Collins hobbled over to a chair by the fire and sat down. Whether ‘twas the weight of his years, his poor health, or what he’d just heard, the man seemed drained of what little strength he possessed.
“She promised to return this morning,” Devlin continued. “She did not. I questioned the lot of you all day as to her whereabouts, or where I might find her. Rather than tell me that you did not know—or have not seen her—you deliberately lied to me.”
“Who is to say she does not hide from ye?” accused Rooney.
“There is no reason for her to hide from me.” Devlin all but threw the quill onto the desk. “When she told me of her involvement with smuggling, I vowed to help her. Despite what you think of me, I have no desire to see Miss Tatum harmed in any way. Now, I appreciate what a cruel taskmaster Lord Bellewyck was to all of you. As such, I can well understand how Miss Tatum might have been drawn into smuggling out of desperation. Perhaps she became involved with these cutthroats because she wanted revenge against the earl and his estate.”
“Is that what ye think?” asked Rooney. “Ye think she risks her life for revenge against Lord Bellewyck and his blasted estate?”
“I can only speculate, Rooney. We were to discuss her reasons this morning. Perhaps you can tell me why she became involved in this madness.”
Silence weighed heavy in the room. With the exception of Collins, the servants stared at Devlin without the slightest expression.
“Very well,” Devlin said, his temper rising. “If not revenge, why would she become involved in such a dangerous association? From what I have seen of her limited wardrobe, she does not appear to be making a profit from her participation.”
The fact they continued to not be forthcoming became frustrating to the extreme. Devlin could think only of Christiana and where she might be at that moment. Restless, he paced the room, rubbing the back of his neck. Stopping before the fireplace, he faced them. “I will not tolerate insolence or secrecy regarding this estate—or anyone employed here—another moment. You do not help Miss Tatum by your continued silence.”
Looking down at the oldest servant, he sighed. “Come now, Collins, you know more about the estate and its people than anyone. How can we locate Miss Tatum?”
“I do not know,” the brewer said.
“Rather like the way you know nothing about Lord Bellewyck’s ward?” Devlin then directed his attention to Polly. “Where is your father, Polly? For that matter, where is your brother? Curious they both are now missing. One might even consider it highly suspicious.”
Polly closed her eyes tightly, as if willing away the threat of tears. Her posture remained stiff, her hands clenched at her sides.
Devlin pinned the maid with his most intimidating glare, his patience at an end. “You think this loyalty? Your father, brother, and friend are all missing, and you will not say a word to help them? So be it, but if blood has been shed, it is on your hands not mine.”
Polly’s eyes snapped open. “Blood?” she cried. “The last time I saw Christiana she was in yer company. She went to yer bedchamber. Mayhap there is another reason why she has a mind not to show her face. ‘Tis because ye shamed her. Ye took her to yer bed.”
“Polly, no,” Mrs. Lloyd gasped.
“I saw his bed.” Polly turned to look at the cook. “The linens were twisted and him not carin’ who might see.”
Devlin clenched his jaw rather than reprimand the maid. She already trembled with the realization of what she’d just said, a mistake compounded by the presence of other servants.
“What did or did not happen in my bedchamber is not your concern,” he bit out slowly. “The issue at hand is that Miss Tatum has long since not returned when promised. Do you understand? Your friend is missing. Your father and brother are missing. Just like the Bellewyck ward is missing. Needless to say, I find these disappearances a rather disturbing coincidence.”
With considerable effort, Jasper Collins stood. He leaned heavily on his walking stick and stared at Devlin with an odd expression. “And why would that be a disturbin’ coincidence, Mr. Randolph?”
Folding his arms across his chest, Devlin crooked a brow. “I am of the opinion it has something to do with the precious secrets everyone guards at the Abbey. I do not doubt you all know what happened to the earl’s ward. Mayhap that knowledge was used as a means to blackmail. Theft in exchange for silence perhaps? It stands to reason his lordship could do nothing during his lifetime for fear of public scandal and reprisal. But after his death he wanted you all to pay and pay dearly.”
