by Jo Beverley
“You were present at Deveril’s death,” he said obligingly. “I assume he was doing something vile and his death was deserved. I also assume that you did not kill him, but if you did it would only make me admire you more.”
She bit her lip on tears at his understanding.
“You don’t have to tell me any more, Falcon. It really doesn’t matter.”
She smiled. “But I want to. I have many failings, and one is an incurable urge toward honesty.”
“I don’t see that as a failing, beloved.” And yet something somber touched him.
Beloved. She plunged into it. “I don’t need to tell you that Deveril was an evil man. After he kissed me, I ran away from him.”
“When you threw up over him.”
“Yes. Perhaps I should have been able to control myself better…”
“Not at all. We use what weapons we have to hand.”
She laughed. “I see what you mean. It certainly stopped him! Well, then, I escaped through the window in my brother’s clothes, but Deveril hunted me down and caught me at… at a friend’s house.” Even now she faltered about telling him everything. “He had two men with him, so we couldn’t do anything, and he threatened… He was going to do horrible things to us both, but he was going to kill my friend. So… he was killed.”
She paused for breath and pulled a face. “That wasn’t much of a tale, was it?”
“It does rather skip the who, the where, and especially the how—which I admit fascinates me. But I understand, and you bear no guilt.”
“You won’t feel obliged to pursue justice about it?”
He reached a hand across the table. “What is justice here? I award your noble defender the medal.”
She put her hand in his, knots untangling that she’d hardly been aware of. “I knew you would think like that. I’m sorry, Hawk, deeply sorry, that I didn’t tell you everything before.”
“Before?”
“Before we committed ourselves.”
He tugged, and she understood and went to sit in his lap, to be in his arms. “There is no shame in this, Falcon. But I confess to Hawkish curiosity. About the how, and how it was concealed.”
“The how comes mostly from Deveril’s being taken by surprise. And from reinforcements.” She reached out to touch a silver button on his jacket. “I’m not sure how much else I can tell, even to you.” She looked up. “There are secrets we are bound not to share. Does that apply to husband and wife?”
“Not if it affects both husband and wife. But take time, love. Our only urgency now is to eat and be on our way.”
“I long for complete honesty between us,” she said. “On all things. But would you tell me something truly secret that Lord Vandeimen shared with you?”
He thought for a moment. “I might not.” He touched her cheek. “Do what you think is best, love. I trust you.”
Trust. It was like a perfect golden rose. She sat up slightly and faced him. “Then I have to tell you one thing, Hawk. I did not behave at all like a Falcon last year. I was frozen with fear. Paralyzed. I did nothing. And afterward… Afterward, afterward I was heartless to the one who saved me. Shocked because others weren’t shocked—”
He put his fingers over her lips. “Hush. It was your first battle. Few of us are heroes the first time out. I threw up after mine.”
His understanding was so perfect. She took his face between her hands and kissed him, without words to express the wholeness that she felt.
She drew back at a tumultuous pealing of church bells. “Is it Sunday and I didn’t notice?” she asked.
“Not unless we’ve spent days in heaven instead of just one night. And it’s very early for a wedding.”
Hawk eased Clarissa off his lap and went to open the door. There were many innocent explanations for the bells, but his instinct for danger was at the alert.
It could be nothing to do with Van, surely.
A sparkle-eyed maidservant was just running up the stairs and paused to gasp, “Not to worry, sir! It’s the duke’s heir born at last and all safe! And free ale to be served in the tap in celebration!”
“Duke?” Hawk asked, alarm subsiding, but trying to think what ducal estate was in the vicinity.
“Belcraven, sir! Not the duke’s heir, of course, but his heir’s heir. His estate is here. A fine, handsome boy born to be duke one day, God willing, just as his father was born here twenty-six years ago!”
“A true cause for celebration,” Hawk said, amazed that his voice sounded normal.
Arden here? What strange star had brought this about?
