“You carry no blame for any of this, Miss Green,” he said.
The housekeeper carried on as though she hadn’t heard him. “Her parents died in the fire. Not burned, thank God. But suffocated. They were found lying in each other’s arms as if they were merely sleeping. They inhaled the smoke as they slept. My one consolation is that they did not suffer. I heard that Lady Margaret had a cut at the back of her neck. A red mark that was never explained. Lord Pemperose must have ripped her necklace off of her. It had to have been him, My Lord, who set the fire.”
“You know this for certain? Perhaps it was merely an accident. Fires happen all the time.” Joseph was grasping at straws, hoping that the situation was not as dire as it seemed.
Miss Green shook her head and wiped fresh tears from her eyes. “No, My Lord. It had to have been him. He was so angry the night of the fire. I believe in coincidence as much as anyone, but the likelihood that an accidental fire would kill the Donovan’s on the very night when Lord Pemperose swore to destroy them both is too great.”
Joseph nodded. His stomach felt liquid and his hands shook with fear and anger. Anger at Lord Pemperose. Anger at himself for being so gullible.
“What could he want with Amanda now? Why would he pretend to be her father?”
The housekeeper looked up at him then with panic in her eyes. “You must go after her at once, My Lord. He meant to kill all three of them in that fire. I thwarted him at first by putting Amanda on a ship to Ireland, to my sister, but then I heard of the shipwreck. I thought that his revenge was complete, with all three Donovan's dead. Now that he knows that his vengeance is unfinished—”
Joseph, who could stand the mounting anxiety no longer, leaped up from his seat.
“Thank you, Miss Green, for telling me all this. Yes, I shall return at once. I will find her and bring her home.”
Miss Green nodded tearfully, and Joseph feared that what he saw in her expression was doubt. Miss Green seemed to think it was too late.
But Joseph couldn't allow himself to believe that. He strode across the room, stopping only in the doorway to whirl around to look at the crying housekeeper once more.
“Miss Green, I leave Lady Heather with you. Tell her nothing. I will return soon. With Miss O’Neil.”
“Yes, My Lord.” She rose to her feet unsteadily, wiping at her eyes and apparently trying to compose herself for Heather's sake.
Joseph dashed out of the room and down to the stables. He did not want to wait for the carriage to be brought, nor did he trust the speed of his trip back to London to a coachman. He brushed off the attention of a groomsman in the stable and saddled his fastest mare himself, hoisting himself into the saddle with hardly a word of explanation. He dug his heels into the mare's haunches and she started forward at a gallop, sending bits of gravel up behind them as they tore down the drive.
As he rode, the clouds in the sky merged into a gray overcast that soon broke into a steady rainfall that soaked through his jacket. Water slicked his hair to his forehead and streamed into his eyes, but still, he rode hard, urging the mare on ever faster. He was heedless of the dangers of riding so fast on a muddy road. Nothing mattered now except getting back to Amanda.
The sun was beginning to set as he rode on. The ride to London had never felt so hellishly long. The rain had worsened to a torrent that made his progress even more treacherous and he was forced to slow his gallop to a fast trot that kicked up muddy water behind them.
He needed to get to the Dowager Marchioness's London estate. If luck was with him, Kelly would still be there. If all that Miss Green had said about Lord Pemperose was correct, Joseph wanted to have the added strength of another man by his side when he confronted him. Also, there was the slight problem of the fact that Joseph didn't actually know where Lord Pemperose lived.
He could have kicked himself for being such a gullible fool.
He prayed that the Dowager Marchioness, that pillar of society, would know Lord Pemperose's address.
By the time he arrived in London, it was dark, and the storm had become truly dangerous to be out riding in. He left his horse with the Dowager Marchioness' coachman and then pushed past her butler. He left puddles of water standing in the foyer and dripped down the hallway until he reached her drawing room door. Not waiting to be introduced, he barged in.
The Dowager Marchioness, along with Kelly and Kelly's wife, all whirled their heads around to gaze at Joseph. He imagined he must have looked a fright, judging by the shock and concern on their faces.
“Miss O’Neil,” Joseph said. “Lord Pemperose. He's not who he says he is. We must go get her,” he directed at Kelly.
“Not who he says he is?” Kelly was on his feet now, striding across the room toward him. “Did you ride all the way here in the rain? It's a wonder you are still standing. Come dry yourself by the fire.”
Joseph shook him off. “No, there's no time. I can explain on the way. We must get her.”
Those gathered in the drawing room all looked at Joseph with sort of blank expressions on their face that infuriated him. Even while he understood that he must have looked like a crazed madman, barging into their quiet evening soaked to the bone and raving.
Although he wanted to shout and rage, Joseph managed to compose himself and begin to explain all that had happened since they had parted earlier that morning.
“And this housekeeper of yours is quite sure that this Amanda is the same Amanda she knew as a child?” the Dowager Marchioness asked after Joseph had concluded relating Miss Green's story.