Mrs. Lloyd moaned softly. He looked to her and saw the older woman appeared almost as if she might swoon. A shaky hand rested upon her throat. Rooney quickly helped the woman be seated, her granddaughter still close by her side.
“Lord Bellewyck never had a ward,” stressed a stone-faced Rooney.
“And if he said he did, he was just makin’ another one of his cruel jokes,” Polly added with an abrupt nod for emphasis.
“Another one of his cruel jokes,” Devlin echoed. “I hardly think so.” With a telling look to Nash, Devlin returned to his desk and searched through some papers until he found a letter with a broken seal.
“This letter is from the Duke of Pemberton, delivered by Nash.” He held up the letter for emphasis. “It seems the Lord Chancellor has located the original guardianship papers concerning Lord Bellewyck’s ward. As such, it is only a matter of time before the duke knows the truth.”
Deathly pale, the servants stared at the missive. One might think he held their death warrants in his hand.
“There was a ward,” Devlin proclaimed. Remembering the slip of tongue Christiana had made regarding a girl child, he added, “And I have been instructed to not stop until I know what happened to her.”
“Ye’re too late!” cried Polly, slapping her palms down upon the desk.
“What the deuce does that mean?” Devlin stared hard at the maid.
“What she means is that the ward no longer exists.”
The sound of Christiana’s voice made everyone turn with a start toward the open doorway. Beautiful, although a trifle pale, she stood regal as a queen. Standing protectively behind her were Gordon Darrow and his son, Billy.
Devlin’s initial reaction had been joy to see Christiana alive and well. His first instinct to pull her into his arms and cover her with a thousand kisses. In the presence of the other servants, however, he restrained himself.
“Your absence today has been a source of great anxiety to us all, Miss Tatum.”
“So I heard.” She arched a delicately winged brow.
“Come, join our meeting.” He motioned for the three servants to enter. “Mr. Darrow, welcome to our little gathering. Billy, do come in and join us as well.”
Christiana lowered the deep hood of her black woolen cloak and slowly came forward to stand beside Polly. Long, wayward strands of ebony silk framed her pale face, which told him her hair hung loose about her shoulders and waist. He almost smiled at the thought, but beheld something in her expression that provoked gut-clenching frissons of alarm. The radiant, luminous quality in her eyes had dimmed, as if shadowed by some terrible sadness or loss.
Separated by the width of his desk, Devlin studied her stiff posture and aloof demeanor. “Miss Tatum, what do you mean the ward no longer exists?”
“Put simply,”—she raised her chin ever so slightly—“I killed her.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“Often the test of courage
is not to die, but to live.”
~ Vittorio Alfieri
(1749-1803)
Oreste
Someone sobbed hysterically, young Sarah Lloyd from the sound of it. But Devlin couldn’t remove his stunned gaze from Christiana long enough to see. Her startling confession had been made without the slightest hint of sorrow or regret.
“I will tell you everything, provided you stop these bullying tactics.” She glanced at her friends and a small sigh escaped her parted lips. The
sound conveyed both resignation and heartfelt concern for their welfare.
Returning her attention to him, she raised her chin at that defiant tilt he’d henceforth associate with Christiana’s strength. “The others are innocent of any wrongdoing. They have no part in anything I have done, or anything I am involved with today. In truth, they have done nothing but always endeavor to protect me.”
Devlin studied the servants, noting the extent of their emotional turmoil. Mrs. Lloyd, pale and extremely distraught, still comforted her weeping granddaughter. Polly had silent tears streaming down her cheeks as she stared at her friend. Even Rooney and the Darrow men were teary-eyed. Yet for some unknown reason, the ancient Jasper Collins looked at Christiana with what could only be described as pride. Indeed, the brewer seemed to be willing the housekeeper to continue.