He’d discovered that the marquess had a Surrey estate called Hartwell, his principal country residence. He’d not troubled to find out precisely where. Details, details. It was always in the details.
“The marquess’s estate is very close?” he asked in faint hope.
“Not a mile out of the village, sir! And he and his lovely wife as easy as can be with everyone here.” She gave him a sly look. “Not like in the old days, when the company was very different, let me tell you.”
“Marriage reforms many a man.”
“And many a man it don’t!” she flashed back with a grin, and hurried off on her errand. An increasing babble could be heard below.
Hawk turned slowly back into the room, rapidly absorbing the situation and the implications. Could they get away undetected? From what he knew about the Marquess of Arden, his displeasure was likely to be expressed physically and effectively.
Clarissa, however, did not seem to realize their danger. Her eyes were shining. “Beth’s had the baby and all is well! She’ll be somewhat put out at it being a boy, of course.”
“Put out that it is a boy?” he asked, swiftly gathering their few possessions.
“She doesn’t approve of the aristocracy’s obsession with male heirs.”
It was sufficiently startling to make Hawk pause.
“She’s a firm believer in the equal rights of women, you see, and of a rather republican turn of mind.”
“The Marchioness of Arden?”
“She wrote that it would be bad enough having a son born to be duke without him being the eldest, too. She hoped for a few older females to keep him in line. Apparently Lord Axden was the youngest and has two older sisters, and she said that might have been the saving of him.”
Hawk laughed. “Very likely. I’m sorry about breakfast, but we should be away from here. I doubt there’ll be much service here soon, anyway.”
“Oh, I suppose so.” She unhooked her cloak, but said wistfully, “It does seem a shame not to be able to visit Beth, being so close.”
“No,” he said firmly and guided her out of the room.
“I know. I know. And she’s doubtless resting. But it does seem… A note? No,” she said for him.
“No,” he said again as they went downstairs, wishing he could give her this small indulgence.
In the plain hall, he grabbed an excited potboy and asked him to find the landlady. People were streaming toward the inn from all directions.
“It’s a bit like the Duke of Wellington, isn’t it?” she said.
“I hope not.” Come on. Come on.
She turned suddenly, the scarlet cloak clasped to her. “You said Deveril’s death was justified,” she said quietly. “So I want to tell you who killed Deveril.”
Trust and honesty. Hawk wished that he could tell her now. But she could still back away. “Arden,” he said, looking around for the landlady. “It doesn’t matter except that we don’t want to be caught by him here.”
“Why… ? But no, it wasn’t the marquess.”
He turned to look at her. He had given up the plan of blackmailing the marquess and duke, but even so, it was as if solid ground disappeared from beneath his feet. Had he been wrong about everything?
“It was Blanche Hardcastle,” she whispered.
“The actress?” It was probably the stupidest response he’d ever been guilty of.
“Yes
. I know why you’re so shocked. A woman, and one who seems so delicate. But she was a butcher’s daughter, apparently. And now, of course, she’s playing Lady Macbeth.”
“Zeus!” He wasn’t actually shocked that a woman had ripped Deveril open. A man has to be dense indeed to preserve illusions about the gentler sex during wartime. For some reason, however, the image of the killer going on to play the part of the woman with the bloody knife did outrage him.
Clarissa was looking at him slightly anxiously, and he was relieved to be able to say with honesty, “Mrs. Hardcastle is in no danger from me, Falcon. I salute her.”
Wryly he acknowledged, however, that he’d held a sharper weapon than he’d known. Belcraven and Arden might well have called his bluff, secure that if he did seek a Pyrrhic victory, they stood behind high walls of power and privilege. An actress, however, was another matter entirely. An actress with a somewhat dubious past would hang for the bloody murder of a peer.
“You see, don’t you,” she said slightly anxiously, “that Blanche must never suffer for her gallantry. She took him… she took him up to her bed to get him away from his guards… She was so brave.”
“I see. Don’t worry about this.” She smiled, a hint of tears in it again. “I’m so glad I told you. I feel truly free now. Free to be happy.”
