by Lauren Royal
“Thank you,” she murmured.
Sixty-Four
ALL THE WAY back to Trentingham, Lily and Rand and Kit reminded one another that the diary might not reveal anything incriminating.
But they couldn’t help but believe that it would.
It was late when they arrived, and Lily was exhausted. She’d hardly slept a wink those long nights waiting for word from Rand.
The rest of the family were already abed. After a yawning Parkinson let them in, Rand drew Lily close and dropped a kiss on the top of her head. “Go to sleep,” he told her. “You cannot help with this, anyway. In the morning you’ll feel better, and with luck I’ll have good news.”
She nodded and took herself off to her room.
Parkinson led the way up to the library, then lit a few candles and went back to bed himself. Rand and Kit settled at a round wooden table to decipher the diary.
No sooner had Rand opened the cover than Rose walked in, carrying another candle and wearing nothing but a white night rail with a red wrapper tied over it. Although the garments were concealing, their effect was undeniably intimate. She set down the candle and rubbed her eyes. “You found the journal?”
“We did,” Kit said. “Would you like to help us decode it?”
Rand opened his mouth to protest, but before he could, she took a chair. “Of course. Lily asked me to help, because I’m good at that sort of thing.”
She was good at that sort of thing. Inside of an hour, they had Alban’s final entry translated, Rand and Rose doing most of the work while Kit sat back and watched.
Rand noticed that Kit mostly watched Rose, not the diary.
“What does it say?” Kit asked.
“‘I’m going to do it,’” Rose quoted. “‘The time has come.’”
“It’s not enough.” Rand rubbed the back of his neck. “We need to find something that clearly implies murder. The rest of this entry’s no more than a recitation of his day.”
“Then we do the one before it,” Kit said.
Rand sent him a wry glance. “We?”
“Hey, we all do what we can. I found the thing, didn’t I?”
“With Rex’s help,” Rand conceded.
Rose went to a cabinet and poured them each a measure of Madeira, herself included. Then they went back to work.
Another hour passed, an hour of slow but steady progress.
“We’re going to find the evidence,” Rose said, adding to the ever-growing column of words they’d managed to decipher. “It’s here. I know it.” She looked up. “He was a wicked man, wasn’t he, your brother?”
Rand nodded, afraid to be optimistic, but feeling Rose was right. They were going to find their proof. Then he’d just need to convince his father.
They puzzled out a few more words of an entry dealing with the sale of some cattle. “You’re going to take care of my sister,” Rose said while scribbling some notes. “And I expect you to be kind to her all your days.”
He looked up. “I’ll cherish her like no man has ever cherished a woman.”
“You’d better,” she said darkly, then jotted another word.
A smile on his face, Kit watched her and sipped his Madeira.
“‘The date draws near,’” Rand read when the entry was complete. “‘If she is to be mine, steps must be taken.’”
“Not enough,” Kit said. “He could be talking about a horse.”
“But he isn’t.” Rose reached to refill his goblet. “He’s talking about murder. Another entry. Let’s get back to work.”
She seemed tireless, and Rand was rarely tempted to sleep when faced with a puzzle. Especially one this important.
“Lady Rose,” Kit started.
“Hmm?” She crossed out a word and wrote another.
“Rand led me to believe you were, ah, a mite antagonistic concerning his relationship with your sister.”
“Well, that,” she said, “was before I got to know the man properly. I didn’t feel he was good enough for her at first. But now…”
Her soft smile said it all. Although she’d had other reasons to oppose the match than those she was willing to admit, Rand knew her new attitude was genuine. Miraculously, she seemed truly happy for him and Lily. And approving.
It would be an enormous relief for Lily, he knew, and for him as well. And now, when it seemed everything might work out after all, that seemed more important than ever.
Several hours and four entries later, at last they hit gold.
Rand sat back, staring at the page.
“Read it,” Kit said.
