by Olivia Drake
The agony in her voice stabbed his chest. He braced a hand on the doorframe. “Who told you?”
“Emily.”
Unreality shrouded him. As Juliet walked to the chair by the window, he shook his head to clear the fog. Sunlight lined her slender form; she bent to pick up the papers there. Already she’d drawn away from him.
He’d never see the belly rounded with his child; he’d never watch her suckle their baby. He’d never again see affection softening her smile.
His cruel deception had wrought this change in her.
Marching back, she thrust something at him. Numbly he gazed down at a sheaf of pages; then shock assailed him. “This is Emily’s handwriting. Her diary. After she died, I looked all over for it. Where did you find it?”
“Someone left it on my bed. Someone who wanted me to know that you lured me here without telling me I’d married my own brother-in-law.”
Words failed him. With effort, he found his voice. “She was your half sister. An illegitimate relationship that only a handful of people even knew about.”
“Oh?” She arched her brows. “Is that supposed to excuse what you did to me?”
“Juliet, I couldn’t tell you. You wouldn’t have married me. From our first meeting, I wanted you to be a part of my life—”
She cut him off with a slash of her hand. “Don’t equivocate. You wanted revenge on Papa. That’s why you sought me out in London, slinked in through the garden, pretended to be infatuated. You never meant to end the feud. You deliberately set out to bewitch a naive girl into running off with you.”
Too shamed to meet her eyes, he walked to the nightstand and set down the diary pages. Logic told him that nothing could repair Juliet’s shattered illusions, yet he felt compelled to say what was in his heart.
Slowly he forced himself to look at his wife. “There was a reason for what I did. You have to understand what happened back then... the day Emily died. Your father came to see her—”
“I know. She recorded the episode in her journal.”
“She was despondent over the visit. He demanded Dreamspinner in an attempt to avenge himself on me for marrying her.”
“Revenge again! Everything revolves around the feud. No doubt you deluded Emily into marrying you, same as you did me.”
“You’re wrong about that. I loved her—”
“Love.” Juliet gave a scathing laugh. “That’s impossible. She was Emmett Carleton’s daughter, too.”
“She was a girl who needed me.” Kent extended his hands, palms up. “Juliet, at first I didn’t think it possible that you could grow up in his shadow and fail to be corrupted like him. I was certain he’d raised you as a spoiled society beauty, as tainted as he is. It wasn’t until I got to know you that I realized how wrong I’d been, that you’re nothing like Emmett.”
“If my father is corrupt, then you’re two of a kind.”
She regarded him with icy contempt. He lowered his hands. God help him, she was right.
“I wed you for all the wrong reasons,” he murmured. “But I love you, Juliet. I love you.”
“That’s your misfortune.”
He leaned heavily against the wall. He couldn’t bear to hear scorn spill like venom from lips that had once spoken only of love. “Let me finish telling you about Emily,” he said. “I didn’t want to believe it, but I had to conclude she’d committed suicide. For God’s sake, her last word was Dreamspinner! I thought Emmett had driven her over the edge, demanding she take money for the necklace when all she’d ever wanted was his love.”
“But he didn’t cause her death! She was murdered... by someone here, someone who hates the Carletons even more than you do.”
Did he still loathe Emmett with such vigor? Kent wondered. Or had his love for Juliet somehow diluted his capacity for hatred? “I know now that Emily was murdered,” Kent said. “That’s why I tried to convince you to leave.”
“Don’t affect any concern for my welfare, Your Grace. It’s no longer necessary to keep up the pretense.”
He deserved that... he deserved to be flayed for his petty and unconscionable plot. Still, her words pained him. “I’m only trying to explain what I believed back then, why I acted as I did. I vowed to avenge Emily’s death by stealing what Emmett treasured most.”
“I wonder why you bothered marrying me, then. Why not simply ruin me?”
He said nothing. Horror widened her eyes.