“ ‘And ye shall know the truth,’ ” said Hawk, “ ‘and the truth shall set you free.’ ”
He teetered on the edge of taking the great gamble, of trusting to her love, to the magic they’d shared. She did love Hawkinville. She did love him. If that survived the strain. But years of caution tied his tongue. What if he was wrong?
He’d heard of men sentenced to death spinning out the moments with one slim excuse or another, against all reason delaying the inevitable. Now, at last, he understood.
Another moment of her untarnished admiration and trust…
Then a tall, athletic blond man strode into the inn smiling, gloves and crop in hand. Hawk knew instantly, fatally, who it must be. Pre-ducal arrogance radiated from every pore.
People rushed forward to bow, to congratulate. Then the smiling gaze hit Clarissa, moved to Hawk, and changed.
No chance of escape. Hawk put Clarissa behind him as the marquess smiled again, escaped his well-wishers, and came over to them, cold murder in his eyes.
Clarissa, however, slipped around him. “Congratulations on the baby, Lord Arden.”
Damnation, she was trying to protect him, and he could hear the fear in her voice. Arden would never hit a woman, but Hawk pulled her back to his side.
Arden, however, softened to concern when he looked at her. “Thank you. Clarissa—”
“I do hope Beth is well,” she interrupted, a tone too high.
“Beth is a great deal weller than is seemly.” The marquess’s voice took on an exasperated edge. “The baby was born at four in the morning, but the mother is already out of her bed and well enough to fight the midwife about the need to lie down, and me about the appropriate establishment for a future Duke of Belcraven. Having lost a night’s sleep and years of my life, I wouldn’t mind even a few hours in bed, never mind a week of rest and loving attention, but how can I even sit down and try to recover when Beth is bustling about? And now I find this!”
At the return of fury, Hawk expected Clarissa to falter, but her chin went up. “Are you planning to hit someone again?”
Color flared in Arden’s cheeks. “Probably.”
“Typical!”
Hawk forced Clarissa behind him. “Did he hit you before?”
By Hades, he’d take Arden apart!
“No!” Her hands clamped around his right arm, and he realized his hands were fists. And so were Arden’s, though he looked more startled than enraged.
Then Arden looked at Clarissa, eyes narrowing. “Stop trying to deflect the conversation.”
And he was right. Clever Clarissa.
“Don’t you think we should move this into privacy?”
A new voice. Hawk looked behind Arden and saw that Con had come into the inn. And that a bunch of villagers were sucking in every word.
Con was standing at the door to a small room. Hawk took Clarissa in there, feeling something sizzle and die.
Con had come in pursuit and somehow managed to be close. Being in the area, he’d sought a bed with his friend, which must have been interesting when it turned out to be a night of accouchement. Now they were discovered, and surely Con’s steady eyes were disappointed.
Perhaps worried, too. About the role he’d have to play?
Second at a duel? He wouldn’t let it come to that.
If only, though, he’d seized the moment to tell Clarissa the truth.
Arden strode in, and Con closed the door. “Want to explain, Hawk?” He stayed close to Arden. A show of support, or readiness to control violent impulses?
Clarissa replied before Hawk could. “We’re eloping, Lord Amleigh. What need of explanation?”
“Why would be a start,” Arden said.
Silence fell, and then Clarissa looked at Hawk. “Tell him why.” She was clearly confident that he could.
Hawk smiled wryly, and looked at Con rather than Arden, seeing the firm resolve of an executioner. It wasn’t a matter of Rogues versus the Georges for Con. It was simply the right thing to do.
Slippery slopes. From right to wrong as well as from virtue to sin.
“Why, Hawk?” Con asked. It wasn’t a repetitive demand for an answer, but an opening offered so that he could tell Clarissa rather than have someone else do it.
So he turned to her and put the noose around his own neck.
Chapter Twenty-four
“Because,” he said, “if I try to marry you in the ordinary way, you won’t do it.”
