“You have no idea how you are hurting me,” she said. Her voice carried on the still autumn air. “How it wounds me to be in your company. I am not a strong woman. At times I wish I was more like Trudy Delisle, able to ignore feelings for practicality. But I see you and I must love you, and this love is tearing me apart. You may not be given to forgiveness, but I am cannot live my life in resentment and bitterness. I forgive you, Branson. I forgive you everything.”
Branson’s blue eyes darkened. He did not speak for several seconds. “Do not despise me for doing what I must. I live with a madwoman. There is no escape for me but I will not lure you into the same trap.”
“I do not care to be free without you!”
“You are talking like a child! Grace was in the bedchamber the night we made love. She was watching us.” Branson reached for his breeches and yanked them on, dressing as he talked. “I instructed Piers to lock her in her apartment after your arrival, but she wheedled and begged and he gave in to her that night. Piers Leeds is her brother,” he said tersely.
“Oh dear God,” she moaned. “Piers is Grace’s brother—why did you not tell me? You took another woman to bed right under your wife’s nose! You are without pity. Cold—heartless—I cannot endure!” Clara turned away, horrified. “Oh God, what have I done? I didn’t know. I thought it was only me you sought to destroy with a false betrothal. You were trying to destroy your wife as well. You beguiled us both.”
“I beguiled no one, least of all Grace,” he snapped. “She knew from the first about our plan; Piers and I explained it to her. She wanted to see you ruined as much as I did. She’d become increasingly unstable—something drastic had to be done. I hoped that by getting justice for her, it would ease her mind and bring her peace.”
Clara scrambled to gather her clothing together, trying to get away from him as fast as possible. “She is your wife. You should have sought help for her—not a pathetic scheme of revenge. I know what it is to be cast aside by the one I love. Whatever you may think, it was cruel to let Grace witness what she did.”
“The whole of my life for seven years has been dedicated to trying to make her well!” Branson shouted. “You cannot endure? Consider what I have endured living with that monster! If you mean to go, then go! But you will listen to my story before I’ll suffer you to judge me.”
He gripped Clara’s wrists and dragged her down to the earthy furrows. The ground was hard. The day grew cold. Branson forced her to look into his haunted sapphire eyes.
“I have been without love for seven years. I have not lived with her as a man lives with his wife—as I have lived with you. Grace attacked me on our wedding night. She cannot bear to be touched. She cannot tolerate another woman at Windemere. Piers is tasked with keeping her under lock and key. You have seen what happens when she is at liberty. Our lives are shattered—all three of us. I do not tell you this to be pitied or even to gain your understanding. I knew what Grace was when I married her.”
She was chilled by his words but the heat from his bare chest and his hands on her wrists steadied her. Her frantic haste to get away was subsiding. “Go on. I am listening.”
“After her breakdown, Piers would not allow her to be placed in an asylum. He convinced me she was better off among familiar faces and I hoped she would eventually recover. But her emotional frailty is an inherited condition. Piers confessed his mother had suffered from delusions and bouts of rage. Grace was a mathematical genius, a highly strung temperament that matched my own when I met her, though I hadn’t her ruthlessness back then.”
“But you do now.”
“Yes,” he said brutally. “What would you have me do—live like a monk for the rest of my days? I didn’t lie when I said Grace Leeds had died at her own hand. When it became clear she was not getting any better, I told Piers I would pay for treatment at a private sanatorium in Switzerland. Grace became violently angry, refusing to leave Windemere, saying she would kill herself if I ever attempted to leave her. Ruthless? I would tear her heart out if I could! I pitied her once, but no more. My wife chose this prison of the mind and she has imprisoned me with her. Grace chose a living death and I was resigned to dying with her. The life I have been living these past seven years was not a life for a man. But I could endure it—until you.”
His speech moved her as it was meant to move her. Branson could be very persuasive, as she well knew. But it was not Clara he was trying to convince this time. She could probably forget that Grace existed but Branson could not. Whenever he bedded Clara, his wife would come between them, buried in his sub-conscience, poisoning his mind. Grace had a diabolical power over him.
