River of Fire: Book 6 in The Fallen Angels Series

by Mary Jo Putney

Her husband slammed down his cup. "We will have nothing to do with any member of that household!"

  "Perhaps you will not, but I will," she said in a steely voice. "For all of the years of our marriage, I have ignored your obsession with Helen and your hatred for your brother, but no longer. Anthony and Helen fell in love and married. That was unmannerly, but hardly a crime. It was pure malice to hire that nice young man to try to prove that Anthony is a murderer."

  His jaw dropped. "How did you learn about that?"

  "Your own impatience gave it away." She got to her feet. "You never really knew Helen. She was a tempestuous woman who would have made you very uncomfortable. She had affairs, you know. Would you have wanted that in a wife? Hardly. It is time to stop mooning after her like a boy of seventeen."

  He rose, sputtering, "I forbid you to go to Ravensbeck!"

  "Will you hold me prisoner, my lord husband?" she asked with delicate sarcasm. "Will you bar me from my own house after I visit your brother? I don't think so."

  "Have you been pining for Anthony all of these years?" he said savagely. "Visiting him secretly like his other whores?"

  Her voice turned to ice. "Don't be an utter fool, Marcus. You can accompany me or not, but you cannot stop me."

  She turned and left the room, her hands shaking. In all the years of her marriage, she had never tested her influence over her husband. It was quite possible she had exceeded whatever small power she had. But twenty-eight years was long enough to live in the shadow of another woman. It was time to gamble in the hopes of bringing her marriage into the sun.

  * * *

  Lord Bowden sank into his seat, feeling as if the floor beneath his feet had cracked and he was on the verge of falling into the abyss. How could Margaret betray him so?

  Yet weren't his years of obsession for another woman a kind of betrayal of his wife? Occasionally he had seen Helen in the distance in London. He had stared avidly, wondering what their life would have been like if Anthony hadn't come between them. Yet if Margaret was right about Helen's temperament and affairs, it was true that he had never really known her.

  He thought of Helen and her beauty, and realized that what he felt was not love but the memory of love. The woman of his dreams would not have abandoned him for another man. That woman existed only in his imagination.

  Anthony and Helen fell in love and married. That was unmannerly, but hardly a crime.

  If Anthony had caused Helen's death, it was certainly a crime. But had there been a murder? Once, he had been convinced of it. The missing portion of the gimmal ring that Kimball had discovered had seemed proof positive. Now he had to wonder. How much of his conviction had stemmed from a desire to punish Anthony for being Helen's choice?

  Too much.

  A spasm of pain ripped through him. Who in his life had brought him the greatest comfort and happiness? Margaret. He had known her since she was a sweet-natured infant. Through the years of their marriage, she had wrapped him in a cocoon of kindness and comfort. Now, in a handful of words, she had withdrawn the love and loyalty he had always taken for granted.

  Sometimes, Bowden realized, one doesn't know what one values until it's gone.

  He went to the stables and ordered his horse to be saddled. Then he set off after his wife, not knowing if he was going to try to stop her or join her.

  * * *

  At breakfast Rebecca announced, "I'm going to take a picnic and spend the day drawing."

  Sir Anthony glanced up absently. "What direction shall we send the search parties if you forget to return for dinner?"

  "West. I thought I might walk to Skelwith Crag."

  He gave a nod of understanding. She guessed that he would make his own pilgrimage to the cliff when he was ready.

  Rebecca packed a basket with drawing supplies, bread, cheese, and two small jugs, one holding cider and the other water for watercolor painting. Then she set off.

  It was cooler in the Lake District than London, and snow was still on the highest hills. She took a shawl for warmth. The crisp air was bracing. More and more she liked the idea of living permanently at Ravensbeck.

  In no hurry to reach her destination, she walked at a leisurely pace and collected wildflowers on the way.

  But finally, filled with trepidation, she arrived at Skelwith Crag.

  Despite the name, it was not a high, bare mountaintop but a tall hill crowned with birches. One face was sheered away, which created a breathtaking view over a fertile river valley.