“‘Margery begged and begged,’” Rose read softly, “‘but Hawkridge refused as always.’” She paused, glancing up at Rand. “He called your father Hawkridge?”
Rand shrugged. “Ours is not a warm family.”
“You’ll be warm now,” she warned, “with my sister. Or—”
“Peace, Rose. I love Lily more than my life. Read the rest, will you?”
Kit laughed. At a time like this, he laughed. If Rand hadn’t been so tense, he’d have reached over and slapped him. But in his present mood, he feared he might do his old friend permanent damage.
“‘Hawkridge refused as always,’” Rose continued slowly. “‘I followed Margery to Armstrong’s place, her sobbing all the way. And there, they plotted to elope.’” She reached for her Madeira and took a swallow. “Here,” she said, handing Rand their notes. “You read the rest.”
He took a deep breath before reading, for the first time, the individual words they’d translated, all pieced together. “‘When I overheard their plans, I felt I couldn’t draw air. My heart swelled to such a size it filled my chest, squeezing my lungs, robbing me of sustenance. I cannot allow this to happen. Margery will be mine. They leave in a week, and before that, I must kill him.’”
“There it is,” Kit said admiringly.
“Yes, there it is,” Rose echoed with a satisfied sigh.
“Thank God.” Rand sent a quick thanks to heaven. “And both of you. If—when—Lily and I wed, I’ll be silently thanking you as we recite our vows.”
Dawn was breaking when they left the library. Rose had made peace with the fact that he’d chosen Lily over her, and amazingly, she and Rand were friends. But Kit, Rand was sure, wanted to be more than friends with Rose.
A shame she hadn’t seemed to really notice him.
“Go to Lily,” she told Rand. “Go tell her what we’ve found.”
“Go to her in her chamber? You…you’ll come along, won’t you?”
“No.” She flashed the sort of smile that only Rose could flash. “But if you’re not out in five minutes, I’m coming in. Even you, Rand Nesbitt, cannot ravish a woman in five minutes flat.”
Rand didn’t need a second invitation.
Lily looked like an angel, her hair a dark halo on her pillow. But her mouth was turned down in a frown. Her dreams, he knew, weren’t sweet.
He leaned down and pressed a kiss to those pouting lips. They curved up, and her arms rose to wrap around his neck.
She smelled of sleep and lilies. “Rand?”
“Yes, sweetheart. I’m here.” Was it silly of him to be so glad she hadn’t called another man’s name? He knew she was his, knew it as well as he knew which English words came from Latin.
Her eyes slid languidly open. “Could you read the diary?”
He smiled and sat beside her on the bed, his fingers playing idly in her hair. “Alban Nesbitt,” he said, “has never contrived a code I couldn’t decipher.”
She sat up, suddenly wide awake. “What did it say, Rand?” Her hands twisted together in her lap, her fingers rubbing the faint scars. “What did it say?”
“It said he planned to murder Bennett. I love you, Lily Ashcroft, and we’re going to be married.”
He would make it so. He hadn’t come this far to fail now.
Before Lily rose for breakfast, he was riding hard for Hawkridge, the diary and notes in one hand.
Sixty-F
ive
RAND ARRIVED at Hawkridge to find the marquess and Margery at breakfast, sullen and silent.
His arrival took care of that.
“It’s here,” he said, striding in and waving the diary and some papers. “In Alban’s own hand. His plans to kill Bennett Armstrong, here in black and white.”
Margery’s face lit like a full moon on a cloudless night. The marquess took one look at her and frowned. “Sit down, Randal. I haven’t finished my breakfast.”
Rand took some spice bread and a bowl of meat pottage from the leather-topped sideboard and carried them to the table. He sat and spread his evidence on the cedarwood surface.
The marquess deliberately looked away, focusing on his food.
Margery pushed her pottage around in her bowl, evidently too excited to eat. “What did you find, Rand?”
“The diary ended on the day of Alban’s death.” Ignoring the marquess’s wince, Rand took a big bite of the fruited spice bread. He’d been awake twenty-six hours without taking any time to eat. “Here”—he rustled through the papers with one hand—“here’s the crucial passage.” He held out a page to Margery.
