money and his daughter’s life. Edgar recognized the look of eager avarice in his father’s eyes and was reminded of how often he had admired Arthur’s ruthlessness in business. If the story Clara and Branson told about Grace Leeds was true, then the Hamilton pater familia was ruthless in other areas as well.
“Well, this is a turn up for the books!” Arthur rubbed his hands together. “On the face of it, my nephew has done me a great service, but as Captain Strachan has pointed out, there are generally conditions attached to extraordinary offers. Before we proceed with the vote, it behoves me to ask, Edgar, what are the conditions Branson has attached to his offer?”
Edgar squared his shoulders and caught Blakely’s eye. “A minor one given the circumstances. Arthur Hamilton must be removed as chairman and prevented from accessing the company finances. Furthermore, he will no longer be permitted on the premises.”
Arthur Hamilton went chalk white. His mouth worked. “This is outrageous!” he bellowed. “Betrayer! Snake in the grass! You have sided with the devil and utterly ruined your mother and father! Have you thought of that—did the villain add that to his list of conditions?”
“Excuse me, sirs, while I have a word with my father.” Edgar drew Arthur to one side and whispered in his ear. “The charge of embezzlement has been made to go away. Without Branson’s intervention, there was a very good chance you would have been dragged up before the magistrate. Take a look at those gentlemen, the ones you have bilked of their hard-earned pounds. They would have thrown you to the wolves if they’d seen the books in their former state.”
Arthur pushed away from his son and said loudly “Strachan is prepared to invest and without insulting my reputation and my considerable contribution to this company. His is without question the more desirable offer.”
Edgar sighed and shook his head. His father had brought this upon himself. He resumed his seat at the head of the table and looked into the faces of the men who had watched the exchange with avid curiosity. “We’ve heard Branson’s condition. I move that Captain Strachan reveals his and we shall let these gentlemen decide which investor they prefer to welcome to the firm.”
“Cannot both gentlemen invest? A pound is a pound, after all,” said a silver-haired gentleman sitting at the back of the room. He was a shareholder in Hamilton Trading from Edgar’s grandfather’s time.
“Mr. Branson Hamilton has no objection to Captain Strachan’s offer of investment,” said Blakely. “His condition has been stated for the record. Captain Strachan, would you care to state yours?”
All eyes turned to the captain. It was as Edgar suspected. Strachan’s pallor gave him away.
“My interest in the company is conditional on Arthur remaining as its head,” he said without conviction.
Blakely nodded, satisfied. “There you have it, gentlemen. Two offers of substantial investment in Hamilton Trading. One is conditional on Arthur Hamilton’s removal and the other demands his tenure. I will open the floor for discussion.” He turned to Arthur. “Sir, you are requested to leave the room while we make our deliberations.”
“This is a grave error you’re making, Blakely. A cataclysmic error!” The older man turned on Edgar. “What did he offer you to sell me out? How many pieces of silver did it take to betray your own father? Gentlemen, as you make your deliberations consider the character of the man who is trying to buy his way into my company. A low-born villain, given to temper and a secretive nature. Ask yourselves if this is the man you want representing your interests.”
“My father raises an important point,” Edgar said. “There is a second condition attached to my cousin’s offer. He requires that I serve in my father’s stead. I shall retain my own voting shares and vote Branson’s shares as well. In other words, it is not Branson Hamilton who will be representing your interests, but me.”
Arthur was silenced by this announcement and left the room in appalling disgrace. Edgar did not speak until he heard the door close behind him. Then he continued with the opening remarks prepared for him by Branson and rehearsed on the carriage ride over. He was acutely aware that he was killing his father by inches, destroying him socially, professionally and personally. Branson’s revenge was complete. This was an eradication of a man’s life’s work.
Struggling against the pity he felt for his father, Edgar held fast to his purpose, ever conscious that he was relying on his unpredictable cousin to keep his word and deliver Clara from Gateshead Insane Asylum.
He only prayed that he had not misplaced his trust in choosing Branson Reilly over his own father.
§
Windemere Hall, the same day.
PIERS LEEDS moved down the corridor, glancing with casual disinterest at the portraits lining the
walls. Heavy oil paintings of Hamilton men who had been masters of Windemere Hall hundreds of years before his arrival, glowered at him as though they knew he was not one of them.
