by Candace Camp
“To help you clear your name.”
His father smiled to himself. “I suspected that you might.”
“But if you refuse to reveal the identity of this woman, then how do you plan to do it?”
“By trying to find the person who did kill her.”
“How? Obviously the police could not.”
“They gave up after I left the country. Sebastian had given me an alibi, and I was gone, anyway. But I think they still believed that I was the killer, so they never looked any further. They closed the case. I, however, have one advantage over them. I know that I did not kill her. So I am able to have a more open mind about the evidence.”
“And?”
“Well, we know three things about the killer. He was someone whom Rose would have spoken of as a wealthy, high-class gentleman. Either he was one, or he was posing as one. He had to live within a close enough distance that he could meet her in Lady’s Woods frequently. And he had to have access to our safe. Now, who are the gentlemen in this area? Myself, my father, Lord Chalcomb and my cousin Evesham.”
“Evesham? I haven’t met him.”
“It’s no loss. He was always a sneaky sort. I find it hard to believe that even a naive girl would have believed that Chalcomb would have married her, which she boasted her lover would do, since he was already married. My father was a widower, but…I don’t think he was so skilled an actor as to have killed her and then had the scene with me over my killing her. Besides, neither he nor Chalcomb could remotely have been considered a ‘young’ gentleman. My choice for a suspect is Evesham. He frequently visited in our house; he was Father’s brother’s son, and close to my age. Father always fondly believed we were like brothers to each other.”
Damon quirked an eyebrow. “But only if the brothers he was speaking of were Cain and Abel. Evesham and I never liked one another. He was forever stealing my things or doing something that I got blamed for. Anyway, he was here often, so he would have seen Rose and been able to seduce her. He could have met her in the woods even when he was not staying here, because his house isn’t all that far away from here—and it is closer to Lady’s Woods than it is to Ranleigh Court. And Evesham was always a great one for the ladies. No, I shouldn’t say that, for it was usually a lower sort he was after. His mother had had to get rid of any housemaid under forty, because he was always chasing them. Even tried to seduce his little sister’s governess once. He was definitely the sort to go after Rose and tell her anything to get her into his bed.”
“Sounds like a villain to me.”
“He was.”
“But what about your other point? Did he have access to the safe?”
“Yes. He was here during the school holiday. He could easily have taken the rubies then. Father did not open the safe every day. Nor would it have been difficult for him to have found out the combination. Father never could remember the numbers, and he kept them on a paper in that unlocked drawer. Everyone in the family knew it. Foolish, but he was rather arrogant. He thought the only people to worry about were burglars from the outside, and he presumed they would not think of looking in the desk to find the combination.”
“So what we need to do is dig up some evidence on dear old cuz.”
“I realize it is a rather vague task.”
“Mm-hmm…”
“But I have plenty of time to work on it.”
“I don’t,” Bryan responded, rising. “You forget, I intend to get married before too long, and I don’t wish to have my father’s reputation as a killer hanging over the nuptials.”
Damon smiled faintly. “That would be a bit awkward. Then we shall have to wrap it up quickly, won’t we?”
His son grinned back, and the resemblance between them, masked by differences in coloring, was suddenly startling. “That is my intention.” Bryan started toward the door.
“Now what are you doing? Where are you going?”
“I thought I would let you get reacquainted with your old friends—and your new family. I am going to find Priscilla and find out what the devil’s going on.”
ANNE HANDED THE REINS OF HER PONY to the aging groom who had waited patiently for her, sitting on a bale of hay and dozing, his back against the stable wall. She lifted her skirts and hurried across the yard to the kitchen entrance of the house. It was dark inside, lit only by the banked fire in the huge, old-fashioned fireplace. In the hallway beyond, a sconce burned here and there along the wall, left to light her way. She took the snuffer and put them out as she went along, well used to the economy.
No servant waited up for her. Her personal maid had long since gone on to better employment, and she made do with a housemaid when she needed a gown buttoned where she could not reach. Tonight she was very glad that she did not have to face anyone, not even a maid. It had taxed her skills to their utmost to appear normal on the ride home with the Hamiltons and the doctor. Had they suspected? Had they noticed her pallor and jittery inattention?
She reached her room and went inside, shutting the door thankfully behind her. She began to shiver. Though it was always a little bit cool in this old manor house, even in the summer, it was not really the chill in the air that set off her shudders. It was simply a release for her raw nerves, held in check for the last hour.
He was here! He had returned! She did not know what to do or what to think. Why had he returned after all this time? She had been telling the truth when she said she thought he had long since died. She had told herself that he was gone forever, that she would never see him, and the years had helped convince her of the truth of it. And then…there he had been, handsome and smiling, looking so much like the boy she had known, and yet so different, all at the same time. It had been all she could do not to faint right there on the spot, as that silly Bianca had.
Anne stripped off her gloves and threw them on the dressing table, then began hurriedly undoing the buttons down her front. Had he seen her? Would he have recognized her if he did? She gazed anxiously into the mirror above her dressing table, seeing the gray hairs sprinkled among her blond ones, the wrinkles fanning out from her eyes and framing her mouth. It had been thirty years, and she was afraid that every one of them showed on her face. She was hardly the girl she had been then, when he had called her the most beautiful woman in England.
