‘They’re not worthless to you.’
‘You did it for me?’
‘No, m’m,’ Sam said quietly, incurably honest. ‘For Noreen.’
‘You stole the deeds to Windrush for Noreen?’
After a silent moment of inner turmoil, Sam burst out, ‘Noreen overheard you telling your friend about Lord Devane wanting a mean revenge on you. She guessed from what you said that you meant to have back the deeds to your home by fair means or foul. I told her when we talked this morning you seemed keen to know when his lordship was likely to be out. So we hatched a plot, then waited to see if we guessed right in thinking you might try to slip away and come here. Noreen said I must get to the deeds afore you did; she’s awful scared over consequences for your whole family. I followed you and hid in the street. I clocked one of the footmen talking to Joseph by the door, so I hopped up the front steps all casual, as though I were just passing, like, and thought to stop by to fetch Annie’s shift. Joseph Walsh told me his lordship was out, so I knew there was only one reason why you’d worked your way in.’ He paused to rub at the bridge of his nose. ‘I got to his study quick as I could to save you getting there first. Noreen told me where the deeds was kept. She overheard you telling your friend that too.’ He blushed, shuffled his feet. ‘Noreen wasn’t eavesdropping, she only stopped to pick up the little boy’s toy in the corridor and heard things said about Lord Devane as are hard to believe.’ He shook his head in sad perplexity. ‘His lordship’s always been good to me, and Annie. That trading justice out there wants to ruin Annie, you see. He’d love to see me out of the way to have a free run at her. I told Lord Devane that Goodwin had us cornered with nowhere to go and he took us in. And there’s no truth…just spite…in them rumours that he did it out of lechery. He’s never laid a finger on Annie.’ He sighed. ‘Noreen’s told me about your sister Isabel, too. She told me everything…’
‘Everything…?’ Rachel echoed.
‘Yes, m’m. And that’s why I did it. You see, I understand more’n any man the miseries caused by rich gents as won’t never take no for an answer. Goodwin ‘ud see me swing, then leave Annie with her belly swole, and she not yet fifteen. Men like that make me sick, for there’s plenty of willing women for those with their wallets bulging too…’ He reddened again at his coarseness. ‘I got to ask this, Miss Meredith: Noreen’s said if anything happens to me over this, she’ll look after Annie. You’ll keep them both on, won’t you?’
Before Rachel could conquer the lump in her throat sufficiently to allay his fears on that score, the door sharply opened, making Sam gasp nervously. Flowing robes breezed in, then Goodwin’s portly figure emerged, with Joseph Walsh close behind. This was it, then, Sam realised. He was to be taken away, perhaps never to see Annie or Noreen again. He knew he would face a noose or transportation. Within days he might be gone. With a stricken look, he realised the gallows might be preferable to that living hell the trading justice had described. He’d heard of those floating prisons and knew that Goodwin hadn’t exaggerated the vile conditions on the hulks. Suddenly he felt so very young and wished he’d seen more years than seventeen.
‘You have had your five minutes, Miss Meredith—it is time to take the guilty party away.’
Rachel tilted her chin as she said clearly, ‘But we are not yet ready to leave.’
Joseph’s chin dropped on to his chest and as he fully digested her meaning, he visibly wilted, looking as though he might collapse.
Arthur Goodwin simply smiled. ‘How unnecessarily honest of you, my dear. You would have got away with it. Although, I must admit I had my suspicions. A strange coincidence indeed, I thought, was your presence here at the very moment one of your servants infiltrates to pilfer goods of so…obscure a value. A petty thief might take the ring, although any fool would know such a memorable piece would be difficult to pawn. The deeds would be of no use to him whatsoever. Then I thought…suppose the villain didn’t realise the ring was attached to the scroll and simply grabbed it up and fled? I have been racking my brain over it all and I seem to recall gossip that the Earl of Devane recently won an estate in Hertfordshire at cards. I would hazard a guess that estate is Windrush and that you reside there? Also, where are these friends of yours, the Saunders? You told Mr Walsh they would soon be arriving. Would you say they are yet delayed? Hmm?’ The jibe was accompanied by a leering smile. ‘Let’s away before Lord Devane arrives home. I doubt that upstanding gentleman will want to be bothered with the likes of you two…
‘He already is bothered, Goodwin…’ a voice drawled from the doorway.