She blinked at him. “I won’t?”
“You won’t.” It was Arden’s voice, cold and relentless.
Her eyes flicked to him, then back to Hawk, and she smiled slightly, as if any impediment was a laughing matter. “Tell me, then. It can’t be as bad as you think.”
“It is, Falcon.” He took a last breath and kicked away the stool. “My father was born a Gaspard. You may not know, but that was Lord Deveril’s family name. After much effort, he has managed to establish his claim to be the next Lord Deveril. And I, of course, am his heir.”
In a way it sounded silly put into words. No hanging matter at all. Just a name, as Van had said.
But it was more than a name.
And just at the name, she paled. “Deveril!”
“Which means,” said Arden moving to her side, as if protecting her from him, damn it, “you would have one day been Lady Deveril.”
The tense he used neatly put an end to all hope, and when Arden put his arm around her, she did not resist. She did, however, stammer, “But…” confusion in her eyes.
“As you see,” the marquess continued, his eyes suggesting that he was talking to a slug, “this raises questions about Major Hawkinville’s attentions all along.”
“Luce,” said Con quietly, moving between them. “There’s more to this than that.”
“Is there?” Arden asked, his eyes still on Hawk.
“Yes.” Everyone else in the room spoke at once, and the shock of it broke the tension. Clarissa laughed, then bit her lip, eyes still shadowed by shock and uncertainty. She pulled free of Arden, but made no move closer to Hawk.
This had snatched away her elusive beauty. All he wanted in life was to make Clarissa beautiful, each and every day, and yet by his actions he had doubtless thrown away the chance.
He spoke to her alone, without hope. “My father thought he should have inherited Deveril’s wealth along with the title, and he spent in expectation of it. That’s where the debt came from. I sought you out looking for evidence that you were involved in Deveril’s murder because then the will would be overturned and the new viscount—my father—would inherit the money.”
“You thought me a murderer! I suppose in some ways I should be flat
tered.”
“Clarissa…”
But her hand covered her mouth. “I’ve just given you the evidence.”
“You have?” Arden asked, sharply.
“I told him everything. Just as he planned.”
“No!” Hawk exclaimed, but there seemed nothing left to pin hopes to except honesty. “At the beginning, yes.”
“Do I have to slap you with my gloves?” Arden asked coldly. “I’d have to burn them afterward.”
“Not now!” Hawk commanded, aware of Clarissa’s sudden pallor. “Con—”
He put his hand on her arm to push her toward Con, but she twitched away. “Don’t try and get rid of me! Don’t you dare! Any of you. I’m not a child.” She whirled on Arden. “You are not to fight over me.”
“You have no say in this.”
“I demand a say. I insist on it.” When Arden stayed tight-lipped and resolute, she said, “If you duel him, I’ll shoot you.”
“Clarissa,” said Hawk, wanting to laugh and cry at once. “I’m sure you don’t know how.”
“It can’t be so hard as all that.” She stared at him, eyes brimming with tears. “You said it was an honorable act for someone to kill Deveril. How could you even think of destroying people over it? Even for Hawkinville.”
“I didn’t.”
“Then what drove you?”
“The will,” he snapped. “Forgery is hardly cloaked with honor, Clarissa, no matter how you care to deceive yourself.”
She stared at him and the elusive truth dawned even as she whirled to face Arden.
“It was a forgery!” She laughed. “Of course it was. How very stupid I’ve been. Deveril—Deveril!—leaving me all his money. He’d have rather left it to the Crown, or scattered it in the streets if it comes to that.” She suddenly struck out at the marquess with both fists, pummeling him.
Arden stepped back, and before Hawk could reach her, he grasped her wrists and spun her to face him. “Hit him if you’re feeling violent. He’s the villain of the piece.”
She staggered forward, weeping, and Hawk caught her, held her for a precious moment. “I have committed no crime.”
Except breaking a heart.
“Abduction, for a start,” Arden said.