“Is she violent with you?” Clara asked.
“On occasion, but her true gift is her cunning cruelty. I was responsible for introducing her to your father and she has never let me forget it. When she is crossed, she is dangerous. Her rages are violent but she is always sorry for them after.”
“Please let me help you. I want you, I want you,” she breathed desperately. “I love you.”
Branson dropped her wrists and lurched away from her, reeling across the field like a drunken man. He pounded his fist against the trunk of the oak tree and uttered a cry that wrenched her heart. “The only time we have left to us is now—here in this field. This day is ours. We will not have another. Even this is more than I deserve.”
Clara’s heart sank. She blinked back tears. It was as though Windemere Hall itself held him captive. He would not leave. Branson Hamilton was a married man. Clara’s feelings were beside the point. His marriage to a living Grace Leeds terminated all hope for a future with him.
“How am I to live without you,” she said weakly.
He turned to gaze at her. “How am I to live without you?”
“Branson,” Clara sobbed. “Please. You must help me let you go.”
She held her hand out to him and he closed the distance between them in two strides.
He fell on her, fastening his mouth to her lips and then to her breast. Clara clawed at his breeches until they opened and she released his already rigid male sex organ. She caught his hair in her fists and cried out when he entered her. If this was to be their last time, she would not hold anything back. He would know everything about her—her love, her passion and her obsession with him. She was his other self, created for him from his very body. She was his rib, if such a thing were possible, and when she was with him, Clara was complete.
Tenderly, she stroked his blonde hair out of his eyes. He kissed her lips and she clung to him more desperately than she wished.
Her cousin moved over her and inside her with a steady controlled rhythm, his sapphire eyes never leaving her face.
THE COACH to London arrived at the stone marker at half past the hour. Clara insisted on taking it. He saw her aboard with her small case of belongings, paid the driver and pressed some pound notes into Clara’s frozen hands for the journey.
“Our bargain is at an end. You are free, Clara.”
“I was always free, Branson. I was happy when I set out to marry you ... for the first time in my life.” She dashed tears from her eyes and drew in a steadying breath. “Please inform your wife I regret the pain I have caused her. I did not know she existed until today.”
“I am sorry. We found each other too late.”
She shook her head, her eyes spilling over with tears. “If only you would suffer as I am suffering but you won’t. You will be happy. I’m not as brave as you are, Bran. Good-bye.”
He nodded and stepped back. The carriage pulled away in the direction of London. Branson watched it go, unable to move though he faced a long cold ride to Somerset. Drifting unmoored by the side of the road, he fought the rise of feeling that threatened to swamp him.
Gladiator trotted over and Branson Hamilton began the solitary journey back to Windemere Hall.
Chapter Eight
IT WAS late when he arrived at the estate. A thin column of black smoke rose from the chimney. Piers greeted h
im at the door. “A message was delivered for you an hour ago from London.”
Branson tore open the envelope and read the note enclosed. Edgar’s detailed report on the events of the meeting and Arthur’s subsequent removal from Hamilton Trading was satisfactory, and yet empty.
“Where is Quince? Gladiator needs a good rubdown and an extra ration of oats. He’s earned it. I called out but I can’t find the man anywhere.”
“There has been an accident, sir.” Piers darted a glance at the floor above. “May we speak in private?”
“Private?” Branson snapped. His nerves were like hot needles. “No one is here, you fool! What is the matter? Where is Quince?”
“Sir, I regret to tell you Mr. Quince is dead. He was killed upstairs in the west corridor. A marble statue was not quite secure on its pedestal. It toppled and crushed his skull.”
Piers delivered his grim news with quiet severity but Branson could see his brother-in-law was fighting an emotion that did not have grief as its cause. Piers was frightened.