The stunned silence in the rose salon seemed interminable. Connor was positioned in between the wide door frames, in casual stance with feet apart and one hand thrust deep into his breeches pockets. The neck of his shirt was gaping where at some time during the evening his neckcloth looked to have been rudely removed. An elegant charcoal tailcoat was pegged carelessly on a finger over one shoulder. His complexion had the drawn pallor of prolonged overindulgence and his eyes looked as though at any time they could fully close. In short, the upstanding gentleman looked the embodiment of a dissolute aristocrat.
Connor glanced over his shoulder into the hallway. Idly he drew his hand from his pocket, to plant it on the door frame. What he then said proved he was drunk, yet still alert to proceedings. ‘Joseph, am I overstaffed?’ he softly slurred.
Joseph Walsh goggled at him, unable to speak although his lips did move.
His lordship’s dark brows arched quizzically. ‘Am I?’ he enquired with dangerous ennui.
‘I don’t think so, my lord,’ Joseph finally forced out.
‘Pray, tell me then why I have just encountered at least seven servants looking for all the world as though they have damn all to do but stare at me? Should they be abed then, is that it?’
Joseph swallowed, shuffled. ‘I’ll…er…see to them, shall I?’
‘Do that,’ Connor advised with a significant small smile. ‘See to them before I do and put you out of a job as well.’
Joseph hastened for the door, taking one last fascinated peer at the people frozen in a tableau in the cosy room. Connor allowed him to pass into the corridor by turning a powerful shoulder, then with a weary push away from the frame he was walking into the room. His low-lidded eyes levelled on Arthur Goodwin.
Look at me, Rachel pleaded silently. Please look at me. He obeyed her silent summons and eyes as crude and hard as flint-stone abraded her in an insolent head to toe summary. Oh, my God! No! He’s very drunk and unbelievably angry, she inwardly wailed.
Arthur Goodwin stepped forward, bowed precisely. ‘I’m afraid that mischief has been done tonight in your absence, my lord. But the stolen items are recovered and the perpetrators must be dealt with.’
‘Sure…and they will be. By me.’
‘A crime…a theft has been committed, it must be dealt with by the proper offices, my lord…’ Connor was informed in a soothing, unctuous tone.
‘What’s been stolen?’
Arthur Goodwin bustled officiously for the door and returned in a trice with the deeds and ring still attached. He presented them to Connor, together with a clearer view of his shiny balding pate as he bowed low. ‘This was found in that villain’s possession. He attempted to fight his way free and escape with them. Your butler witnessed the whole business.’
‘It’s my fault…my doing. Samuel was simply here because of me…’ Rachel’s voice quavered but she kept her chin high as she unflinchingly met Connor’s stare, waiting for his disgust. For a missed heartbeat she thought he might simply turn and walk away, hand her over to the fat magistrate after all. Although her proud, frightened eyes remained engulfed by his, she was obliquely aware that his stepbrother, Jason, had just sauntered into the room to prop himself negligently against a wall.
One end of the scroll beat a soft, slow tattoo on to a broad palm as Connor strolled towards her. Despite herself Rachel found she could no longer meet his eyes. The closer he came the
weaker she felt. The arrogance she needed to keep her strong was draining away; shame was swamping her, cowing her. She was base and cowardly. Had she adhered to their bargain he would have given her those papers…privately, discreetly. But she had wanted everything: the prize, the victory. She’d wanted to best him in this hurtful game they played. She’d wanted to falsely win because she’d lost what she really wanted…him.
Now everything was gone, including her family’s reputation and June soon to be wed. Obliquely her dazed mind understood the magnitude of that, obliquely, too, she realised it would be tomorrow before the full horror of it properly sank in. The humiliation of defeat must first be dealt with. Her slender pearly neck bobbed as her throat worked, swallowing, swallowing, as she strove to cope with the impossible. Her eyes jammed shut; still a tear escaped to hover on her lashes before, in a brisk movement, she averted her face and swept it away.