  She emerged from the birch grove and set her basket on the ground. Then, as the wind whipped through her hair, she took note of each familiar landmark.

  Six mirror-smooth lakes and tarns were visible, and several tumbling little rivers, full now from the snowmelt. Rugged hills beyond counting, with well-cultivated dales in between. It was a lovely view for the last moments of one's life.

  Then she deliberately studied the crag itself. Rather than a sharp drop-off, the cliff had a slanting brow that sloped gradually at first, then with increasing sharpness until it reached the final, fatal drop. It would not be impossible for someone to absently walk farther than was safe.

  Accident? Suicide? Murder? She doubted they would ever know for sure. She felt a deep ache, and wondered if she would ever be able to weep for her mother.

  One by one, she threw the flowers over the edge and watched them drift on the wind to the valley far below. Then she found a sunny, protected corner and settled down with her back against a convenient stone. Rebecca thought that a religious person might have prayed for her mother's soul. She opened her watercolors.

  Helen Seaton would have understood.

  * * *

  Frazier went to an attic window of his leased house and raised his telescope to scan the river valley. His gaze went automatically to Skelwith Crag. He expected to see nothing, but someone was there. A woman in a dark blue gown, sitting.

  He caught his breath with sudden excitement when he realized that Anthony's damned daughter was there sketching. Perfect.

  He went to his room for the slender gold band, then down to the stables. The ride would take about an hour. Since she was drawing, she should still be there when he arrived.

  But she wouldn't be for much longer.

  * * *

  Kenneth arrived at Ravensbeck by late morning, his horse lathered with exertion. Ignoring the charms of the weathered gray limestone house, he took the front steps three at a time. The door was unlocked, so he walked in.

  A footman who had come from London emerged to greet him. "Lord Kimball, you're here early," he said with surprise. "Impatient to see Miss Rebecca, I've no doubt."

  "Exactly. Where is she?"

  "I believe she's gone walking in the hills."

  Kenneth swore. "What about Sir Anthony? Or Lady Claxton?"

  "They're in the gardens. Shall I take you there?"

  Barely curbing his impatience, Kenneth said, "Please."

  Sir Anthony and Lavinia were enjoying the pale sunshine when Kenneth arrived. His employer said jovially, "You've completed the rebuilding arrangements already? If you'd been in charge of the army, Napoleon would have been defeated in six months."

  After dismissing the footman, Kenneth said, "I came because I'm concerned for your safety. Is Frazier in the neighborhood?"

  "Not that I know of."

  "Perhaps he is," Lavinia remarked. "One of the local maids said this morning that all the Londoners seemed to be coming early this year. I didn't think much about it at the time. But Frazier has a summer house only a few miles away. Perhaps the girl was referring to his arrival."

  Kenneth swore again. "I believe he threw the bomb into Seaton House and that he killed Lady Seaton last summer."

  There was a moment of frozen silence. Then Sir Anthony sputtered, "That's absurd! Helen's death was accidental. It's insane to say she was killed by one of my oldest friends."

  Kenneth shook his head. "It was an improbable accident. I gather that her intimates suspected suicide, which
is why no one will speak of her death."

  Sir Anthony's face paled. "You've been talking to Rebecca."

  He nodded. "From what she said, if Lady Seaton were to take her life, it would probably have been in the winter, when her melancholia was at its worst. Not in the summer."

  Lavinia laid her hand over Sir Anthony's. "Listen to him, my dear. He's making sense, especially about Malcolm Frazier. Frazier's voice is always edged when he speaks of you. His resentment of your success might have overcome his friendship and made him capable of doing what Kenneth said."

  While Anthony stared at his mistress, Kenneth said impatiently, "I'll explain later, but first I want to find Rebecca. Do you know where she went on her walk?"

  "To Skelwith Crag, where Helen died," Sir Anthony replied.

  Lavinia's brows drew together. "I think the crag is visible from Frazier's house. If he is in residence, he could see her there. But surely he would have no reason to hurt Rebecca."

  "Why would he kill Lady Seaton?" Kenneth retorted. "I think he's more than a little mad, and I don't want to take chances. Is there a groom who can guide me to the crag?"