“That is what you first intended,” she whispered, her gaze dark with the revelation. “Isn’t it? That day at your town house, you asked me to go upstairs to your bedroom. You were going to seduce me, then let all of society know that Emmett Carleton’s daughter had whored herself to his enemy.”
He wanted to deny it. Staring at her beloved features, flushed with anger, he said, “Yes.”
Her breasts rose and fell beneath the emerald silk. For an instant, he feared she would swoon. As he took a step forward, Juliet sank onto the edge of the bed.
“I wish you had,” she murmured. “Then I would have had done with you. I would never have come here. I would never have married you.”
The bleak words lashed him. This was what he’d planned, Kent reminded himself. To make her hate him so much that she would go running back to Emmett.
Her stiff-shouldered dignity affected him more than weeping and railing. Oh, God. He’d turned an innocent girl into this disillusioned woman. He felt his eyes blur with tears, and he turned toward the connecting door before she could accuse him of trying to reap her sympathy.
“I’ll ring for Mrs. Heetwood,” he said. “She can pack your things. Hatchett will drive you to the rail station.”
Silence hung as heavy as his grief. At the door, he risked a glance at her. She sat still, staring intently at him.
“You planned this,” she said slowly. “You wanted me to find out about my father. You left the diary because you couldn’t face the task of telling me yourself.”
“No! Last night I’d decided the truth was the only way to convince you to leave here. I never meant for you to find out from anyone but me.”
Her mouth pursed with mockery. “You’ve lied to me before. Why should I believe you now?”
“Juliet, I...”He stopped, helpless to convince her. Feeling the sting of tears, he clenched his jaw and seized the doorknob. “I’ll make the arrangements and leave you to gather your things.”
“No.”
He swung back. “No?”
Sliding off the bed, she walked toward him. “You heard me. I’m staying here.”
“Why?”
“Emily was my sister, my flesh and blood. I intend to find her murderer. And whoever wants to kill me... and my child.”
“You’ll be safer in London. I’ll make certain no one leaves here.”
She tossed up her chin and placed her hands on her hips. “We’ve been through this argument before. I won’t live the rest of my life in fear of an assassin.”
“Your father will protect you. He’ll hire a bodyguard.”
A somber smile touched her lips. “Will Papa really welcome me with open arms? Will he raise my child in his house, a child with Deverell blood?” She shook her head. “Once this is over, I’ll find another place to live. But until then, I’m staying.”
Oh, God, what a tangled web he’d woven. Yet Kent recalled the gray look of concern on Emmett’s face when he’d asked after Juliet. “He’ll take you in. He still cares about you.”
“It doesn’t matter,” she said coldly, shaking her head again. “I despise what you’ve done to me, Kent. Our marriage can never be what I thought it was. But I refuse to leave.”
Dumbfounded, he could only stare. Never had she looked so beautiful, so tempting... and so resolute. With a sinking heart, he knew that her staying was the greater punishment. To see her every day yet not touch her. To endure the contempt in her eyes.
To live with the constant fear that she could die.
Chapter 20
“Henry th
inks it’s Ravi,” Maud confided to Juliet the following afternoon, as they sat in the Laguerre drawing room after luncheon. In a stage whisper, Maud added, “And I must agree with Henry.”
Kent looked up from the desk, where he was tying a fishing fly. “Agree with what?”
“Henry said Emily was terrified of Ravi. He was always giving her the Evil Eye.” Perched on the edge of a Queen Anne chair, she rounded her own eyes behind the spectacles.
“Henry Hammond-Gore is talking through his bowler hat,” Kent said. “If Ravi wanted her dead, he wouldn’t have saved her when that horse reared.”
“Where was he when she fell from the parapet?” Juliet asked.
“Transcribing some letters in my office.”
“Aha!” Maud said, wagging a finger. “Just as I suspected, he has no alibi.”
“Fleetwood saw him there,” Kent said, using a bit of floss to form the tiny wing of a bluebottle.
“But can we trust Fleetwood?” Maud asked. “Perhaps he and Ravi are in cahoots.”
