Dark Obsession

by Allison Chase

  Grayson had been asking himself the same question. It would have been the logical thing to do, the safe thing. But if Tom had been involved, there would be questions. Talk. Eventually, Jonny would hear.

  ‘‘No. Not yet. I want more information first.’’ He went to the desk and retrieved the silver goblet he’d taken from the cave. Turning it over, he showed Gibbs the initials etched inside a tiny diamond pattern. ‘‘I want this traced. See if you can have the silversmith identified.’’

  ‘‘Judging by the shape of the stem and the curve of the cup, it looks like it might be Sheffield silver, sir.’’ Gibbs took the goblet from Grayson and held it up to examine it from several different angles. ‘‘Of a certainty English, at any rate. Perhaps Mrs. Dorn might be of service in this instance.’’

  ‘‘Just don’t tell her where it came from.’’

  An amused gleam eased the severity of Gibbs’s pitted features. ‘‘Even if I knew where this piece did come from, sir, I’d hardly take it upon myself to say so.’’

  ‘‘I’ve given you scant information, Gibbs, and for that I apologize. It’s not that I don’t trust you . . .’’ Or did he? At this point he couldn’t be certain whom he could trust. Until he had answers, no one was above suspicion, no one at Blackheath except Nora and Jonny.

  After Gibbs left with the goblet, Grayson lingered in the study. Standing at the mullioned window and staring at the vivid greens of the park beyond, he tried to concentrate on what he needed to do next. All he could think about was Nora.

  Since arriving here he’d done nothing but frighten her. Even his attempt at lovemaking had strayed perilously close to mistreatment. He’d created distance between them, confessed point-blank he was a murderer and ordered her to leave. Yet here she remained, stubborn and steadfast, and if the truth be told, he felt an almost strangling sense of relief that she still occupied a place in his life.

  For that alone, he owed her so much. . . .

  That thought sent him out to the stables, where he ordered his horse saddled. The three of them—he, Nora and Jonny—came preciously close to being a family, yet might never be one. Not if the past continued to stifle any hope of a future together. All along, he’d believed himself to be cursed, and a curse to them. He could wallow in that belief and lose all hope of ever helping his nephew and making his wife happy, or he could fight—claw his way past curses and guilt and build new possibilities for them all.

  Mounted on Constantine, he cantered past the paddocks and broke into a gallop that took him out onto Blackheath Moor.

  ‘‘I’ll find the truth,’’ he called aloud. His voice rode the open landscape to echo against the granite outcroppings on the high ground. He hoped his ghosts were listening, hoped they recognized his words as the challenge they were, burning through him and spurring him on. ‘‘Do you hear me? I won’t rest until I know exactly how and why you died, Tom, and what part our cave played in your passing.’’

  This would not be another breakneck ride like the other day, for a plan formed in his mind. He’d start by seeking out the tenant farmers and asking questions, plenty of them. Someone had to have seen something. Perhaps Dan Ridley would be willing to answer his questions in exchange for the fish Grayson had helped him catch the other day.

  Then he’d revisit other places where he and Tom played as boys. Would he find more pirated wares hidden at the abandoned tin mine south of Millford, or among the foundations of the Iron Age settlement a mile in from Gunwalloe, a few miles to the north?

  With the Ridley farm in mind, he had just turned his horse south when thundering hooves across the fields behind him brought him up short. Constantine brandished his head and swung about, as eager as Grayson to see who bore down on them with such determination.

  The Thoroughbred’s ears flattened as the galloping stride of a sleek chestnut ate up the ground between them. The figure in the saddle bent low over the horse’s mane, and a spirited shout pierced the breeze as the horse streaked across the landscape.

  ‘‘I don’t believe it,’’ Grayson murmured, straining his eyes to see into the distance. But as a rare beam of sunshine slid past a break in the clouds, gold hair flashed nearly as bright as the surrounding gorse. ‘‘Easy, there, Constantine.’’ He gave his agitated horse a reassuring pat. ‘‘This is the first positive sign I’ve seen in weeks.’’

  Yes, he felt a burst of hope. Or, if not hope precisely, at least a scrap of relief yielded from the sight of the Earl of Wycliffe clearing the last of the heather-and gorse-covered hillocks between them.

