Swear by Moonlight

by Shirlee Busbee

  The marble statuette still clutched in her hand, she turned, not even certain what she intended to do, when she heard a noise. Fear flooded through her and, unnerved and horrified by the situation, she could not even tell whence the sound came—from the hall or somewhere in the room behind her. She only knew that she had heard something: a thump, a scrape, perhaps a gasp. She couldn't tell. In the state she was in, it could have been all three, but it galvanized her as nothing else could have, and she bolted into the darkened hallway.

  Intent only on escape, she fled through the shadowy house, almost crying with relief when her hand touched the crystal knob of the front door. Flinging the door wide, she catapulted out onto the stoop and right into the arms of the gentleman who had just ascended the steps.

  Strong hands caught her shoulders, and suppressing a scream, Thea gazed wide-eyed up into the dark, powerful face of a stranger. But not an utter stranger. She had seen him before and, even in her agitated state, she recognized him—it was the gray-eyed stranger from the park.

  For a moment she stood there staring up at him, her raven hair swirling wildly around her shoulders, her eyes black with emotion, her face starkly white. Then she gave a gasp, muttered something incoherent, and tore herself from his grip. The statuette fell and clattered at his feet as she half ran, half stumbled down the steps, her cloak rippling darkly behind her.

  She heard him call out, but heedless of the coach pulled by the team of spirited horses bearing swiftly down on her, she darted out into the road. Hardly aware of the snorting, high-stepping horses that swept by dangerously close to her slender form, Thea ran to the safety of her own coach.

  Ignoring the startled glance of her servant, she scrambled into the vehicle and blurted out, "Home. Now."

  Obediently, the coachman did as she commanded. Feeling the comforting sway and bump of the moving vehicle, Thea sank back against the velvet interior, shaking uncontrollably.

  She buried her face in her hands. I killed him, she thought half-hysterically. I killed him—my sister's own husband—I struck him and murdered him!

  * * *

  Patrick stood on the stoop, staring astonished at the spot where Thea had plunged into the street, wondering if he had imagined the whole incident. He gave himself a shake, knowing it had not been his imagination. Her shoulders had been warm and yielding beneath his hands, and he would never forget the stunning effect that white, taking face, huge black eyes, and crimson mouth had had upon him.

  Even now he was still oddly breathless, could still remember the faint warmth that had radiated from her body... and the stark fear in her eyes. Thoughtfully, he watched the coach that had been parked on the other side of the street pull into the light traffic that cluttered the street.

  Of course he recognized her: Thea Garrett. And what, he wondered, was she doing coming out of the house where he was to meet his mother's blackmailer? It crossed his mind that Thea could be the blackmailer, but he dismissed that thought as soon as it occurred. He could think of no connection between Thea and his mother's dead lover; more importantly, he could not even begin to name a reason why someone like Miss Garrett would stoop to blackmail... except perhaps for the thrill of it?

  The coach disappeared out of sight, and Patrick dismissed the mystery of Thea Garrett and turned back toward the house. Staring at the blackened rectangle that greeted him, he studied it for a moment. Something had obviously sent Thea Garrett running like a startled fawn, but what? And was whatever had frightened her waiting for him? Or rather for his mother?

  His mouth tightened. Someone, he decided, was in for a surprise. A tigerish grin crossed his face. And not a pleasant surprise at that. He strode purposefully forward, only to stop as his foot hit something. Bending down, he picked up the statuette that Thea had dropped. Curiouser and curiouser.

  The statuette in his hand, he stepped gingerly through the opened doorway and noticed that there was a light piercing the blackness. Carefully shutting the front door behind him, he walked slowly toward the light.

  Just outside the lighted doorway, he stopped and listened. Hearing and seeing nothing alarming, he looked into the room.

  It was cheerful enough, with a fire crackling nicely on the hearth, but his eyes were immediately drawn to the body of the man lying on the floor, blood trickling from the nasty wound on his head. Patrick glanced at the statuette and was even less surprised to see a faint smear of blood on its base.