The news hit Branson hard. He moaned and covered his face in his hands. “Jesus—Quince! That statue was too heavy fall. I don’t believe this tale of yours. I don’t believe any of it. I want the truth—what happened?” His voice rose.
Piers stumbled over his words. “I-I-don’t know—it was an accident.” He lowered his voice though they were alone in the hall. “This is down to you. We were arguing about Miss Clara when it happened. You should never have brought her here knowing Grace’s state of mind. You did not have to offer marriage to get that girl into bed. You could have taken her the same way my sister was taken.”
“You would have me become a rapist, then?” Branson hissed furiously. “You would have me foul my soul, my mind and my conscience just to secure your revenge.”
“My revenge! You wanted to bring Arthur down as much as I did. Do not lay this at my door.”
“Stop it, God damn you to hell, I beg of you—shut up! I have heard enough. Grace did this! My so-called wife murdered Quince!” Branson sank to a chair and turned haunted eyes on Piers. “What have we done? We have nurtured a monster. What the hell have we done?”
“It was an accident,” Piers said quickly. “There is no proof that it was Grace. I did not see her in the hall and I was right there when it happened. It could just as easily have been me that was killed when the statue fell.”
“But it wasn’t, was it?” he said dully. “Have you summoned the doctor?”
“I was waiting for you. I don’t see much point in it.”
“A man is dead. He cannot be laid to rest without a doctor’s certificate.”
“It will raise questions, Bran.”
Branson sighed from the depths of his being. The danger of ‘questions’ had dogged him from the start of meeting Grace Leeds. He could not seem to escape them no matter what he did. “A man is dead in my house. I shall deal with the questions. Fetch the doctor, request an examination and then arrange to have Quince buried in the family cemetery.” He cast his eyes to floor above. “Where is she?”
“In her apartment. I’ve locked her in. She is quite inconsolable, Branson. She feels your loss most keenly.”
“Do not attempt to manipulate my feelings today, Piers. I have no feeling in me. Only be grateful that I’ve returned to your sister at all. I was near to telling you both to go to hell.”
“So that you may run off with Miss Hamilton? My sister isn’t a fool.” Piers’s mouth compressed into a thin line. His skin was white with rage and blotches of red bloomed on his neck.
“How like Grace you are, Piers,” Branson mused, looking at him. “Quick to feel an insult and slow to extend compassion. You might as well know the truth. I’ve told Clara Hamilton everything. She wanted to love me but I refused her. She is on her way to London. As for me, I no longer believe that I have a wife or a marriage or that Grace has any feelings for me. I’m beginning to realize she never did.”
Branson rose to his feet. “She is stuck with me, as are you, Piers. You made a bad bargain when you set out to snare me. I did love Grace once. I loved her as only a young man can love a girl. But she did not return the feeling. She hasn’t the depth to do so.”
“Gracie might have loved you if you had not brought her here seven years ago. Did you do it on purpose? That is what I’ve been longing to ask—since we are letting our hair down, brother. Did you know the sort of man Arthur Hamilton was when you invited Grace here? Did you use her as bait to revenge your mother’s honour? Grace certainly provided you with the ammunition to take him down.”
Branson lunged for Piers’s throat. He fastened his hands around his brother-in-law’s neck and squeezed. “I’ve paid for my mistake every day for seven years. You have seen to it. And now I’m to spend the rest of my days with that murderous creature you are bent on protecting. Take heed, Piers. I will not dignify your foul insinuation with a civil response if you make it a second time.”
He flung the man away. Piers choked and gasped for air.
“Give me the key to Grace’s room.” He snapped his fingers and Piers dropped the brass key into his hand with a sulky, fearful look.
Branson spun on his heel and bounded up the stairs. His nerves sang with fury. The life he had made for himself had cost him everything and now was tearing him apart. He had to quiet his temper before he saw his wife or he might kill her with his bare hands.
He unlocked Grace’s door and stepped inside.
§
St. James Place, London ~ that evening
“HARLOT!” ARTHUR Hamilton roared.
