by Mary Balogh
Lord Brocklehurst was frowning. “What is going on here, pray?” he asked.
“It seems that I have employed a governess who is not who she claims to be,” the duke said, “and who may or may not be a murderer and who may or may not be a thief. My daughter’s safety and well-being are at stake. I wish to find out some facts from you, Brocklehurst, if I may. I need your assistance.”
The other sat back in his chair again. “Perhaps I could have that drink after all,” he said.
The duke got to his feet and crossed the room. “Is Miss Bradshaw a thief?” he asked.
“I don’t know where you got your information,” Lord Brocklehurst said, “but you probably know that some of my mother’s jewels were found in a trunk that Isabella was about to take from the house. They were the more costly jewels, which my mother had not taken to London with her.”
“Inside the trunk,” the duke said. “How did she steal them? If they were so costly, were they not kept very carefully under lock and key? To whom did your mother entrust the key when she left?”
“To me, of course,” the other said. “But Isabella has lived in the house all her life. She must have known where the jewels were kept. It is altogether possible that she had a key.”
“There was more than one, then?”
Lord Brocklehurst shrugged.
“Was Miss Bradshaw with her trunk until the moment of discovery?” his grace asked.
“The trunk was opened and the jewels discovered after she had run away,” Lord Brocklehurst said.
“And where was the trunk while she was speaking with you and after she ran away, before someone decided to open it?” the duke asked.
“It was in the gig she planned to take, and then taken back to her room,” the other said.
“I see.” His grace handed him his drink and took his seat again. He had not poured a glass for himself. “How many people would have had access to that trunk after Miss Bradshaw last saw it? Was it locked, by the way?”
Lord Brocklehurst was frowning again. “This sounds remarkably like an interrogation, Ridgeway,” he said.
“My servants must be above reproach,” his grace said, “my daughter’s governess, in particular. Is there any possibility that the jewels might have been planted on her?”
“But who would have a motive for doing such a thing?” Lord Brocklehurst asked.
The duke rubbed his chin. “I see your point,” he said. “But Miss Bradshaw herself had a motive, of course. You had refused to allow her to marry the local curate, I believe, and she was not to come into her fortune for at least another two years. She was eloping presumably without a penny to her name.”
“Your source is well-informed,” Lord Brocklehurst said.
“Yes,” his grace agreed. “My sources usually are if I pay them any heed. Tell me about that death. Was it murder?”
“She was threatening to kill me,” Lord Brocklehurst said. “She was beside herself with anger. Both my valet and I were concerned for her. He tried to prevent her from hurting herself, but she pushed him and killed him. He would not have fallen alone. I believe her action constitutes murder.”
“There is no chance that she misunderstood?” his grace asked. “She was, I believe, alone in the house with you, apart from the servants. In that particular room she was alone with two men. Could she have believed that you meant her mischief?”
Lord Brocklehurst laughed. “Isabella has lived as one of my family since she was a child,” he said. “She is like a daughter to my mother, like a sister to me. Except that she has come to mean more than a sister could. She has been aware of my regard for her for a long time and aware of my hope that she would be my bride. There was no chance of a misunderstanding. Unfortunately I am her guardian and had been forced on that day to the painful task of thwarting her will when it would have led her to unhappiness.”
“I see,” the duke said. “If she threatened to kill you, then, it would seem that the killing was premeditated, even though in the event she killed the wrong man. Yes, murder it is. You are quite right. A capital offense. Miss Bradshaw, it seems, is destined to hang.”
Lord Brocklehurst took a sip of his drink and said nothing.
“You came here, presumably, to take her away to prison where she belongs,” his grace said. “But one thing puzzles me. If she is a murderer and therefore a dangerous criminal, why did you not apprehend her as soon as you arrived, or at least take me aside to warn me of what a desperate fugitive I was harboring?”
Lord Brocklehurst set his drink down carefully on the table beside him. “I came as your brother’s guest,” he said. “There were other guests in residence. Naturally, Ridgeway, I did not wish to alarm everyone. I was hoping to take her away without any fuss or scandal at all.”
“And in the meantime,” his grace said, “she might have murdered my daughter and killed us all in our beds.”
“I do not believe she is deranged,” Lord Brocklehurst said.
“Only backed into a corner,” his grace said, “knowing that you have found her and are merely biding your time. From my experience of hunting, Brocklehurst, I would have to say that a cornered animal is the most dangerous animal. Of course, you must really believe what you say. You must consider Miss Bradshaw a great deal less than dangerous if you are prepared to marry her despite all. Despite the fact that she threatened your life and then killed your valet.”
“I have never had any intention of marrying her,” Lord Brocklehurst said. “At least not since she has revealed herself for what she is.”
The duke frowned. “Pardon me,” he said. “Did I mishear you a few minutes ago?”
“I did not quite know what you knew or had discovered,” Lord Brocklehurst said. “I thought it wise to agree with what you said until I knew what exactly you were trying to say to me. But how could I seriously consider marriage with a woman who would steal from my own mother and kill my man because she was in a passion with me?”