Connor arrested the hand as it made to return to her side, curled her fingers about the deeds, then brushed a kiss on a cool cheek in a gesture that was almost obeisance.
‘No crime has been committed. You’re wasting your time here, Goodwin.’
Rachel sensed the warm alcoholic breath stir the hair close to her ear. Dewy eyes slanted up at him through her lashes then quickly flinched away from the sardonic humour, the promise of retaliation she read there. She’d prodded the tiger in him into life. This was what she’d wanted, wasn’t it? A man who would meet her provocation with a passion he couldn’t…wouldn’t control.
‘I find that hard to believe, my lord,’ Arthur Goodwin protested with a frantic, possessive peer at Sam Smith. Already he sensed his sadistic grip on the boy and his sister being loosened. The youth’s incipient joyous smile made him blurt out angrily, ‘She admitted involvement in the crime.’
‘She? Do you mean my future wife?’ Connor turned a steel-eyed quizzical look on the magistrate. ‘And what do you find hard to believe? My word? Are you calling me a liar? I shall explain myself once only:
I have just presented my bride-to-be with her wedding gifts. Obviously she’s been a mite impatient and came to collect them herself. I should have guessed she would…the minx.’
Sam’s smile blossomed until he had to prevent a guffaw by thrusting his cuffed hands against his teeth. Connor arrowed a threatening look his way, and the youth quickly examined the floor.
‘I’m sorry you were brought here on a fool’s errand, Goodwin. Waste no more time, get away home.’ When that command brought no immediate response, other than the magistrate’s skin to bloom maroon, Connor added on an icy stare, ‘I should like to be private with my future wife. As the servants seem to have taken an unofficial holiday, would you show his worship out, please, Jason?’
Jason Davenport took one decisive, if tipsy, step towards Arthur Goodwin. It was enough to have the man, hands balled at his side, stomping towards the door. A malevolent glare, replete with frustration, was launched at Sam Smith. Sam responded by making a very lewd gesture with both fists that transformed into a prayer-like steeple as his saviour slanted him a warning look.
‘I’ll deal with you another time. Get along home,’ Connor told the grinning youth who, losing no time, skipped obediently for the door.
Rachel moved that way too; much as she knew she must apologise, beg forgiveness, make known her gratitude, and a million other humbling things, she couldn’t. Not while he was in this mood, not while he was so intoxicated that she could detect an aura of sweetish incense emanating from him.
She’d barely managed a stealthy step when he arrested her by taking her face in a firm, punishing hand. ‘Not you, sweet. You stay here so I can deal with you now.’ Her chin was released in a flick and then, with a surprisingly fast and steady stride, Connor was at the door. He closed it, leaned back against it and surveyed her, unsmiling.
‘You mustn’t punish Sam; he did it for me…and Noreen, my maid. They’ve become close…’ When that elicited no response, she blurted out the next thing that came into her head. ‘I sent you a letter…you didn’t reply.’ Stupid, stupid, she castigated herself. What a stupid subject to introduce while he was like this…
Her papa would get drunk and be either too jovial or too maudlin. She had never been sure how to approach him when under the influence of alcohol. He could be sulky or bellow; he might badger the family to play at silly games and tricks. So she would simply take her mother’s advice: stay out of your father’s way until he is again himself. Her mother was an intelligent woman. ‘Might we speak of this tomorrow…please?’
A hard sardonic smile was all that denied her polite request.
‘Did you want me to reply to your letter?’ Connor suggested in a voice that Rachel was sure sounded yet more slurred.
‘Yes…no…’
‘Well, which is it, my dear? Yes or no?’
‘This is a nice room. But rather…feminine and fragile in shade and design. I imagine that is why your mother likes it. Joseph says it’s her favourite.’ She had walked away as he advanced, moved to examine a dainty demi-lune table inlaid with boxwood. She placed down the deeds and her fingertips brushed its satiny surface.
Connor moved to a different table. Finding a glass, he removed the stopper from the decanter.
‘What are you doing?’ Rachel gasped, horrified.
‘Pouring a drink.’
‘But…you must not! You’re drunk already!’
