by Lauren Royal
Lily looked like an angel, her hair a dark halo on her pillow. But her mouth was turned down in a frown. Her dreams, he knew, weren’t sweet.
He leaned down and pressed a kiss to those pouting lips. They curved up, and her arms rose to wrap around his neck.
She smelled of sleep and lilies. “Rand?”
“Yes, sweetheart. I’m here.” Was it silly of him to be so glad she hadn’t called another man’s name? He knew she was his, knew it as well as he knew which English words came from Latin.
Her eyes slid languidly open. “Could you read the diary?”
He smiled and sat beside her on the bed, his fingers playing idly in her hair. “Alban Nesbitt,” he said, “has never contrived a code I couldn’t decipher.”
She sat up, suddenly wide awake. “What did it say, Rand?” Her hands twisted together in her lap, her fingers rubbing the faint scars. “What did it say?”
“It said he planned to murder Bennett. I love you, Lily Ashcroft, and we’re going to be married.”
He would make it so. He hadn’t come this far to fail now.
Before Lily rose for breakfast, he was riding hard for Hawkridge, the diary and notes in one hand.
SIXTY-FIVE
RAND ARRIVED at Hawkridge to find the marquess and Margery at breakfast, sullen and silent.
His arrival took care of that.
“It’s here,” he said, striding in and waving the diary and some papers. “In Alban’s own hand. His plans to kill Bennett Armstrong, here in black and white.”
Margery’s face lit like a full moon on a cloudless night. The marquess took one look at her and frowned. “Sit down, Randal. I haven’t finished my breakfast.”
Rand took some spice bread and a bowl of meat pottage from the leather-topped sideboard and carried them to the table. He sat and spread his evidence on the cedarwood surface.
The marquess deliberately looked away, focusing on his food.
Margery pushed her pottage around in her bowl, evidently too excited to eat. “What did you find, Rand?”
“The diary ended on the day of Alban’s death.” Ignoring the marquess’s wince, Rand took a big bite of the fruited spice bread. He’d been awake twenty-six hours without taking any time to eat. “Here”—he rustled through the papers with one hand—“here’s the crucial passage.” He held out a page to Margery.
Her hand shook as she took it. Although it was a translation, not Alban’s writing, the words on the paper were his.
As she scanned down the page, a soft gasp escaped her lips. Rand’s father looked annoyed before she even started reading. “‘I cannot allow this to happen. Margery will be mine. They leave in a week, and before that, I must kill him.’”
The marquess snatched the sheet from her hand. His eyes narrowed before his gaze shifted to Rand. “This isn’t Alban’s hand. It’s yours.”
“Actually, that’s Rose Ashcroft’s writing.” Rand wasn’t at all surprised the man didn’t recognize his own son’s hand. The marquess had never bothered to look at any of his lessons. “Her writing is much tidier than mine.”
With a flick of his still-supple wrist, his father tossed the paper onto the table. “I’ll never believe that’s what the diary says. Do you think me a fool? You’d claim anything in order to wed that Ashcroft chit.” He looked back down to his food, cutting a bite of ham with a fitful, angry motion. “Those aren’t Alban’s words. I know—I knew—my son.”
Rand struggled for calm. “No, Father, you didn’t.”
The man’s gaze jerked up from his breakfast. Rand hadn’t called him Father in twenty years or more. Staring at Rand, he stabbed blindly with his fork.
“You didn’t know him,” Rand repeated. “You knew the son you wished he was.”
“Hogwash.” Having managed to spear some ham, he stuck it in his mouth, taking his time to chew and swallow before continuing. “My son was incapable of premeditated murder.”
“Are you aware that your son kept knives under his bed? A collection to rival a museum’s. Most of them stained with blood.”
If Rand could judge from his expression, the man hadn’t known. “There have been no murders in this district other than Alban’s.”
“Not of people,” Rand agreed. “But I’d wager animals have been found senselessly slaughtered.”
From the look on his father’s face, he’d hit home. “What of it? It’s no crime.”