Her dress had fallen open, exposing her chemise. One hand went to the tops of her breasts, running lightly across the swell. She remembered how firm and full they had been when she was young, how their creamy tops had practically spilled out of her ball gowns, full and luscious. She cupped her hands beneath her breasts, closing her eyes, as she remembered how he would caress them, almost in awe, praising her beauty.
Tears brimmed beneath her closed lids, and she dashed them away in irritation. What a fool she was! He would have no interest in her. He had come back here to claim his title, not to see her. He probably did not even remember the brief time when they had been in love. Obviously he had married; he had a son. No wonder her heart had stuttered when she first saw the young man sitting in Priscilla’s kitchen. For just a split second, he had looked so much like Damon, until her mind had registered the obvious differences in coloring and features and she had told herself that she had been crazy to think he was Damon.
It had been the frame, the posture, the way he held his head, the shape of his jaw and chin, that had been like Damon. She remembered them all so well.
With a little sob, Anne tore off her dress and tossed it on the chair, quickly following it with her petticoats and other undergarments. Usually she was far more careful with her clothes, but tonight she could not bring herself to care. She wanted only to get into bed and lose herself in sleep, to forget what had happened tonight—and so long ago. But even after she pulled on her nightgown and hopped into bed, pulling the covers up tightly around her to combat the shivering, she found that sleep would not come to ease her mind.
Instead, all she could think about was him. He had looked very much as he had thirty years ago. The years had added
character to his face, not taken away from the handsomeness. Even the wings of white in his hair were attractive.
She remembered how she used to wait in the gazebo, down by the pond, her nerves leaping in anticipation. She would sit on the west side because she knew he would come from the east, and soon she would see him, a dark figure on a horse, lithely at one with the animal, coming across the field. He would turn before he reached her, going into the wood to tie his horse where it would not be seen. And then he would come across the grass to the white gazebo, almost running, his eagerness as great as hers. She could remember the clutching in her stomach as she watched him approach, the combination of desire and guilt and love, spiced with the fear that Chalcomb might return early from the tavern that night.
She remembered, too, that last night. Chalcomb had gone hunting for the week, and they had seen each other over and over again. They had wanted to sleep together, to lie beside each other all night long, and that last night she had daringly crept downstairs and opened the door to let him in, sneaking upstairs with him to her bedchamber. Her heart had been in her throat, for she had been sure that some servant would see them, yet her desire had been even greater than the fear. She could feel again his large hand in hers, the palm hardened from years of riding, could feel his tall body close beside hers as they rushed up the darkened staircase, could hear his breath, fast from his dash across the yard. His heat, his smell…
Anne groaned and turned over, burying her face in the pillow. Why was she doing this to herself? She could not remember how many nights she had lain awake, torturing herself like this, recalling every last moment with him, every word, every gesture, every caress.
Their coupling had been wild and furious that night, as it always was. They had been young, and their passion had run in them like wildfire. Just the touch of his hands had always ignited her. His mouth could drive her to the brink. And when he came inside her, driving deep into her softness, it had always felt as if a missing part of her had been returned, as if for those few moments she was whole again.
But afterward they had lain together quietly, whispering and giggling, laying foolish plans for the future, reveling in the luxury of having a night together. And soon they had made love again, slowly, leisurely, exploring every facet of their desire. That time had been closer to heaven than anything Anne had ever known, before or since.
He had left just before dawn lit the sky. The next time she saw him, he had been accused of murder and in a rage over his father’s lack of belief in him. He had wanted her to flee with him, to leave Chalcomb and begin a new life with him. But she had been too afraid, too guilty, too full of doubts. He had gone, his face white with fury and shock. He had gone on to that new life; he had married, had children. And she had remained here, bearing with Chalcomb’s temper and relieved by his infidelities, doing her duty, stitching her embroidery and watching her life drain out of her, bit by bit.
She wondered what would have happened if she had gone with him. She had thought about it many times, imagining their children, their cozy home, their love. And as many times she had told herself that it might just as easily have been fights and woes, bitter regrets and gnawing guilt. Tonight, however, seeing him again, she knew that it would not have been. She would have had a son with him, perhaps, a man like John, and they would have shared each day of his growing up, knit together in happiness. Instead, he had shared those days with another woman. And she had lived her life in emptiness.
Tears flooded her eyes and began to pour down her cheeks. She had had her chance, and she had not taken it. She would never get it again. He was married. And he would not look at her twice now, anyway. He was a handsome and powerful man, a duke, and she…she was but a dried husk of a woman, her youth and beauty gone, wasted on an old roué. Anne turned on her side and gave way to her tears, sobbing as years of regret and loss poured out of her and were soaked up in the sheets of her empty bed.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
PRISCILLA WAS IN THE SITTING ROOM, pretending to work on the mending, the next morning when a heavy knock sounded on the door of Evermere Cottage. She knew immediately that it was John—no, not John, Bryan. The Marquess of Lynden. He had come by late last night. She had lain in bed and listened to him pounding on the door, calling out her name, but she had stubbornly refused to get out of bed and answer him. Miss Pennybaker had not gotten back from the ball yet, and Florian was in his workshop out back, too immersed to hear anything. So no one had ever opened the door. But she had known he would come back. He was not the kind of man who gave up easily.