  ‘‘How the devil did you find me here?’’ Grayson asked once his friend had managed to calm his horse to a standstill.

  ‘‘Saw you from the ridge on the Helston Road. Figured it had to be you. Who else from these parts would be wandering aimlessly across the moors on a day when there’s work to be done?’’ Chad’s broad grin reminded Grayson of days long ago when the two of them had frequently raced madcap across the countryside. ‘‘Does the carpenter’s wife still keep her inn?’’

  ‘‘Calling it an inn is a bit of an overstatement.’’ The woman in question kept a room in her cottage for travelers and could be called upon to serve tea or ale beneath the shade of a wide old elm in her garden. ‘‘But, yes, she does.’’

  ‘‘Race you there.’’ With a lift of his brows and a challenging wink, Chad flapped his reins and set his horse to a gallop again.

  Grayson followed in close pursuit, but even allowing Constantine his rein, he remained a good horse length or two behind his friend. No one could outrun Chad Rutherford on horseback. The man was fearless, had been since boyhood.

  The ground blurred beneath their horses’ hooves, and as they approached the mill stream, Chad, coat-tails flapping and hair fluttering wildly, showed no sign of slowing. Grayson saw that, rather than head downstream to where the watercourse narrowed, Chad meant to leap the banks at their widest.

  The water roared in his ears, and Grayson had a split second to choose whether to follow or play it safe. With a brash shout, Chad stole the decision. Like hawks on the kill, both horses shot forward in a breath-stealing burst of speed, heads down, tails streaming and legs stretching to the limit of their strides.

  In midair Grayson’s heart hit his throat. That Constantine possessed the power to make it over, he didn’t doubt. But with all the recent rain, the bank might not hold. Fear shot like a bullet through him until, an instant later, both horses pounded onto the far bank.

  Relief snarled with anger as they continued on, slowing to a canter and finally a walk as they reached the stone walls and hedgerows of the first farm. Still fuming over what he perceived as an unnecessary and foolhardy risk, Grayson clucked Constantine up beside Chad’s mount. Words of censure sat hot on his tongue, ready to singe the other man’s irrepressible confidence. . . .

  Until Chad leaned across the space between them and punched his upper arm. ‘‘Remember the first time you made us do that?’’

  Grayson’s mouth hung open as the memory rushed back. He’d forgotten all about it, but he had instigated that jump, a long time ago. He had been fourteen at the time and, as was typical on a summer’s day, had spent the morning riding with both Chad and Tom. As usual, Chad had outridden and outjumped both brothers all morning, until finally Grayson had experienced a rare twinge of jealousy.

  So he had pointed across the moor to the stream and issued the challenge, his voice wavering with the slightest of catches as he contemplated having to make the jump himself. But once uttered, there had been no taking it back.

  I’ve done it before and so has Tom. Isn’t that right, Tom?

  I . . . er . . .

  I’m for it, then!

  And, just as today, Chad had spurred his horse forward. All three of them had made it over, though the harum-scarum leap had left Tom visibly shaken for hours afterward, and Grayson secretly weak with relief.

  ‘‘I’d thought certainly we’d all break our necks,’’ Chad said now with relish, as if pl
eased by the prospect. ‘‘A wonder none of us did, especially as it was a first for all of us.’’

  Grayson nodded, his lip curled in a guilty half grin. ‘‘Indeed it was, despite my claims to the contrary. But if you knew, why were you so eager to accept my challenge?’’

  ‘‘Why the devil not?’’ Chad shrugged and laughed as the sun once more pierced the clouds and flashed on his disheveled hair, thick and fair and thoroughly admired by every lady of their acquaintance.

  Grayson couldn’t help laughing along with him. They and their horses had survived the jump unscathed, and after so many days of rain and gloom and guilt, he snatched at this chance, however brief, to feel . . . normal, free . . . young again.

  Well, if anyone could command both the weather and the moods of those around him, it would be Chad Rutherford, a man who glided effortlessly through life with his golden looks and a devil-may-care attitude.

  A quarter hour later they were seated at Mrs. Caldwell’s linen-covered table beneath the elm, sipping her home-brewed ale and munching on home-baked almond cakes.