“Yes. She was sure. The look on her face when I told her about the matching necklaces convinces me that she is being truthful.”
“Well, we must go and retrieve her,” Kelly said, standing up and already calling for his hat and coat.
“It's pouring rain and pitch black out there!” the Dowager Marchioness protested. “The two of you will catch your death or fall into a ditch before you reach her.”
“What else can we do?” Joseph asked. “I cannot just sit here waiting for the weather to clear or the sun to rise. Not knowing that she is in the hands of this murderer.”
Kelly chewed his lip. “He's right, mother. We must go at once. It has been hours since they left here together.”
“Kelly...” Lady Brubrun broke in, her small, gentle voice capturing Kelly's full attention instantly, “this man, he is dangerous, no?”
Kelly turned and took Lady Brubrun's small hands in his, raising them up to hiss the back of her knuckles. “Yes, darling. It appears that he is. But I must protect my friend. I'm certain that Joseph would do the same, were it you in Miss O’Neil place.”
Kelly looked at Joseph for confirmation.
“Yes, of course, I would. Without hesitation,” Joseph said toward the petite Italian lady.
Lady Brubrun smiled gently at both men. “I understand. But please, be careful. And Kelly?”
“Yes, dear?”
“Load your pistol.”
Chapter 35
Earlier that day, Amanda climbed into Lord Pemperose's carriage, feeling very alone. Despite the fact that she was with her father, a fact that still bewildered her, she felt more like her real family was riding away to Ethelred Manor without her.
Her father closed the door of the carriage and they were surrounded by silence in the plush carriage interior. It was then that she noticed how strange it was to be away from Heather. She noticed how quiet her mind seemed when she was not always unconsciously keeping an eye on the child. Suddenly, Amanda had no one to look after but herself.
“My estate is a bit out of the way, I'm afraid,” Lord Pemperose said. “I do enjoy London, of course. Who can resist such high-spirited society? But at heart, I am a lover of nature, and I prefer a sloping lawn to windows that look out over a street.”
Amanda nodded. “I feel quite the same.”
“Ah, there. You see? You must get that from me.”
His words prompted Amanda to search Lord Pemperose's fa
ce for some mirror of her own. She regarded him with fresh eyes but was only met with the familiar broadness of his brow and the sharp angularity of his features. She couldn't see herself in him, though perhaps...now that she looked closely...the shape of her ears might be from him.
“What did my mother look like?” Amanda asked.
Lord Pemperose's eyes narrowed slightly and he bent a bit to look her directly in the eye. For a moment, he studied her with an intensity in his gaze that unsettled her.
“Do you really remember nothing?” he asked.
Amanda inhaled. “Nothing substantial. Occasionally the smell of lilacs or fresh linens drying in a summer breeze seems to remind me of something. I will get these little shivers...little feelings. But no. I don't remember anything from before Dublin.”
“Incredible,” her father whispered. “Truly remarkable. When you didn't recognize me when we first met, it made me think that my suspicions must have been false. My own daughter would surely recognize me, I thought.”
“Mrs O'Neil told me that I had been found wandering the streets of Dublin after a shipwreck. I imagine I must have had injuries. I wish I had more to tell you, but I genuinely don't remember a thing.”
He smiled softly at her, then placed his arm around her shoulders.
“That’s all right, dear. We have the rest of our lives to get to know each other.”
Amanda was drawn into light conversation with him as they rode toward the edge of London and then down winding roads that seemed to be taking them far from civilization. Amanda fidgeted, watching the landscape pass before her window. She had no idea where she was now. And although she trusted her new-found father, it still made her a little anxious to look out the window and see unfamiliar terrain.
“How long until we arrive?” she asked after a time, interrupting a monologue from the man about the state of his rose gardens.
“We will be there in another twenty minutes or so. Are you frightened?”
The question took her by surprise. “Frightened?” she asked. “Well, no. Not frightened. Not exactly.” She didn’t want to insult him with her trepidation. He seemed too happy to be reunited with him, she felt that, despite the shock and uneasiness, she ought to act the same way. She smiled at him. “I just don’t know what to expect.”
“I will take good care of you, Amanda. You will finally be treated the way you always deserved to be treated.”
When they rolled up to a modest, yet fashionable house amidst a creeping, overgrown garden, Amanda was taken aback by the sight of it. The house seemed half swallowed up by vines, and there was a wildness about the whole estate that surprised her.
“Do you live here alone?” she asked as he helped her out of the carriage.
“Quite alone. I have a coachman and a butler. Well, I call him a butler, but he does basically everything that needs to be done about the house. Since your mother died, and I thought I had lost you, I haven’t much desired the close company of other people.”
“It sounds lonely…” she said. He offered his arm and she slid hers through it as he led her up the steps.