“How could you, indeed?” the duke said. “But do you not think a judge would consider the events of the past days and your admission of a few minutes ago rather strange, Brocklehurst? Do you not think that he might believe you have been offering Miss Bradshaw a deal—a change in your testimony in exchange for her favors?”
Lord Brocklehurst was on his feet. “That is a damnable suggestion, Ridgeway,” he said. “When I tell the facts as they were, no judge or jury would hesitate to convict her.”
“You will watch the hanging, of course,” his grace said. “Will you enjoy watching the noose being slipped over her head and tightened beneath her ear? Will you enjoy seeing her take the final drop?”
Lord Brocklehurst’s hands were in fists at his sides. “I loved her,” he said. “I suppose I still do. Unfortunately, justice must be done.”
“Oh, I hope so,” the duke said, his eyes narrowing. “I shall certainly be testifying at the trial, Brocklehurst.”
“I understand she is your mistress,” the other said. “Once that fact has been established, I don’t believe your testimony would be worth a great deal. So your concern is not, after all, for your daughter, Ridgeway, but for your personal comfort. I might have known it. And for her sake you are prepared to make up lies about my intentions toward her.”
“Houghton,” his grace said, scarcely raising his voice, “would you fetch me a brandy, my dear fellow? I am too lazy to get to my feet again.”
Lord Brocklehurst merely stared as the duke’s secretary appeared through the half-open door into the music room and proceeded to pour a drink for his employer.
“You made notes, I trust?” his grace said, taking his drink. “Though your memory is quite excellent even without.”
“It is all written down, your grace,” Peter Houghton said.
“Thank you,” the duke said. “I shall not detain you, Houghton. You will wish to return to your chair.”
His secretary disappeared from the room again.
“The rain makes for a thoroughly g
loomy day,” his grace said. “But in one way it has been a blessing in disguise. I do not know where I would have hidden a witness if we had taken that ride, Brocklehurst. Now, tampering with justice is, I believe, an offense. And that, of course, is an overly courteous way of saying that I know it is an offense. What are we going to do about it?”
“We?” Lord Brocklehurst seemed finally to have pulled himself together. “What are we going to do about it? Isabella is a murderer. I am taking her back for trial.”
“Yes,” the duke said, “I tend to agree that there is a case against her. She pushed a man and he died. It would appear to be murder. And jewels were found in her trunk. I think that indeed she must be taken back for trial, Brocklehurst. Not by you alone. I shall see that she is suitably accompanied. And I shall myself attend the trial. I shall ask to testify if I deem it necessary to do so.”
“So you would tamper with justice too?” Lord Brocklehurst said, sneering for the first time. “You are trying to blackmail me, Ridgeway?”
“Not at all,” his grace said. “I wish you to tell the absolute truth of what happened. But if the absolute truth is that Miss Bradshaw stole your mother’s jewels and deliberately killed your valet, then I believe a judge and jury would be most interested in hearing the details of your coming here as a guest and spending some time socially with the woman you came to arrest. They would doubtless be interested to know that you planned to marry her ‘as soon as possible.’ I believe those were your exact words. Am I right, Houghton?”
There was a short pause. “Yes, your grace,” Peter Houghton’s voice said from the other side of the door to the music room.
“Miss Bradshaw will probably still hang,” his grace said. “But nasty things might happen to you too, Brocklehurst. I am not sure what. I am not as knowledgeable about the law as I suppose I should be as a justice of the peace. Houghton could doubtless discover what your punishment is likely to be. He is quite invaluable as a, ah, source. Would you like him to find out for you?”
Lord Brocklehurst pursed his lips.
“Of course,” the duke said, “the judge and jury might well acquit Miss Bradshaw on the assumption that the testimony of the only witness to the murder is thoroughly untrustworthy. Perhaps you would take the fall alone—an unfortunate choice of words. I am not at all sure that the penalty for your crime is death. Indeed, I would guess that it is not. Transportation, maybe? But then, I am only guessing. We will leave it to Houghton to find out.”
“I shall be gone from here within the hour,” Lord Brocklehurst said stiffly. “I shall not trouble you with my presence any further, Ridgeway.”
“Without Miss Bradshaw?” his grace said. “Shall I see that she is brought to trial? Indeed, I believe I must. She has been accused of two capital crimes. For her own peace of mind she must be convicted or cleared. Or you must make some public statement explaining the error of your earlier accusations. You were, of course, distraught over her disobedience and the accidental death of your valet. One is prone to exaggerate under such circumstances. People will applaud your courage in making yourself look a little ridiculous in order to set matters straight.”
“The statement will be made,” Lord Brocklehurst said through his teeth.
“Splendid,” his grace said, getting to his feet finally. He had not touched one drop of his brandy. “I shall look for an official notice of your statement within the next week or two. You are recording all this too, are you, Houghton?”
“Yes, your grace,” the voice beyond the door said.
“After Miss Bradshaw’s name has been cleared,” his grace said, “I shall communicate with you again, Brocklehurst, to see what can be arranged for her comfort until her twenty-fifth birthday. But I need not detain you with a discussion of that point now. Good day to you. Have a pleasant journey. Do you go to Heron House?”