Her hand shook as she took it. Although it was a translation, not Alban’s writing, the words on the paper were his.
As she scanned down the page, a soft gasp escaped her lips. Rand’s father looked annoyed before she even started reading. “‘I cannot allow this to happen. Margery will be mine. They leave in a week, and before that, I must kill him.’”
The marquess snatched the sheet from her hand. His eyes narrowed before his gaze shifted to Rand. “This isn’t Alban’s hand. It’s yours.”
“Actually, that’s Rose Ashcroft’s writing.” Rand wasn’t at all surprised the man didn’t recognize his own son’s hand. The marquess had never bothered to look at any of his lessons. “Her writing is much tidier than mine.”
With a flick of his still-supple wrist, his father tossed the paper onto the table. “I’ll never believe that’s what the diary says. Do you think me a fool? You’d claim anything in order to wed that Ashcroft chit.” He looked back down to his food, cutting a bite of ham with a fitful, angry motion. “Those aren’t Alban’s words. I know—I knew—my son.”
Rand struggled for calm. “No, Father, you didn’t.”
The man’s gaze jerked up from his breakfast. Rand hadn’t called him Father in twenty years or more. Staring at Rand, he stabbed blindly with his fork.
“You didn’t know him,” Rand repeated. “You knew the son you wished he was.”
“Hogwash.” Having managed to spear some ham, he stuck it in his mouth, taking his time to chew and swallow before continuing. “My son was incapable of premeditated murder.”
“Are you aware that your son kept knives under his bed? A collection to rival a museum’s. Most of them stained with blood.”
If Rand could judge from his expression, the man hadn’t known. “There have been no murders in this district other than Alban’s.”
“Not of people,” Rand agreed. “But I’d wager animals have been found senselessly slaughtered.”
From the look on his father’s face, he’d hit home. “What of it? It’s no crime.”
“It could be a small leap from beasts to humankind.”
The marquess pursed his lips and shook his head, but his armor had cracked. Rand could see it in his eyes. He pressed his sudden advantage. “Come to Alban’s chambers. I’ll show you the blades. After you see the evidence, your imagination will fill in the rest.” With that, he rose and strode out of the room, trusting his father would follow.
When he heard an additional set of footsteps as they crossed the great hall, he glanced over his shoulder. “Wait in the dining room, Margery. This isn’t fit for a lady’s eyes.”
Lily had seen the knives—and worse, to Rand’s regret. He had no intention of allowing another woman to witness his brother’s depravity.
But Margery lifted her chin. “I’m no lady, as your father often reminds me. Only a mere miss. And seeing as I was supposed to wed the man, I feel entitled to view what I escaped.”
By the time she finished her brave speech, they were all standing in Alban’s bedchamber. Rand sighed and gave up.
“Where?” the marquess asked, clearly discomfited in the disarray that made it seem as though his eldest son were still alive. “I see no knives.”
“They’re under the bed.” Rand stooped to pull out the box. They’d left it unlocked. He lifted the lid.
“Dear heavens,” Margery whispered, looking away.
Her hand went protectively to her abdomen, and Rand winced, hoping his father wouldn’t notice the telltale gesture. He went to wrap an arm around her shoulders. “He’s dead,” he said softly. “He cannot hurt you now.”
“Or anyone else.” He felt her shudder, then straighten. “Or anything else.”
He looked to the marquess. “Well?”
The man’s jaw looked tense enough to crack walnuts. “This proves nothing. Alban was an avid hunter, as you well know.”
Margery’s mouth dropped open. “Uncle William, those aren’t hunting knives.”
The marquess bent and drew one out. “This one is.”
Was the man that blinded by stubborn pride? Rand felt anger boiling up from his gut, choking him. In frustration, he yanked the knife from his father’s hand and tossed it back into the box. “Were you aware there’s a secret space off this chamber?” he asked in a tight voice.