The man who greeted them at the door was elderly, with deep lines set into a drooping face. It was no wonder that the grounds were so overgrown. A man of this age could not be expected to upkeep everything on his own. The old man squinted at her.
“Mister Tibbs, this is Lady Amanda.”
Amanda dipped her head in a slight bow to the butler. He hardly acknowledged her, turning his milky gaze to his master.
“Shall I have a room made up for her, My Lord?”
Lord Pemperose answered in the affirmative as he led her inside.
The house was cold inside, and dark. What windows there were, were small and dirty. A fine layer of dust covered everything, and the air was of that stale quality that made Amanda suspect that the windows were never opened.
Despite the unkempt nature of the house, she could see that beneath the evidence of neglect, it was a lovely home. Perhaps, now that her father had found her, he would be released from some of the grief that had apparently prevented him from properly caring for his home.
As he led her into a large, open living space, Amanda studied her father. The state of his surroundings made her expect to see the marks of deep depression on his face, but she found his expression to be guarded. He was even more unreadable than he had been when they first met.
The room he brought her to was drafty, with a high ceiling and a large, empty fireplace. A large, stout dining table took up half of the room, while a few chairs were pulled around the fireplace. This room had less dust than the rest of the house she had seen. It seemed that this was where he spent most of his time.
Hanging above the fireplace was a large oil portrait of a beautiful woman. She was seated on a velvet chair, with her green-satin gown flowing in luxurious folds around her. Her hair was golden and curly, and her cheeks were dusted with fine freckles. Amanda’s breath caught in her throat as she walked toward the massive portrait.
The woman’s eyes seemed to see her. Her lips, painted in an enigmatic almost-smile, seemed to acknowledge her. Amanda’s eyes traveled down to the woman’s hands, resting elegantly upon her lap. There, spilled out between her fingers, were two fine golden chains, each bearing a matching oval pendant.
“This is Mother,” Amanda said. It wasn’t a question, but she yearned for confirmation all the same.
She heard Lord Pemperose walk up behind her, his footfalls slow and deliberate. “Yes.”
“She was beautiful,” Amanda breathed. Tears sprung to her eyes and her vision grew misty as she stared up at the kind, familiar face of her mother. Familiar, not because Amanda now remembered her, but because she had seen that face looking out at her through mirrors and panes of glass her whole life. There was the resemblance Amanda had searched for in her father’s face.
“You look like her,” Lord Pemperose said, his voice heavy. When Amanda tore her eyes from the portrait of her mother to look at him, the fire in his eyes surprised her. “Almost exactly.”
Amanda’s gut twisted. There was that look again. When they had first met, she had been offended by the open desire in his eyes when he spoke to her. When she had found out the truth that he was her father, she had been quick to chastise herself for assuming such nefariousness in the man’s gaze. But now, as she was confronted with that expression once more, she knew that her first impression had been correct.
She felt ill. A wave of sudden nausea washed over her, and she took a step back from him. Father or not, she was now acutely aware of just how alone she was with this man who she did not know well.
He stepped forward, closing the distance she had put between them. Then, his hand was at her jaw. With his fingertips, he lifted her chin, then tilted her face right and left, studying her.
“You have no idea how I have longed to see this face again.”
“Father,” she breathed, trying to twist away from his touch. His hand held her jaw fast. “You’re frightening me.”
A terrible grin spread across his face. Disgust roiled in Amanda’s stomach as his gaze dropped to her lips.
“Father,” he scoffed, gripping her jaw tighter. He chuckled joylessly.
And then he was pulling her roughly against him. His hands went about her waist and gripped her mercilessly as his lips came down on hers. Horror gripped her, and Amanda pushed against his shoulders, trying to twist out of this disgusting embrace. She struggled with all her might, but he was stronger than her, deepening the kiss even as she fought against him.
Finally, he let her go. It was with such abruptness that, as she shoved herself away from his chest, she tumbled backwards onto the floor. Furiously, she wiped at her bruised lips with the back of her hand, feeling as though she might soon be sick.
“What’s the matter with you?” she spat. “I am your daughter. I may look like her, but Margaret is dead.”
He stepped forward, towering over her as she remained on the floor, looking up a
t him.
“Margaret is dead. Yes. That is true.” he said in a low, drawly voice. “But I am not your father.”
She gazed up at him, fear and confusion battling for prominence in her mind. “But you said…”
He laughed. Then, bending down, he took a fistful of her sleeve and heaved her gracelessly back to her feet. Terror seized her at the thought that he would try to kiss her again, but this time he merely yanked her back toward the portrait of Margaret.
“Margaret Donovan was never my wife,” he said, keeping her in place by his grip on her sleeve as she tried in vain to move away from him. “She refused me. Time and time again. When that useless husband of hers produced you, I thought that certainly, her devotion to him would subside, having fulfilled her wifely duty.”
Seducing The Perfectly Enchanting Marquess (Steamy Historical Regency Romance) Page 24