Branson was in London executing their plan. This was the day—the culmination of everything Piers had desired for seven years. The moment of Arthur Hamilton’s ruin would be bittersweet. For as sweet as their revenge would be, it would bring his relationship with his brother-in-law to an end and it would not bring back Gracie.
Piers would be alone, though Branson would not. Piers saw how he was with Clara Hamilton. Unlike the others, this young woman had changed him. The alteration was subtle, but Piers had come to know Branson’s every mood over these past seven years. His brother-in-law was happy.
Piers did not begrudge Branson happiness but it grieved him to see how rapidly Grace was displaced in his heart. If Piers didn’t know better, he would think Branson was glad to forget his true wife when he brought Clara Hamilton to Windemere Hall.
Granted, Grace and Branson’s wedding had been a rushed, unhappy affair. Furthermore, Piers knew their marriage had not been consummated. Grace could hardly be expected to perform the duties of a wife in bed after what she had suffered. But for all that, Branson had a duty to be faithful to her in his heart. Branson Hamilton owed Grace his loyalty.
The hall was shadowed and stuffy from being closed up for seven years. The drapes were thick with dust. Piers cast an eye over the heavy red velvet that covered the windows, chafing once again at the lack of servants, but there was nothing to be done about it. They had agreed that they could not take the risk after the last incident.
Piers turned to move away when he was stopped by the low keening of a woman’s grief. Floating to him in the shrouded silence, he heard a muffled sob. He peered into the shadows, straining toward the sound. His heart pounded in his ears. Sweat broke out on his brow.
He whispered. “Gracie, dearest, is that you?”
“Who are you talking to?”
He whirled around, his heart leaping to his throat. “God damn it, Quince! Where did you come from?”
“The stables. I’ve come looking for you. Who else is here?”
“What do you mean?”
The old man snorted. “It’s a simple question, Mr. Piers. Who were you addressing just now? There is no one with you. I take it you are hearing things—or else it’s the ghost come back. There are strange doings in this house. Noises at all hours. I’m for moving on and don’t think I won’t. Strange doings.” Quince’s sharp black eyes were on him, ripe with suspicion.
“What do you want, Mr. Quince?” Piers asked irritably.
“I’ve come to tell you that the mistress has been confined to Gateshead Insane Asylum and the master has gone to fetch her home.”
Piers felt the blood drain from his face. “How the devil did that happen?”
“I could not say, Mr. Piers. The whole business is a sorry mess if you ask me. That young lady was the future of this miserable estate and once again the ghost of Windemere Hall has had her way and seen to it the lass is driven off.”
“There is no ghost,” Piers said wearily. “And even if there were, what would she have to do with Miss Hamilton’s unfortunate predicament?”
“An unfortunate predicament! Is that what we’re calling it? Losing the mistress to a madhouse! Twill be living under this roof that drove the young lady off her nut with the goings on I’ve witnessed, and his nibs leading her on a merry dance.”
“Hold your tongue, old man. You forget your place. Branson Hamilton is your master.”
“Aye, he’s my master and yours too unless I am mistaken.” Quince eyed the butler sharply. “You’ve become right chummy with Mr. Hamilton of late. Don’t think I haven’t noticed. You’ve always had too much influence over him, twisting him up with guilt over that hellcat sister of yours. Forcing him to marry her when he was just a lad—oh, I know! You wanted to get your claws into his inheritance. You and that evil piece of work you duped the master into marrying!”
A noise caught the attention of both men, a grinding sound coming from the recessed alcove where a heavy white marble statue was standing on a pedestal. Piers shrank back. His eyes widened in alarm. Quince followed his stare to see the statue rocking on its perch.
Before he could move, the massive work of white stone was shoved by an unseen hand. Mr. Quince was directly in its path. The speed of the disaster gave the old man no time to react. It fell on the stable master, hitting his head with a sickening thud. Piers watched in horrified silence as Quince toppled to the floor, crushed under the weight of the marble.
A thick pool of dark red blood formed a halo around the old man’s smashed skull.
Quince was dead.
Slowly, Piers turned with dread to the shadowed alcove. A pair of glinting mad eye stared back at him. He pressed his hand over his mouth to stifle the scream that rose to his throat and backed away, slowly, slowly, and then gripped by terror, he turned and ran from Windemere Hall.
§
Gateshead, that same day.
BRANSON APPROACHED the asylum on horseback. The avenue opened into a broad expanse of turf. From the central block, twin towers rose like castle battlements. To the right and left were the wings of the asylum. There were thick iron bars on the windows.