  "I'll take you there myself." Sir Anthony got to his feet. "Though I don't believe you, your concern is infectious."

  "Then let's go now. By horseback."

  Ten interminable minutes later, they set off at a brisk canter. As the men rode, Kenneth began to give terse explanations. When he described Lord Bowden's assignment and his own covert role, Sir Anthony said dryly, "So Marcus is the one responsible for finding me a secretary. I think I'll write him a thank you note. He'll hate knowing he did me a service."

  Surprised, Kenneth said, "You can forgive my deceit?"

  Sir Anthony gave him a shrewd glance. "You may have entered the house falsely, but that doesn't mean you're treacherous."

  "I wish Rebecca were so tolerant."

  "Ah. So that's why she isn't wearing your ring."

  "I didn't realize you had noticed that."

  "I notice a great deal, but thought it better not to meddle any further." They came to a fork in the trail and Sir Anthony turned onto the left branch. "My daughter has a problem with trusting, I fear. It's easier for her to believe the worst of people."

  "I've given her cause," Kenneth said grimly.

  Sir Anthony sighed. "She was such a quiet little girl. She never seemed upset by the irregularities of the artistic world, or by her mother's volatile moods, or my self-absorption. It wasn't until she ran off with that idiot poet that I realized we had failed to give her the stability a child needs. By that time, it was too late to really repair the damage. I worry about her. Except for her work, she has become so closed in. That was why I thought you would be good for her. She needs a man who is steady. Someone she can rely on, no matter what."

  Sir Anthony's analysis of his daughter certainly explained why she had taken it so badly when she learned that Kenneth had violated her family's trust. It had been easy for her to think the worst, and his own guilt and confusion about his future hadn't helped. But, by God, Kenneth knew now what he wanted.

  Putting the thought aside, he described why he believed Frazier was a murderer and arsonist. As Sir Anthony listened, his doubtful expression changed to shocked acceptance.

  When Kenneth finished, the painter said, "If Helen didn't kill herself..." His voice broke. "You can't know what that means to me." His face showed grief and anger, but also relief that a terrible burden had been lifted.

  They fell into silence. Kenneth pushed the pace hard across the rough countryside. The anxiety he had first felt when Rebecca left London had intensified to near panic even though his head told him he was worrying needlessly. Rebecca would be painting a landscape and snappish at being interrupted. She would tell him acerbically that he was a fool to carry on so.

  He would never be so happy to be wrong if he lived to be a hundred.

  Chapter 32

  "Good day, Rebecca."

  She almost jumped from her skin as a familiar voice sounded from a dozen feet away. Her concentration and the constant soughing of the wind had kept her from noticing his approach.

  She glanced up, holding her sopping brush to one side so it wouldn't dribble onto her picture. "Good day, Lord Frazier," she said coolly. "I didn't know you intended to come north so soon."

  "I came on impulse." He gazed at the vista, tapping his thigh idly with his riding crop, every inch the London gentleman.

  She thought dryly that it was a pity he hadn't stayed in London. It was tiresome to have him underfoot all the time. The man seemed to have no independent life—he existed as a satellite of her father. But he must be treated politely. "The lake country is a welcome relief after the city."

  He dug into his waistcoat pocket. "I had a mission—to give you a small gift."

  Not wanting anything from him, she said, "If it's a betrothal present, I must decline. Lord Kimball and I have decided we shall not suit."

  "It's not a betrothal present." His lips curved into something that was not a smile. "At least, not for your betrothal. Here."

  He extended his hand. She reluctantly reached out and he dropped a small object into her palm.

  It was the missing heart band from her mother's gimmal ring.

  She stared at the slim band, feeling a chill that struck to her bones. Kenneth had been right. Her mother had been murdered, and by her father's friend.

  In the wake of understanding came suffocating fear. Pretend ignorance. "What a pretty ring. Thank you, Lord Frazier."

  "Put it on," he ordered.

  Uneasily she slipped the band onto the ring finger of her left hand. "It's a little loose." She started to remove it.