“For what purpose?” he said dryly. “Neither of them has anything to gain.”
“That is precisely what Henry and I intend to find out,” Maud declared, springing to her feet. “By the by, have either of you seen my book? I could have sworn I left it right here last night.” She pointed to a fruitwood side table.
“What book?” Juliet asked.
“A Study in Scarlet. A smashing new murder mystery. There’s a detective named Sherlock Holmes who solves the most uncanny crimes—”
“Mrs. Fleetwood was tidying here this morning,” Juliet said, too weary for a rendition of the plot. “Perhaps she put the book in the library.”
“I’ll check.” Maud started toward the door, then spun around to squint at Juliet. “Egad! You don’t suppose the killer took it? He could be hoping to learn a unique murder method.”
For the first time since reading the diary, Juliet felt a glimmer of true amusement. “I rather doubt that. I’m sure the book’s around here somewhere.”
“Probably right under my nose and I’m not seeing it.” Maud smoothed her cobalt riding skirt. “Ah, well, don’t wait tea for me. Henry and I shall be using our powers of deduction.”
“Don’t trust that rake,” Kent warned. “If you leave the castle, take Miss Fane along.”
“I will. Don’t worry, Your Grace, I can handle Henry.”
Like a ship intent on a battle course, Maud sailed out the door. Juliet ruffled the pages of the botany text lying beside her on the settee. Yet her mind failed to register the varieties of the figwort family; her gaze strayed to Kent.
His attention focused on his work, he carefully wound a strand of iridescent blue thread around the shank of a fishhook. She wondered if he frowned out of concentration or because he, too, seethed with memories of their bitter quarrel.
No longer did she delude herself into thinking she could read his expression. No longer was she the naive debutante swept off her feet by a noble stranger. No longer was she the contented wife looking blithely forward to a lifetime of happiness.
Thankfully Maud had been too intent on her own theories to notice the estrangement. But now, without her lively chatter to diffuse the tension, Juliet was keenly aware of the barrier between her and Kent.
I vowed to avenge Emily’s death by stealing what Emmett treasured most.
He had used her. She meant nothing more to him than a tool of vengeance, a coldblooded method of retaliation. She held herself partly to blame. She had been an easy target, ripe for romantic dreams and ready to believe his lies.
They had scarcely spoken to each other since the quarrel, even though he’d insisted upon sharing her bed last night. The threat of murder had kept her from objecting. In that one respect she still trusted him; he would protect her. In the darkness they had lain far apart, and by his tossing and turning she guessed he’d slept as little as she.
A guilty conscience for him. A broken heart for her. Meager leavings for the banquet she’d thought their marriage would be.
I love you. Don’t ever forget that.
His words haunted her. Why had Kent bothered to proclaim his love when he’d already accomplished his revenge? When he could so easily rid himself of his wife and unborn child?
Unless he really did love her. Unless he really did value her life more than his own happiness.
Grief threatened to crush her hard-won composure. She took a breath and held it, exhaling slowly. No, she couldn’t indulge in the folly of believing in him again. His words were meant only to pacify her. He had singled her out to be his whore. The fact that he’d married her didn’t alter his dishonorable intent.
And yet... yesterday she could have sworn that tears sheened his eyes. That he truly regretted his actions. That he couldn’t bear to lose the precious closeness of their marriage.
As she regarded his strong profile, sadness seemed to sharpen his cheekbones, to drag down his mouth. She had the sudden keen longing to comfort him, to lie in his arms, to stroke his hair...
Angry with her foolishness, she clapped the book shut. “I’d like to talk about the suspects.”
He paused in the midst of tying off the blue floss. “Fair enough. Where shall we start?”
His cool self-possession irritated her. She got up and shut the door, then turned, bracing her back against the oak panel. “You must have investigated everyone’s whereabouts when Emily died. Tell me what you found out.”
Shrugging, he turned his gaze to the mock bluebottle. “Gordon was alone in the library. Augusta had left the castle to visit a sick neighbor.”