  ‘‘Damned decent ale,’’ Chad commented after a long pull. He wiped a sleeve across his mouth. ‘‘One of the few things I actually miss in London society.’’ He set the tankard down and leaned forward over the table, his gaze so intent it made Grayson want to shrink back into his chair, especially when Chad burst out with, ‘‘Good God, man, you look like hell.’’

  ‘‘Nearly killing both myself and my horse will do that to me. Speaking of which, what did you mean when you said you saw me from the Helston Road? Where is your coach? Surely you didn’t ride all the way from London.’’

  ‘‘Of course I did. Coaches are for ladies and luggage, and people with nothing better to do than spend an eternity being jostled by the pitiful state of our country roads.’’

  ‘‘Got someone’s husband after you again, don’t you?’’

  ‘‘My good man, I’ll have you know I’ve been as chaste as a monk.’’

  Grayson sniggered, earning him a wry look from Chad.

  ‘‘The fact is, London turned drab as dirt after you and your wife made your hasty departure. Not that I’ve any intention of becoming a nuisance to you.’’ He gave a sniff. ‘‘Newlyweds need their privacy, after all.’’

  ‘‘You’re coming back to the house with me and you’ll stay as long as you like,’’ Grayson replied perhaps too quickly, a bit too desperately. Did he really think his friend could defuse matters? Or find answers Grayson hadn’t already considered and discarded? ‘‘Nora will insist,’’ he added in an attempt to appear cordial, rather than distraught.

  Chad regarded him pensively from over the rim of his tankard. ‘‘If you’re quite certain. But just a quick stopover on my way to Grandview. As Belinda keeps reminding me, I’ve neglected my Cornwall estate long enough. She and Albert send their regards, by the way.’’

  Grayson acknowledged the sentiment with a nod. ‘‘Thinking of settling in at Grandview indefinitely?’’

  ‘‘Good God, no.’’ Chad gave a little shudder. ‘‘You know I find Cornwall infinitely dreary. No theaters, no parties to speak of, no gossip. A veritable wasteland.’’

  ‘‘You liked it well enough as a boy.’’

  ‘‘Yes, and we made our own adventures then, didn’t we, Captain Morgan?"

  After yesterday’s discovery, Grayson could find no enjoyment in the memory of their long-ago amusements. He took a swallow of ale and glanced at his booted feet, crossed one over the other and stretched out at an angle to the table.

  ‘‘Now, then . . . when are you going to confess?’’ Chad asked after a pause.

  Grayson’s ale sloshed, almost spilling onto his trousers. The mug clattered against the table as he set it down. ‘‘What do you mean?’’

  Chad studied him while he chewed and swallowed a bite of almond cake. ‘‘See here, old man. Neither shaking hands nor those thunderheads riding beneath your eyes speak much in the way of marital bliss. Either tell me what has gone amiss or I shall be forced to ask your wife.’’

  Grayson conceded with a sigh. ‘‘Don’t do that. This has nothing to do with Nora.’’ He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. ‘‘And everything to do with her. Christ, Chad, I’ve made a riot of the poor woman’s life. And I believe I’ll burn for it.’’

  ‘‘Egad. You love her.’’

  ‘‘No.’’

  ‘‘Yes, you do,’’ the cad returned in a singsong of a murmur. ‘‘What I can’t figure out is why on earth it’s turning you so cadaverous. I can understand the lack of sleep. But love doesn’t typically make a man look as if he’s just climbed out of his own grave.’’

  ‘‘Not my grave. Tom’s.’’

  ‘‘What the devil are you saying?’’

  ‘‘I’m saying I’m damned glad you’re here. Because I’ve stumbled upon something, and I’m counting on you to help me make sense of it. Care to take a ride down the beach?’’

  Grayson felt infinitely grateful when, rather than asking questions, his friend set aside his ale and cake, poured a handful of coins onto the table and came to his feet. ‘‘Let’s go.’’

  You’re free to use the library if you wish, but it happens to be a room I abhor.

  Those were Gray’s words the day they arrived at Blackheath Grange. Nora repeated them under her breath as she closed the library’s double doors and tiptoed to the center of the room. There she came to a stop, hands at her sides, afraid to breathe lest she break the silence. Despite Gray’s permission to be here, she felt like a thief and a sneak.