  He studied the features of the man on the floor. He was aware that he had seen the man about town and that he probably knew him, but at the moment he could not call his name to mind. Was this his mother's blackmailer? And was the fellow blackmailing Thea Garrett? He doubted it. From what he had learned of Thea Garrett, there was little the public did not know about her. And since she seemed to care little what people thought, he would not have considered her a good prospect for blackmail.

  He glanced again about the room. It was charming. Was it a love nest? Now that, he thought cynically, was far more likely. Had Miss Garrett come to meet a lover and had they fallen out? He smiled wryly. The lady must be a fierce mistress if the condition of the man on the floor was anything to go by. Having decided that he had a fair idea of what had happened, he put down the statuette and was on the point of checking how badly the man on the floor had been hurt when he heard a creak on the stairs behind him.

  Patrick froze. Listening intently, he realized that someone had been stealthily using the staircase. But going up or coming down?

  A sound came again from the stairs, and, stepping swiftly into the hallway, Patrick called out, "Halt! Who is it?"

  Making no attempt to hide its presence, whoever it was bounded up the final few stairs to the upper floor. Cursing under his breath, Patrick took only time to grab one of the candles from a nearby candelabrum and leaped after the shy visitor.

  Reaching the top of the stairs, Patrick stopped, realizing he had no weapon with him. Still, he had no choice but to search for whoever had been on the stairs. If the man downstairs was not the blackmailer, then whoever had been lurking on the staircase might very well be.

  He glanced up and down the dark main hall, his candle illuminating only a small area around him. The gloomy shapes of furniture met his gaze, and he couldn't make out the outlines of several doorways that faced the wide hallway

  Not relishing the prospect before him, he cautiously approached the nearest door and, holding the candle away from his body, slowly opened the door. Warily he glanced into the room, the wavering light revealing a room full of piled furniture, haphazardly covered with dust covers. He studied the contents for a long moment, wondering at the wisdom of poking around the shrouded furniture. If the other rooms were in the same condition, he had a long search in front of him.

  Deciding to glance into the other rooms before committing himself to a more thorough search, he was on the point of shutting the door when his glance fell upon a huge mahogany wardrobe that sat against the far wall. Of all the furniture in the room, it was the one piece not hidden by a dust cover. In fact, on the floor in front of it lay what looked to be a large crumpled dust cover.

  Thoughtfully, Patrick studied the wardrobe. It was certainly large enough to hide a person, and the discarded dust cover aroused his suspicions. He glanced around for something to use as a weapon, but nothing met his eye.

  Grimacing, he approached the towering wardrobe. Body braced for trouble and holding the candle aloft, he flung open the right door of the wardrobe. There was a screech and, swathed in God knows what, a figure exploded out of the interior, a heavy brass candlestick in one hand.

  Even though he'd been prepared to find someone hiding in the wardrobe, Patrick staggered backward, the violence with which the person erupted from the wardrobe nearly knocking him down. Before he could regain his balance, the attacker was on him, and he was struck a vicious blow on the head with the candlestick. He went down soundlessly, landing in an inelegant heap, the candle falling from nerveless fingers and rolling
across the floor.

  * * *

  Patrick had no idea how long he lay unconscious. Eventually he stirred and gradually regained his senses, his aching head reminding him of what had transpired.

  Warily he opened his eyes. The room was dark, the doorway leading into the hall, faintly outlined by the light from downstairs. He sat up, suppressing a groan as pain lanced through his head. Reaching up, he touched the spot that ached the most and muttered under his breath when his fingers came away wet with what he knew was blood. He smiled without humor. It seemed to be the night for careless gentlemen to be hit upon the head. Giving himself a moment to recover, he rose to his feet.

  Feeling a fool, he walked to the door and made his way downstairs. He moved carefully, on the alert for another attack, but he sensed that whoever had struck him was long gone. At the bottom of the stairs, he stopped, listening and looking around. Everything seemed the same.

  He glanced into the lighted room near the stairs, his breath catching at the sight of the man sprawled half in and half out the doorway. He moved closer for a better look. His mouth tightened. Even from where he stood, it was obvious that the man was dead.