Since she had gotten up this morning, Priscilla had been dreading his call. She had tried to compose herself so that she could speak to him, holding cold compresses to her eyes to hide the puffiness of crying and reminding herself over and over that she was strong. On the one hand, she wanted to see him again, so that she could storm at him and tell him what she thought of his lies. On the other hand, she was afraid that she would simply burst into tears and be unable to say anything. Now that he was actually here, she froze, unable to move.
She heard Miss Pennybaker going to the front door and opening it. “Oh, my lord! How kind of you to drop by!” The governess’s voice managed to be both giggly and awed. “Isn’t it remarkable? I was struck dumb last night—utterly dumb—when His Grace came into the party. And then to find out that you are his son—Well! It was almost beyond belief. To think that we have been harboring a marquess under our roof and didn’t even know it!”
Miss Pennybaker, to no one’s surprise, had been swept away by the romance of the news last night. She had prattled on about it all morning, much to Priscilla’s annoyance, commenting on how it was just like a novel, the way Ranleigh had swept into the room. The Duchess’s fainting had added to the high drama. But the crowning touch, of course, had been the discovery that their own guest, their patient, the unknown John Wolfe, was in fact the son of the Duke! Miss Pennybaker’s cup of joy had run over. Priscilla had replied shortly to the woman’s questions and comments, but Miss Pennybaker had seemed to take no notice of her mood. Priscilla had been deeply grateful when Florian asked Miss Pennybaker to help him with his article.
There was the rumble of a deep voice outside; then Miss Pennybaker went on gaily, “Of course, my lord. She is in the sitting room. Let me show you the way.”
As if he didn’t know exactly where the sitting room was, Priscilla thought sourly. He had, after all, lived here for two weeks. She got to her feet, thinking of fleeing, but there was really no way out of the room without going into the hall, where she would run right into them. She considered the windows, but she knew that by the time she opened one and started to climb out, they would have reached the room, and she would only look quite ridiculous, halfway in and halfway out the window.
She clasped her hands together and attempted to look cool and uncaring as Penny came into the room, followed by Bryan. “Priscilla, look who’s here!” Miss Pennybaker exclaimed brightly, then added, as if Priscilla could not see him, “It’s Lord Lynden.”
“Bryan,” he said to Miss Pennybaker, smiling sheepishly. “Please, it’s just Bryan. This ‘my lord’ business is too strange for me.”
“So modest.” Miss Pennybaker beamed at him.
She looked over at Priscilla, waiting for her to greet the new, romantic lord. Bryan, too, looked at her expectantly. Priscilla could think of nothing to say, so she merely stood, stonily gazing back at him. Miss Pennybaker began to frown and make strange grimaces at Priscilla, tilting her head toward Bryan.
“Miss Pennybaker, is anything wrong?” Priscilla inquired.
The gentle woman glared at her, then simpered up at Bryan. “You must forgive her, my—I mean, Bryan. Priscilla hasn’t been herself since last night. She was stunned by your news. All of us were stunned.”
His easygoing grin lightened his face. “Including me.” He glanced back at Priscilla, then said in a low voice to the former governess, “Miss P., do you think you could let me speak to P
riscilla for a few minutes…alone?”
“Of course, my— I mean— Well, of course.” She tittered nervously, covering her mouth with her hand.
Priscilla stared at her, astounded. Was this the same woman who had warned her all her life against spending even a few minutes alone with a man? Who had managed to pop into the room at some point whenever Priscilla and Bryan happened to be by themselves?
“Miss P.!” she protested. “What about my reputation?”
“I am sure a few minutes won’t harm your name, my dear. After all, it is the Marquess of Lynden.” The older woman scurried from the room, looking as if she were a conspirator.
“You have certainly won over Miss Pennybaker,” Priscilla commented sourly.
“I think it has more to do with my new title than with me.” Bryan looked at her quizzically. “Just as obviously, I seem to have offended you.”
“Offended me, my lord? Why would you say that?” Priscilla’s voice was coated with ice.
His mouth twisted in a wry smile, and he gave her a long look. “Perhaps because you are calling me ‘my lord’ instead of Bryan.”
“I do not know you well enough to address you by your first name.”
“Priscilla! What is the matter? You think that after what we have felt, have done, that you do not know me well enough to use my name?” He came toward her, one hand outstretched, his face lined with confusion and frustration.
“I know no one named Bryan.”
“You knew me well enough when my name was John.”
“I thought I did.” She could not keep from adding bitterly, “But obviously I was wrong.”
“Priscilla! What are you talking about? Why are you angry with me? What have I done?”
“What have you done?” she repeated, aghast. “You can stand there and ask me that, knowing that you have lied to me for two weeks? That you have let me believe that you were unaware of your name, of your home, of anything about you, gaining my sympathy, taking my—”