  Earlier, after breakfast, she had spent the morning in the schoolroom with Jonny, appalled to discover his studies had been abandoned these many months. No more. Together they had read about the Roman emperor Augustus, pored over a map of London before the Great Fire, and added and subtracted columns of figures. The boy might not speak, but his mind was quick and his interests varied, if only someone bothered to encourage him.

  Afterward she ushered him into her studio, delighted to see his eyes widen at the sight of his new, virtually endless canvas. After assuring him it was perfectly permissible to fill the linen sheet as he wished, she had provided charcoal and a palette of paints and left him in Kat’s care.

  Now, then . . . why does Grayson abhor the library? What happened here in this room? What secrets did these walls and bookcases harbor? Whether it had been a dream or a real episode, her lavender lady had told her she must search. . . .

  You must find the truth that will free you all. You must see it with your own eyes, know it, believe it with your mind and heart and soul.

  Yes, somewhere within Blackheath Grange answers waited to be found. Before his death, Thomas Lowell had plunged his estate into profound debt and decline. And though Grayson held himself responsible for all of it, Nora didn’t believe him capable of deliberate malice any more than she believed Jonny to be of blame. Something had to have been overlooked, some vital clue as to what had happened to Thomas in his last days.

  With a finger tapping at her bottom lip, she shrugged off her qualms and walked to the nearest bank of shelves.

  Grayson watched his friend exit the cave and stride to the water’s edge. Shoulders knotted, head down, Chad stared out at the waves as he took his time absorbing everything he’d just been shown.

  After a few minutes Grayson joined him where the waves lapped the shore. ‘‘Your boots are going to soak through.’’

  ‘‘I can’t believe this of Tom.’’ Chad’s mouth was tight, his eyes bleak. ‘‘I knew he’d run into difficulties, but . . .’’

  ‘‘His debts ran deeper than anyone could have guessed. Even months after his . . . his death, bills arrived from creditors I’d never heard of.’’ He drew a breath laden with the bitterness of ocean brine. ‘‘You’re certain he never even hinted to you—’’

  ‘‘Of course he didn’t.’’ Chad’s usually affable features blackened with ire. ‘‘What do you take me for? Don’t you think I’d have
said something?’’

  Grayson placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder. ‘‘I’m sorry. Of course you would have. I only thought . . . well, you and Tom had a bond I didn’t share. You were both peers, both masters of vast estates. I’d hoped he might have confided in you.’’

  ‘‘Would that he had, old man.’’ Bending, Chad scooped up a stone and with a flick of his wrist sent it skipping erratically across the waves. ‘‘You know, there were times I thought it should have been you.’’ A corner of his mouth pulled. ‘‘As earl, I mean. Tom was a good man, but not . . .’’

  ‘‘Not quite up to it. I know. He knew it too.’’ Grayson pushed out a mirthless laugh. ‘‘God, how could he not have known it? Our father made a point of implying it often enough.’’

  ‘‘Yes, I remember. I suppose the old gentleman thought he might shame Tom into being smarter, stronger.’’

  ‘‘More like me?’’

  Your brother can hit the target, Thomas. Why can’t you? Be a man like Grayson, Thomas, and get back on that horse this instant.

  The memories, wrapped in his father’s booming baritone and a haze of costly tobacco smoke, made Grayson queasy. How different everything might have been if Alexander Lowell had nurtured both sons rather than constantly demeaning one of them.

  Or if Grayson had possessed the wisdom to understand his brother’s silent pleas for help.

  Back at the house, after leaving their horses with the groom’s assistant, Chad ground to a sudden halt where a stand of birch trees shaded the tiered gardens. ‘‘Tom wasn’t involved. That’s the answer, plain and simple.’’

  ‘‘I wish I could believe that,’’ Grayson replied, ‘‘but goods are stashed on his beach. After Charlotte died he rarely left Blackheath Grange. How could he not have known?’’ He glared up at the house, at the windows reflecting the heavy clouds rolling in now off the sea. He wished to God he could believe Chad’s theory. Not that it would change much. In fact it would change nothing. He would be no less culpable in Tom’s death. But at least Tom’s name would be cleared of wrongdoing.