  Stepping carefully over the dead man, Patrick wasted precious few minutes searching the room for any clue he could find. He found nothing. Nothing to identify the body on the floor, and more importantly to him, nothing that led to his mother.

  After one last glance around, he slipped out the back of the house. No use risking someone seeing him leave the house, and he hoped to God that no one but Thea Garrett had seen him on the stoop of the house.

  * * *

  Thea had other things to worry about than the gray-eyed stranger she had collided with on the stoop of the house. Reaching home, she dismissed the servants and hurried up the stairs to her room. Flinging off her cloak, she took several agitated steps around the room, her thoughts chaotic.

  Pushing back her tumbled curls with a shaking hand, she continued to pace, frightened and appalled by what had happened.

  What in heaven's name was she to do? Confess that she had murdered her sister's husband? She shuddered. She was brave, but not that brave, and the instinct for survival was strong.

  She closed her eyes, tears leaking from under her lids. She hadn't meant to kill him. She despised him, but she had never wished him dead. Away, yes. Out of Edwina's life, yes. But not dead. And certainly she had never planned to murder him. But would she be believed? If she told the authorities, would they understand? Or would she, after a horribly public trial, be found guilty and hanged?

  Another shudder went through her. Dare she risk it? Wouldn't the truth save her?

  A light rap on the door interrupted her thoughts, but before she could deny entrance, Modesty opened the door and walked into the room.

  Modesty took one look at Thea's features and immediately crossed the room to her side. Taking one of Thea's icy hands in hers, she demanded, "What is it? What happened?"

  It would never have occurred to Thea not to tell Modesty. Modesty listened intently, saying nothing, and when she judged that Thea had told everything, she urged her to sit down on the bed.

  Patting Thea's hands, she said, "I think a hot cup of tea, laced with a healthy dose of brandy, would be just the thing for you right now."

  After ringing for a servant, Modesty walked back across the room and sat down on the bed beside Thea's forlorn figure. "It wasn't your fault, you know. He attacked you—you really had no choice." Modesty sighed. "It really is unfortunate that he died—I always said that he was an inconsiderate man. And look, he had just proven my point. Imagine letting himself be killed by a stupid little blow to the head! If that isn't just like him. Inconsiderate to the very last."

  "I am very sure that he did not mean to be so inconsiderate," Thea replied dryly.

  Modesty smiled at her, pleased to see that bleak look leaving her eyes. "Oh, you're wrong there. If he had planned it, he could not have been more inconsiderate."

  A tap on the door took Modesty to the door, and after giving orders for tea and brandy, she rejoined Thea on the bed. Patting Thea's hand again, she said, "I would tell you to put it from your mind, but I know that you will not. You must not, however, allow it to plague you." She looked steadily into Thea's eyes. "You did not mean to kill him. It was an accident. A terrible accident to be sure, but an accident nonetheless." When Thea would have spoken, she raised an admonishing finger. "More importantly, there is nothing to be gained by you telling anyone else what happened. When his body is discovered, you will, if you are wise, be as surprised and astonished as anybody else."

  Leaning forward, Modesty said urgently, "Thea, confessing what happened will change nothing. It will not bring him back and will only ruin your life. While I would hope that if the truth were known, you would not hang, you have to realize that being condemned to death is a very real possibility. Your contempt for him is well-known, and there would be those who would believe that you deliberately killed him—even though we know differently." Modesty's mouth tightened. "Alfred Hirst is not worth ruining yourself again... or dying for. You must see that." When Thea's expression did not change, she added, "Think of Edwina! She has just lost her husband. Must she lose her sister, too? Must she know, no matter the circumstances, that you killed her husband? She will need you now more than ever. Think of that whenever you are moved to confess the truth. In this case, the truth would do far more damage than simply keeping your mouth shut."

  "But it seems so wrong—so cowardly," Thea muttered. "Oh, God! I do not know what to do. I killed him. I cannot deny it." Her eyes shut, and her hand closed into a fist. "But dear God, I did not mean to!"