“Very well,” Devlin said. “But I prefer we discuss this in private.”
After the servants exited the room, Devlin noticed the still open door. Since Rooney had been the last one out, the gardener obviously hoped to eavesdrop on the conversation.
Not bloody likely.
Without comment, Devlin closed the door then turned to study Christiana.
She’d made the most absurd confession he’d ever heard. And one he didn’t believe for a moment. Christiana Tatum could never cause the death of anyone, especially a child. Hadn’t she continuously impressed him with her devotion and compassion for others? It seemed far more likely her confession had been a brave attempt to protect someone, even if it meant taking the blame for their actions.
Still, his heart ached, arguing with reason. Needing to better study her rigid demeanor, he walked to the front of the desk and sat down upon the edge of its polished surface.
“I must say, you hardly look capable of murder. Then again, you hardly resemble a smuggler or chimney sweep.”
“Looks can be deceiving.”
“Indeed,” he murmured.
She stood still as a statue, not looking at him. Instead, she stared at a point on the wall behind the desk. Devlin maneuvered his body over slightly until he sat directly in front of her. For one brief moment their eyes met and he saw another truth. She trembled with fear or apprehension—perhaps both.
Gentling his voice, he enquired, “Christiana, are you actually claiming the Bellewyck ward is dead…because of you?”
“Yes.”
Striving to remain calm, he steeled himself for what she might next reveal. “What happened?”
“I am afraid ‘tis a rather long, complicated tale to tell.”
“Then perhaps you should start at the beginning.”
With a nod, Christiana expelled a shaky breath. “The truth begins with his lordship’s father, William Bertram. Do you know anything of him?” When Devlin shook his head, she continued. “He traveled extensively, living a rather self-indulgent lifestyle far removed from his wife and son. Does that surprise you?”
“Not necessarily,” Devlin shrugged. “Few marriages are a love match, especially among the peerage.”
She studied him a moment with an enigmatic expression.
“Go on,” he prodded.
“Though not public knowledge, Lady Bellewyck had long suffered from an illness of the mind.” Averting her face, Christiana walked over to the shuttered library windows.
She stood in profile there, and he couldn’t help think she chose that spot in the room for a reason. Her diminutive cloaked body blended in with the shadows already gathered there, and made it difficult for him to see her expression.
“Her family concealed this fact when contracting the marriage of their daughter.” Christiana’s calm, quiet voice seemed to fill the air with a strange sensation, as if the room itself understood the importance of what she intended to reveal. “By the time his lordship suspected something, the countess had conceived his child.”
“Archibald Bertram?” Devlin asked.
She nodded. “Lady Bellewyck’s illness worsened, violent tendencies followed by long periods of deep melancholy. Wanting to protect his young son from the often erratic behavior of his mother, William sent the boy away.”
Christiana turned with a start, and crossed toward the fireplace. As she walked, he caught a glimpse of her bandaged hand being cradled beneath her cloak. She quietly stared into the hearth for a few moments, and appeared to relax a bit.
“With his wife confined to the abbey and his son away from home, William traveled throughout Europe.” Her voice lifted into the room once more, stronger than before. Perhaps the warmth and flickering firelight helped coax the long ago story to be shared.
“Even after the death of Lady Bellewyck, he preferred to be anywhere but here,” she continued. “During one of his travels to Russia, he met a woman. She was young, accomplished, and also married to a much older member of the aristocracy. Whether their relationship was based on love, lust, or loneliness, I do not know. But a child resulted from the affair. As fate would have it, the mother died in childbirth.”
“And the child?” Devlin asked.
“The woman’s husband, old and bereft by the loss of his young wife—and having no children of his own—recognized the newborn infant as his daughter. Sadly, he became gravely ill not quite two years later and arranged for the child to be given over to the guardianship of her true father, William Bertram, the Earl of Bellewyck.”