“Then the neighbor can corroborate Augusta’s story.”
“Alas, no. Old Mrs. Jennings died a few days later, before I thought to question her.”
Juliet pursed her lips. “What about Chantal?”
“She was napping in the tower.”
“You have only her word on that?”
He nodded.
“And Rose?”
“She was off tending Father’s grave, as she does once a week. In summer she often goes in the early evening, when it’s cooler. Mrs. Fleetwood saw her leave just after tea.”
“Rose might have crept back in, then.”
His midnight eyes bored into her. Abruptly he swept an arm across the desk, scattering the small piles of wires and fibers and cock’s hackles across the faded rug.
“Christ! My own sister—Emily’s sister—can’t be the killer. Neither could Chantal have murdered her daughter. And Gordon? He couldn’t harm a trout. Nor could Augusta. She spends her time saving lives, not taking them.”
Frustration snapped through his voice; the outburst of emotion reached across the rift and touched Juliet. How devastated he must be that one of the people he loved was a killer. Resisting the urge to console him, she pressed her spine against the door. “We must consider everyone, Kent, no matter how unlikely.”
Slouching in the chair, he passed a hand over his brow; the gesture conveyed an unutterable weariness. “I know.”
She forced her mind back to the mystery. “What about Fleetwood? And Mrs. Fleetwood?”
“Except for the few minutes Fleetwood went to the estate office, he was polishing silver in the pantry. Mrs. Fleetwood was in the kitchen, cooking dinner.”
“So no one has an ironclad alibi.”
He shook his head regretfully.
“I see.” In a circuit of the drawing room, she absently fingered a small brass elephant. Now she could better appreciate why he had brought out Dreamspinner; faced with a dearth of evidence, he’d grabbed at any chance, however remote, to unmask the culprit.
Before more murders occurred. Her own... and their baby’s.
Suppressing a shudder, she turned toward him. “You read Emily’s diary last night. Did you see any clues I missed?’
“No, but the fact that she had a plan confirms that her death couldn’t have been suicide.” His mouth twisted. “I wish I’d read the journal earlier. After her death, I tore
the place apart looking for it, but I never found it.”
“That last entry recorded the meeting with Papa, that you’d sent him away. She said she’d decided to defy you.”
“Maybe she intended to visit him no matter what I said.” Kent leaned forward, head bowed, elbows resting on his knees. “I shouldn’t have forbade Emily to see her father. I was resentful of her obsession with him.”
The open admission touched Juliet. “She had a deep need for Papa’s love. That wasn’t your fault.”
“But I hurt her. I was so furious over seeing Emmett that I walked out on her, never dreaming I wouldn’t have the chance to apologize. Now it seems my arrogance may have prompted her to do something rash.”
Seeing his guilt, she felt a twist of compassion. Unthinkingly, she stepped around the litter and stopped beside him. “For pity’s sake, Kent, don’t blame yourself. All husbands and wives quarrel sometimes. You couldn’t have known she would die.”
“But I do know not to make the same mistake again.” He took gentle hold of her wrist. “I’m sorry, Juliet. Words can’t possibly make up for what I’ve done to you, yet they’re all I have to offer. I want to spend my life making it up to you.”
His gaze was steady, soft with regret. His thumb massaged the inside of her wrist and sent shivers over her skin. His masculine scent drifted to her. As she stared at his familiar rugged face, a magical intimacy leapt between them, an undeniable joining of mind and body and soul. The sensation enticed her...
Damn, she was doing it again. Pain and resentment flared hot. The instant he’d sensed a weakening in her reserve, he’d exploited it. Kent Deverell was a master at manipulation.
Pulling free, she walked to a chair and gripped the back. “We were speaking of Emily’s murder.”
He lowered his eyes to the vise holding the iridescent fly. When he looked at her again, his expression was empty of emotion. “That we were,” he murmured.
The moment of closeness might never have happened. It was better this way, she told herself. Better to stay away from him rather than endure the torture of desiring a man who had decided her fate as a means of revenge.