He laughed; laughed in a harsh, guttural way. Slowly he turned to face her, holding the glass and decanter out appealingly. ‘Be fair, Rachel. Are you going to allow me anything? I mustn’t punish Sam Smith. I mustn’t have what I fairly won from your father, I mustn’t have my wedding night… Now you’re telling me I mustn’t have a drink either?’
Rachel moistened her lips, wishing desperately she could be away from him, just till he was himself again. Just till he was that fine honourable gentleman she’d rejected. Yet oddly she desired being closer to him too. She wanted to go to him, comfort him, put her arms about him and hold him, for despite his dark irony she could sense his pain…pain she had caused him six years ago that still festered and tormented him.
‘Choose one,’ he said with a menacing softness which killed her empathy. ‘Choose one thing I can have or I’ll choose. Come, sweet, tell me what I am allowed…’
‘I’m not speaking to you when you’re drunk,’ Rachel quavered.
He smiled a devilishly contented smile. ‘My choice too. Something we can do that needs no conversation.’ The decanter and glass were returned to the table and his jacket, still slung over a shoulder, was abruptly discarded on to a chair. He turned and walked towards her with slow deliberation.
Rachel backed into the demi-lune table, and felt the forgotten pistol within her reticule bump against her leg. She brought the bulky bag closer to her where it was easily accessible. ‘You’re being silly, Connor.’ She had meant the reprimand to sound authoritative but it burst out through chattering teeth. She carefully positioned herself behind the dainty chair she’d sat on earlier. ‘Stay where you are or I’ll scream. If I do scream, Joseph Walsh will come to my assistance. It will simply cause more upset tonight and you will not want that,’ she sensibly explained as though talking to a fractious child.
‘Scream, then. After tonight’s escapade, Joseph will be as deaf as the rest of the household. You deserve punishment and they all know it.’
Rachel stepped sideways, put a pink-and-cream striped sofa between them. She lifted her chin, her anger dominating her fright. ‘Well, think of your dignity and sophistication then, sir,’ she whipped at him icily. ‘Did you not once tell me how bored you had become with fornicating against chairs and walls?’ That did bring him to a halt. Rachel watched his raven head tip back, his white teeth displayed in a velvety laugh. His deep blue eyes levelled at her from between a mesh of dusky lashes. ‘We’ll use the table. I’ve no objection to that. Besides, I’m drunk, Rachel, as you rightly perceived. My dignity and sophistication have suffered alread
y tonight. Why worry now?’ he taunted softly.
Rachel pivoted away from him so fast that her golden hair flagged out behind her. Slowly she turned to face him, her lovely face flushed as she raised the gun in two white, unsteady hands and levelled it at his head.
Chapter Fifteen
‘Are you going to shoot me, Rachel?’
His easy drawl let Rachel know he deemed it highly unlikely she’d find the courage.
Her tongue tip darted to moisten her lips and her shaking hands tightened on the silver-inlaid grip. ‘Are you going to force me to it? If you’re sensible and let me go now, I shall meet you tomorrow, when you are lucid and more yourself. I realise there is much that is vital and needs to be aired…much that I must say to you. I will apologise then…I swear.’
‘Something vital occurs to me that ought to be aired now. May I say it?’
Rachel nodded jerkily, trying to ignore his amused, mocking tone.
‘Is it loaded?’
A jerk of his dark head indicated the gun and startled, she looked at it too. ‘I don’t know,’ she admitted, too honest. ‘It’s your weapon. I found it in your desk drawer. Don’t you know if it’s loaded?’
‘I confess I ought to. I’ll guess it’s not. There, if you shoot me, it’ll be my fault,’ he reasoned softly as he approached.
Rachel steadied the pistol with both hands, bringing it up and extending it threateningly. She backed away to the wall, two fingers crossed in position, hovering on the trigger.
‘You think my memory is suspect along with my character, Rachel? Pull the trigger, then. It’s the only sure way to find out.’ The flimsy cabriole-legged settee was sent skidding sideways on its castors by a booted foot. Her protection was reduced to the slender barrel of the flintlock and the slow tears that dripped down her cheeks.
Connor put up dark fingers, curled them about the wavering muzzle, stabilising it as easily as once he had steadied crockery she couldn’t control.
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