Christiana turned and looked across the room at Devlin. “William doted upon his young ward, preferring to remain at the abbey for the first time in many years. The bond he shared with the child was one of great affection.”
“Did no one suspect the child’s true parentage?”
“There was no resemblance. His lordship introduced the child as his ward, the daughter of Count Alexander Petrovsky, a widower he’d befriended whilst living in Russia. And two Petrovsky servants who had accompanied the orphaned child to England bore witness to his declaration, too.”
“What happened to these servants?”
“The nurse spoke little English. She returned to Russia after seeing the child safely settled. The English-born manservant had made a solemn promise to Count Petrovsky that he would always look after the child. Impressed with this servant’s devotion, William hired him on at the estate. And that is how Tom Rooney came to Bellewyck Abbey.”
“Rooney brought the child to England?” When she nodded, Devlin snorted with derision. “I knew the man was lying to me. Might I enquire who else at the abbey knows this truth?”
“Everyone,” she said in a near whisper.
With a sardonic laugh, Devlin shook his head. “Well, I suspected as much. Still, I find it disconcerting to hear you admit it now.” When she made no further comment, he asked, “Did Lord Bellewyck’s son also know the truth about the child’s parentage?”
“Not until his father was dying. William wanted his son and heir to assume responsibility for the child. I suppose he felt there would be a greater sense of obligation if his son knew the child was his half-sister. His son also learned Count Petrovsky had provided quite generously for the child’s future.”
“Was this request witnessed?”
“There were five other people in the room. Mr. Stafford Evans, an old friend and solicitor to Lord Bellewyck, was present. The four remaining were servants of the estate—Reliance Tatum, Bertie Lloyd, Jasper Collins, and Tom Rooney.”
Devlin rubbed the back of his neck. “So, this child was never the legal ward of Archibald Bertram. Rather she was the ward of his father, William.”
“Yes.”
“Do you perchance know if documents were ever filed in England appointing guardianship of the child to Archibald Bertram?”
“I do not think so,” she said. “I believe the deathbed promise was more a private matter, an agreed understanding between father and son.”
“Whereupon the son failed to honor his father’s wishes,” Devlin murmured.
“Yes, but since it had been made in the presence of others, ’twas not something the new earl
ignored outright—especially whilst Mr. Evans remained alive. Although sworn to secrecy about the child’s true parentage, the solicitor suspected—and rightly so—that the new Earl of Bellewyck would not do his duty by the child. Thus, Evans prepared a codicil. However, when he died, no one knew the truth about the ward or the promise between father and son, except for the essentially powerless servants of the abbey.”
For several moments, silence filled the library.
Devlin could not remove his gaze from the beauty standing before the stone fireplace. “Then you and the ward were children together?”
She did not respond, but continued to stare at him in a breathtakingly sad manner.
“What happened to her, Christiana?”
“Before I say anything more, I must know something. You claim to know the Duke of Pemberton quite well. What will he do about all this now?”
“If what happened was an accident, I feel certain the Duke of Pemberton will be just and understanding. Of course, there will need to be an inquest.”
“Why?”
Devlin’s gut wrenched at the cruelty of her words. How could he have been so wrong about her? “For God’s sake, Christiana, a child is dead.” He tried to calm his rising temper. “Frankly, I am astonished Lord Bellewyck never pursued such a course of action. Despite his obvious lack of affection for the child, did he never question what happened to her?”
“His lordship was very much aware what happened to her.”
“Yet he did nothing?”
“You would do better to ask yourself what Lord Bellewyck had to gain by remaining silent.”
Devlin pinched the bridge of his nose. “Christiana, I am in no mood for riddles.”
“I am trying to make a point.” Removing her cloak, she draped the garment across the back of a chair, and briefly caressed its worn fabric. “The Earl of Bellewyck knew the fate of his father’s ward yet did nothing. Why?”
THE SENSE OF HONOR Page 20