“I have not decided and do not feel it necessary to share my plans with you anyway, Ridgeway,” Lord Brocklehurst said, making for the door.
“Ah, quite so,” his grace said. He stood beside the chair and watched the other leave.
His shoulders visibly sagged when the door closed.
“Come in here, Houghton,” he said. “Have you ever known a more slimy fellow?”
Peter Houghton, closing the music room door behind him as he entered the library, did not seem to think it necessary to reply.
“I was in fear and trembling,” his grace said, “that he would see the obvious route out of all his difficulties. It was glaring him in the face so dazzlingly for a whole minute that I am amazed it did not blind him. You saw it too, I presume? Indeed, doubtless you saw it before I did.”
“He might have explained that all his attempts to get Miss Hamil … er, Miss Bradshaw to marry him were a ruse to get her to go quietly to avoid scandal in the house,” Houghton said. “Yes, your grace, I kept my eyes closed for all of half a minute waiting for him to see it. He will curse himself when he looks back and realizes how he could have wriggled out of your trap.”
“Knowing you, Houghton,” the duke said, “I would guess that the notes you made are beautifully written and meticulously organized. But go over them, if you please. I don’t believe we will ever need them, but I want them to be ready if we do.”
“Yes, your grace,” Peter Houghton said.
“In the meanwhile,” his grace said, smiling, “I believe I shall go upstairs to relieve a lady’s mind of the heavy burden that has weighed it down for all of three months.”
Peter Houghton did not reply as his master left the room, a spring actually in his step. Neither did he smile with amusement or sneer with scorn. He shook his head rather sadly. It was worse than he had thought. She was not his grace’s ladybird after all. She was his love.
But his grace was an honorable man.
Houghton felt a deep pity for his employer.
FLEUR HAD JUST ENOUGH money to reach the market town twenty miles from Heron House. Twenty miles seemed a very long way still to go, especially with the weather chilly and unsettled. And a bundle that seemed heavier by the minute and an empty stomach did nothing to improve the prospect of a long walk.
But there was no alternative. She set out to walk the twenty miles. She was fortunate enough to be taken up by a farmer in an uncomfortable and foul-smelling cart for three or four miles. And all of seven miles from home she was recognized by another farmer driving a wagon and was taken right to the door of Heron House. She could only thank him most gratefully and hope that he was not expecting payment.
But then, she thought with a rueful smile as he turned his horses’ heads and made off without delay, perhaps his payment would be in the excitement of being the one to break the news in the village that she was home.
The servants clearly did not know quite what to do when she was admitted to the house. She took a deep breath and decided to take the initiative.
“I am fatigued, Chapman,” she told the butler, as if she had just come in from an afternoon’s walk. “Have hot water for a bath sent to my room, if you please, and send Annie up to me.”
“Yes, Miss Bradshaw,” the butler said, looking at her rather as if she had two heads, Fleur thought. He spoke again as she turned away to climb the stairs. “Annie is not with us any longer, Miss Isabella.”
“She is gone?” she said, turning back to him. “Lord Brocklehurst dismissed her?”
“She had an offer of a place in Norfolk at the house where her sister works, Miss Isabella,” he said. “She was sorry to leave.”
“Send me one of the other maids, then,” Fleur said.
She had been looking forward to seeing Annie again, she thought, climbing the remaining stairs to her room and looking about at all the familiar objects—a part of her identity for so many years. It was almost a surprise to find that nothing had been removed from her room. Even the clothes that had been packed away in her trunk were back there. She need not have brought her new clothes from Willoughby Hall after all.
And she had want
ed to talk with Annie, who had apparently been the one to discover the jewels in her trunk. Had the maid been alone when she found them? Had she gone running to Matthew with the news? Had Annie believed her guilty?
She would probably never be able to fill in those blanks in her knowledge now. Annie had gone to Norfolk. Fleur could not recall any mention of a sister in service there. It was probable that Matthew had dismissed her because she was Fleur’s maid and no longer needed in the house.
It was strange to be back, to find everything so normal except that Cousin Caroline and Amelia and Matthew were from home. She had fled for her very life just three months before. And she supposed that soon she would be in fear of her life again. Someone would do something as soon as the shock of seeing her just walk back into her home had worn off. Someone would send for Matthew or do something else to detain her.
Matthew himself would doubtless come, once she was missed from Willoughby Hall. Indeed, perhaps he was not far behind her. Perhaps she would not have even the night to herself.
But she was in the only place she could be.
She bathed and washed her hair when water was brought, and put on one of her own dresses. She felt almost herself again as she brushed and styled her hair without the services of the maid who had been sent up to her.
She would not think of Matthew coming. She had a few things to do before he came. And she would not think at all of the recent past. She would not think of Lady Pamela and their days together. She would not think of the magnificent home she had come to think of almost as hers.
And she would not think of him. No, she would not.
But she thought of his dark hair and strong, harsh features, of the cruel scar that slashed across the left side of his face. She thought of his hands with their long, well-manicured fingers—hands that she had so feared because they had touched her impersonally and intimately and had held her steady for the infliction of pain and degradation. But the same hands had held hers warmly and cupped her face and wiped away her tears.