  "Leave it on," he commanded. "Helen was larger than you, but no matter. The ring is necessary."

  Desperate to leave, she said brightly, "I'll tell my father you've arrived. I'm sure he'll want you to dine with us tonight. I'll see you then."

  She started to pack her drawing supplies in her basket.

  "Don't bother with that," he drawled. "You don't need your watercolors to join your mother."

  The most frightening thing was his utter calm. He might have been discussing the weather.

  Still dissembling, she said, "I don't understand."

  He flexed his riding crop between his hands. "I think you do. You're a mousy little creature, but not stupid. Still grieving over your mother's sad end, you will join her in death. No one who saw your Transfiguration painting will be surprised. A pity the significance of the ring will not be understood. It's the details that make a picture."

  Her chances of escape were almost nil; he was tall and strong, and his coolness increased the menace. Perhaps if she could discompose him, it might work to her advantage. "If you kill me, Kenneth will know. He deduced that Mother was murdered. He'll realize that the same thing happened to me."

  Frazier only shrugged. "Kimball must be more clever than he looks, but it won't do him or you any good. I had already planned to eliminate him. The man irritates me, preening over the shallow praise for his ugly paintings."

  "You can't hurt him," she said scornfully. "He's a soldier, a man of action. He could break you in half with his bare hands."

  "Even men of action die when they take a bullet in the heart," he said imperturbably. "I may not be a soldier, but I am an excellent marksman." He started toward her.

  Her heart clenched with fear. "Why are you doing this?" she cried. "My father has been your friend! How can you let your jealousy turn you into a murderer?"

  Frazier paused. "Anthony is my friend—my dearest friend in the world. The only thing I love more is art. My actions have not been aimed at Anthony, but at the wicked influences that have corrupted his work."

  She stared at him. "Corrupted his work? He is the finest painter in England. His portraits, his landscapes, his historical paintings—all are brilliant."

  Frazier's face twisted with the first emotion he had shown. "It's all rubbish. Helen ruined Anthony as an artist. When
we were students at the Royal Academy Schools, he had a passion for all that was highest and best in art. His early paintings in the Grand Manner were glorious—full of nobility and refinement."

  "They were beautifully executed but not very memorable," she shot back. "It wasn't until he finished his schooling that he developed a distinctive style and vision."

  Frazier's knuckles whitened on his riding crop. "Helen destroyed him! To support her, he turned to tawdry portraits and vulgar paintings that Hampton could engrave and sell to any fishmonger with a shilling in his pocket. Anthony could have been the equal of Reynolds! Instead, he dishonored his talent."

  Horribly fascinated by his warped thinking, she said, "Do you consider Horatius at the Bridge to be a disgrace?"

  Frazier spat on the ground. "A perfect example of what is wrong with his work. A resonant classical theme, superb execution. It could have been brilliant—but he spoiled the picture with blatant emotionalism. A pity it didn't burn in the studio fire. The ideal of the Grand Manner is to transcend nature, not wallow in it."

  "My father transcends the Grand Manner," she said dryly. "He and other real artists show the world in fresh ways. They don't regurgitate the same tired scenes over and over."

  "Kimball was right when he said you had great influence on Anthony's work." He angrily slapped his riding crop into his left palm. "I had thought the real problem was Helen, that after her death he would return to more worthy painting. But how could he, with you spouting stupid female ideas about art? When I saw your work in the exhibition, I realized what an insidious influence you have been on him. A pity that foolish poet I sent after you wasn't more competent."

  It was another stunning shock. "Did you hire Frederick to seduce me?" she said incredulously.

  "Nothing so formal. I merely pointed out how romantic red hair was, and how wealthy you would be someday. His own fevered imagination took care of the rest." Frazier shook his head. "If you'd married him and moved from under your father's roof, it wouldn't have come to this. You have only yourself to blame."

  "That is the most ridiculous thing you've said yet." Rebecca rested her hand on the water jug used for rinsing her brush, and tensed in readiness. "No wonder you're such a poor painter. You have terrible judgment and no sense for truth. Your Leonidas was pathetic. I was a better artist when I was ten."