  "Of course, you didn't! You are no murderess! Nor are you a fool, and for now, I strongly urge you to keep your mouth shut—at least wait until his body is discovered. If your conscience continues to bedevil you, you can always come forward and confess at a later time. But right now, tonight, I want you to think about the scandal and disgrace such a drastic step would bring down upon not only your head, but those of the entire family."

  Thea nodded miserably. "I have thought of it. I have thought of nothing else. I've caused one ugly scandal already in my lifetime and cost my brother his life. I certainly would prefer to pretend that tonight had not happened." She glanced at Modesty's concerned features. "But it did happen. I did kill him."

  Another tap on the door sent Modesty to answer it. Taking the tray from the servant, she shut the door behind her and, crossing the room, set the tray on a nearby table.

  Pouring out a cup of steaming tea from the china pot and adding a generous dollop of brandy from the crystal decanter that had been set beside the teapot, Modesty brought it to Thea. "Drink this. It will make you feel better—at least momentarily."

  Modesty was right. After several sips of the hot liquid, Thea could feel the terror and icy chill that had settled in her stomach easing.

  Biting her lip, Thea glanced at Modesty, who was also partaking of the same beverage, with an even bigger dose of brandy in her cup. Thea smiled faintly. If the amount of brandy Modesty was consuming was anything to go by, Modesty was more worried than she had let on. A burst of love for her sometimes-astringent spinster cousin went through her. Modesty would stand by her... and understand and love her no matter what she did.

  There was silence for several moments as both women drank their brandy-laced tea and thought about the death of Alfred Hirst. Neither came to any conclusion.

  Rising to her feet and walking to where the tray sat, Thea put down her cup. Turning back to face Modesty, she said unhappily, "I think for the time being that I shall do as you suggest and say nothing. As you said, I can always confess."

  Modesty sighed with relief. "Thank goodness! I knew that you were a sensible gel."

  Thea made a face. "Why does being sensible make me feel like a coward?"

  "Because you are not a fool—you know you killed him, but you also know that it was a tragic accident—not something you planned or h
ad even considered doing. Remember too, that you were protecting yourself. It was not your fault—the blame lies with Alfred." Her blue eyes warm and worried, Modesty added urgently, "Thea, you are doing the right thing. You must believe that! Nothing can be gained by your confession. It will not bring him back, nor change a thing. All it would do would be to bring further shame and disgrace to you and the family—and could very well lead to your execution. Edwina is going to suffer enough; she does not need to know that you killed her husband. No one does." She hesitated before asking quietly, "I assume that no one else does know that you were there?"

  That tight, pinched look returned to Thea's face. "Unfortunately, someone else does know—remember I told you about the man I collided with as I was leaving the house."

  Modesty uttered a decidedly unladylike curse. "I had forgotten about him. Are you positive that he recognized you?"

  "I'm positive that he got a very good look at my face—and if he doesn't know who I am now, he soon will—especially since it appears that he is a member of the ton. He was with Lord Embry and his crowd when I saw him in the park."

  "Hmm. Perhaps if we left town early and retired to the country until the spring, he wouldn't remember you, if you were to meet at a later date?"

  Thea shrugged. "It's possible. But I suspect that Nigel told him who I was—you know what a gossip he is." Sourly, she added, "Of course, we will have a perfectly legitimate excuse to go to the country—Hirst's death. I suspect that Edwina will not want to remain in London—she certainly will not be attending any balls or other entertainment for several months."

  "Well, there you have it! I shall tell the servants first thing in the morning that we are packing and retiring to Halsted House for the winter."

  Halsted House was the country estate Thea had purchased just two years ago. While Modesty much preferred London, there were times Thea simply could not bear the noise and bustle a moment longer and would escape to the country, to Halsted House. She loved Halsted for another reason: it was located not five miles from Garrett Manor, and living there, tramping through the three hundred acres that went with the estate, brought back all the happier moments of her childhood. Modesty's suggestion was tempting, but a thought occurred to her.