He was windblown and out of breath. Feeling with every length of Gladiator’s stride that he was a fool, wasting his one chance to bring down Arthur Hamilton, he rode toward the gothic building, grimly furious. Today was the culmination of everything for him, the fruition of years of planning and he’d left it in Edgar Hamilton’s puny power to see it through. He must be mad sticking his neck out for a girl who likely hated him and one he had every reason to hate—for a shiver of intuition—a voice he had heard coming to him across the Down?
But without his intervention, Clara would have fallen into Strachan’s power and he could not allow that to happen. Branson had been vulnerable last night and full of self-pity. The cold clear morning brought him back to earth. I was damned either way, he thought and slapped Gladiator’s haunches, urging the horse to a gallop. His cloak lifted behind him and he leaned into the cold wind, his eyes stinging. Fear was bearing down on him that he might be too late and Clara would be too far gone to be saved. He’d seen it happen before.
At the front entrance, Branson dismounted and slung the leather satchel across his breast. He took the steps two at a time. Upon opening the heavy wooden door, he was struck first by the smell and then by the austerity of the lobby. The board of directors obviously believed in frugal use of the patronage they received. Branson found the Director’s Office and rapped sharply on the door. A woman in the garb of one of the new Nightingale Order of Nurses approached.
“The doctor is in conference, sir. How may I help you?”
“You can fetch my wife, Mrs. Clara Hamilton. She was admitted earlier this week. I’ve come to take her home.”
“Oh my!” The nurse cast an anxious glance at the Director’s office. “I shall have to consult with Dr. Rutledge before I can release Clara Hamilton to your charge. If you will take a seat, sir, I will alert the doctor that you are here.”
“Do not trouble yourself. This will only take a moment.” Having ascertained the man was in his office, Branson opened the door and walked in. “Doctor Rutledge. My name is Branson Hamilton. I believe you are holding my wife here. I’ve come to take her home.”
Rutledge looked up from the papers on his desk. He wore the sombre black frock coat of his profession. He set his pen down and sat back in his chair. Folding his hands over his midriff, he considered Branson thoughtfully.
“What you are asking is impossible, sir. I have examined Clara Hamilton carefully and she is only now beginning to respond to treatment. She is presently sedated and resting comfortably. I cannot authorize her removal in any case without her father’s consent.”
“Her father has nothing to do with this,” said Branson. “I am her husband and I have the registrat
ion of marriage here to prove it.”
Chapter Five
BRANSON WITHDREW the Parish Registrar Book from the leather satchel and opened it to the last page. The line read Mr. Branson Hamilton, Esquire wed Miss Clara Hamilton of London on September 25, 1867 at Windemere Chapel. Officiated by Church Curate, Mr. Harold Bellweather.
“The confusion occurred when Mr. Bellweather neglected to record the ceremony in a timely manner. When I explained the peril my wife was in following a visit to her father in London, Vicar Wimbley took steps to rectify the mistake.”
The doctor examined the entry closely. The book itself was undeniably a record of the births, deaths and marriages of the inhabitants of Windemere parish, filled in by various curates and vicars over its long history.
“I shall have to contact Mr. Arthur Hamilton to confirm this report before I can take action,” Dr. Rutledge said. “You must understand, sir, procedure must be followed.”
“I am not a patient man, Doctor. My father-in-law is tied up in a meeting of the shareholders and cannot be reached. I have no intention of waiting for his permission to claim my wife.”
“It is curious that Clara did not recall her own wedding,” Rutledge mused. “She is suffering from a pernicious psycho-sexual delusion. I believe it was brought on by illicit sexual relations with you, sir. The can be no other explanation for her bizarre claims.”
Branson leaned his fists on the man’s desk. “I see what you’re doing. You colluded with Arthur Hamilton to imprison my wife in this place and your treatments have driven her into a state of amnesia. You have used your influence to induce Clara to forget our wedding so she would not seek my help.”
Dr. Rutledge leapt to his feet, his face crimson with outrage. “How dare you! I am a respected physician in my field of study. Perhaps the trauma of returning to Windemere forced her into a regressive state, a state of childhood, before her marriage. And if that is the case, it was a reasonable misdiagnosis on my part, given the fact that the lady was not wearing a wedding ring when she arrived. Where are her rings if she is indeed your wife?”
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