Clara twisted her hands around the strap of her case. “I won’t be spoken to like that, Father. I am only here to see Edgar. Kindly ask Tilly or one of the others to fetch him for me.”
“Hah! Do you think I would keep that Judas under my roof after what he did to me today?” Arthur fumed and paced his study. “Your brother has decamped to his Gentlemen’s Club, no doubt to celebrate his victory. He said you would be staying at Windemere Hall with that traitor Branson until such time as he could send for you. They cooked up this scheme between them, you know, to circumvent my authority and get you out of Gateshead. Well, now here you are and if you think I’ll welcome you back after everything you have done to wound me—yes, wound me!—you are sadly mistaken!”
“I did what I had to do to keep you out of prison. Branson demanded it. You lost your seat on the board but at least you are not in jail.”
“So then,” Arthur said coldly. “What Strachan has told me is true. To be completely fair to you, I was forced to acknowledge that I had depended on his testimony alone. You can confirm the rumour with your own lips. Did you have had sexual relations with that man?”
“Captain Strachan gave me his p-p-promise he would not say anything.”
“Well, he has broken his promise. You rejected his proposal, ergo, the captain sees no reason to protect you or keep your foul secrets. No decent man would. Strachan is informing everyone in London of your latest exploits at Windemere Hall. I am only hurt that you chose not to tell me yourself, that I might have been braced for the humiliation. Well, what do you have to say for yourself? Is what Strachan saying true?”
She stared at the floor. “Yes, it is true.”
Arthur exploded in rage. “What have I done to deserve this treatment? I have given you everything—everything! I have endured no end of sniggering for your sake! It will not be borne, do you hear!”
Clara lifted her eyes to his. “It must be borne, Father.” She was not crying, nor was she trembling. This was the last time she would permit anyone to abuse her love. “The deed is done and nothing can change it now. You will not go to prison. That must count for something. I did it for you. I love you and I know you love me.”
“You have brought disgrace upon this family, Clara. We have nothing more to say to each other. I can no longer own you as my daughter. You have put me in an impossible position. Do not think you can force me to excuse your sinful nature for I w
ill not.”
Clara nodded. Her eyes were dry. She lifted her case, glad of the pound notes Branson had given her; she would need them to pay for lodgings for the night. “I shall send a message to Edgar informing him of where I will be staying. I’ll ask him to keep my address a secret from you and our mother. As you have indicated, we have nothing more to say to each other. Good-bye, Father.”
Walking out of her home was the easiest thing Clara had done in years.
§
Windemere Hall ~ the same night
“YOU’VE COME home!” Grace exclaimed and flew into his arms. “I knew you would—I told Piers, my Branson will come home—he loves me. Has he told you about poor Mr. Quince? It was a dreadful accident.”
She looked up at him under lowered lashes; an alluring, mysterious look that had seduced him when he first met her. Now he saw its shallow worth.
Branson steeled himself for battle. “Why did you do it, Grace?”
“Me? It had nothing whatsoever to do with me.” She flounced away, sulky, with a clever look on her face. “Mr. Quince was raving on at length in a most insulting manner and I happened forward to stop him from speaking, and the statue fell. I was as surprised as anyone that the statue could be moved. It is very heavy.”
Not too heavy for a mad woman. The attack on Clara—the marks on her neck, it was a miracle she survived. Grace had red wounds around her eyes from where Clara had defended herself that day that were now darkening to purple.
Branson was sick of death and disease, sick of revenge and hate. “I cannot go on like this.” He raised his hands, palms open, and walked toward her. Grace slunk to a corner of the room as she always did when he was trying to reason with her. “You have killed Mr. Quince. Whether deliberately or by accident, a man is dead and the constabulary will be here to arrest you after the doctor has had a look at him. You have tried to commit murder before and this time you have succeeded. You are not to blame. I knew what you were. I should have had you locked up years ago. Mr. Quince’s death is on my hands.”
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