The one thing he’d vowed to avoid bringing into this. And in front of Margery, no less. But had he any choice? Better shocked and disgusted than married to the wrong man.
“Of course I know that,” his father scoffed. “I built the place.”
Though the room was flooded with daylight, Rand lit a candle. “Then I suppose you also know what’s in it?”
“No, I don’t. What Alban kept in his chambers was his concern alone.” Though the marquess sounded adamant, trepidation laced his voice. His gaze flickered to the fireplace. “Will you never learn that a man is entitled to privacy, Randal? How many times did I tell you not to snoop in your brother’s diaries?”
Halfway to the fireplace, Rand whirled. “How many times did you beat me for it?”
“Too many to count,” the man snapped.
“Yes, too many times I tried to prove your son was evil and still you continued to deny it.” Shoving the candle into his father’s hand, Rand knelt to work the latch near the floor. “Here, at last, is your proof,” he gritted out. “Try to tell me I’m mistranslating this to my advantage.”
He stood and swung open the panel.
The marquess stepped into the small space. And his face went white.
As though in a daze, Margery moved closer.
“No!” Rand reached to stop her and turned her into his chest. His arms went around her protectively. “Take a good look,” he told his father over his shoulder. “Perhaps there have been no murders in the vicinity, but that only means he stopped short of killing. You won’t convince me all those implements were meant for hunting. Or even animals.”
Silence settled over the chamber, so profound Rand could hear both his own heart and Margery’s. And the marquess’s harsh breathing. Despite his convictions, the man was clearly shaken.
Suddenly he stepped back and slammed the panel, the sound shattering the stillness. For a moment, he just stood in place, swaying on his feet as an odd sort of calmness settled over him. “This doesn’t prove Alban meant to kill Bennett Armstrong.”
“No,” Rand agreed. “It only goes to show he was capable. His diary is the proof.”
“I cannot read it. And I refuse to—”
“To take my word as to its translation? I’m not surprised, since you never have. But this time, I’m prepared to sit with you, for days if necessary, and demonstrate, step-by-step, how the code was broken and exactly what that journal says.” To Rand’s mortification, his voice broke. “You owe me the chance to do that, Father. All my life yo
u’ve dismissed me, and you’ve already admitted that was a mistake on your part. You owe me.”
It didn’t take days.
Four hours later, his father slumped in his chair and buried his face in his hands.
Sixty-Six
STANDING IN HER mother’s perfumery, Lily gazed out the window and squinted into the distance. “Where on earth is he?”
On another day, Rose might have laughed, but she didn’t. “Poor Lily. Give him time.” She chose several cheerful yellow daffodils and added them to an arrangement. “He had to ride there and convince his father and then come all the way back…why, he likely won’t be here for hours.”
Mum plucked rose petals, tossing them into the clear glass bulb of the fancy distillery Ford had made for her while courting Violet. “Your sister’s right, dear. Come and help me. It will take your mind off the waiting.”
With a sigh, Lily walked to the table and idly picked up a rose. “I know Rand will convince his father,” she said, as much to assure herself as them.
“Of course he will,” Rose said. “If you’d seen that translation, you’d be even more certain. Rand’s brother intended murder. Their father won’t be able to deny it.”
“But that doesn’t mean he’ll allow us to wed.”
That statement was met with silence, because, unfortunately, there was no arguing with it. No guarantees that proof of Alban’s intent would lead to the marquess changing his mind.
“Tell me about Hawkridge,” Rose said at last. “Is it beautiful?”
“Very.” Lily absently plucked rose petals. “Much newer than Trentingham—Rand’s father built it just before the war—and every room is exquisite.” Except for Rand’s, which was rather plain, but she didn’t feel up to explaining that. “Why, the dining room even has leather on the walls, with designs stamped in pure gold. But the place is eerie, I think. Or perhaps it’s just cold. It feels as though no one there has been happy for a long, long time.”