“It could be a small leap from beasts to humankind.”
The marquess pursed his lips and shook his head, but his armor had cracked. Rand could see it in his eyes. He pressed his sudden advantage. “Come to Alban’s chambers. I’ll show you the blades. After you see the evidence, your imagination will fill in the rest.” With that, he rose and strode out of the room, trusting his father would follow.
When he heard an additional set of footsteps as they crossed the great hall, he glanced over his shoulder. “Wait in the dining room, Margery. This isn’t fit for a lady’s eyes.”
Lily had seen the knives—and worse, to Rand’s regret. He had no intention of allowing another woman to witness his brother’s depravity.
But Margery lifted her chin. “I’m no lady, as your father often reminds me. Only a mere miss. And seeing as I was supposed to wed the man, I feel entitled to view what I escaped.”
By the time she finished her brave speech, they were all standing in Alban’s bedchamber. Rand sighed and gave up.
“Where?” the marquess asked, clearly discomfited in the disarray that made it seem as though his eldest son were still alive. “I see no knives.”
“They’re under the bed.” Rand stooped to pull out the box. They’d left it unlocked. He lifted the lid.
“Dear heavens,” Margery whispered, looking away.
Her hand went protectively to her abdomen, and Rand winced, hoping his father wouldn’t notice the telltale gesture. He went to wrap an arm around her shoulders. “He’s dead,” he said softly. “He cannot hurt you now.”
“Or anyone else.” He felt her shudder, then straighten. “Or anything else.”
He looked to the marquess. “Well?”
The man’s jaw looked tense enough to crack walnuts. “This proves nothing. Alban was an avid hunter, as you well know.”
Margery’s mouth dropped open. “Uncle William, those aren’t hunting knives.”
The marquess bent and drew one out. “This one is.”
Was the man that blinded by stubborn pride? Rand felt anger boiling up from his gut, choking him. In frustration, he yanked the knife from his father’s hand and tossed it back into the box. “Were you aware there’s a secret space off this chamber?” he asked in a tight voice.
The one thing he’d vowed to avoid bringing into this. And in front of Margery, no less. But had he any choice? Better shocked and disgusted than married to the wrong man.
“Of course I know that,” his father scoffed. “I built the place.”
Though the room was flooded with daylight, Rand lit a candle. “Then I suppose you also know what’s in it?”
“No, I don’t. What Alban kept in his chambers was his concern alone.” Though the marquess sounded adamant, trepidation laced his voice. His gaze flickered to the fireplace. “Will you never learn that a man is entitled to privacy, Randal? How many times did I tell you not to snoop in your brother’s diaries?”
Halfway to the fireplace, Rand whirled. “How many times did you beat me for it?”
“Too many to count,” the man snapped.
“Yes, too many times I tried to prove your son was evil and still you continued to deny it.” Shoving the candle into his father’s hand, Rand knelt to work the latch near the floor. “Here, at last, is your proof,” he gritted out. “Try to tell me I’m mistranslating this to my advantage.”
He stood and swung open the panel.
The marquess stepped into the small space. And his face went white.
As though in a daze, Margery moved closer.
“No!” Rand
reached to stop her and turned her into his chest. His arms went around her protectively. “Take a good look,” he told his father over his shoulder. “Perhaps there have been no murders in the vicinity, but that only means he stopped short of killing. You won’t convince me all those implements were meant for hunting. Or even animals.”
Silence settled over the chamber, so profound Rand could hear both his own heart and Margery’s. And the marquess’s harsh breathing. Despite his convictions, the man was clearly shaken.
Suddenly he stepped back and slammed the panel, the sound shattering the stillness. For a moment, he just stood in place, swaying on his feet as an odd sort of calmness settled over him. “This doesn’t prove Alban meant to kill Bennett Armstrong.”
“No,” Rand agreed. “It only goes to show he was capable. His diary is the proof.”
“I cannot read it. And I refuse to—”
“To take my word as to its translation? I’m not surprised, since you never have. But this time, I’m prepared to sit with you, for days if necessary, and demonstrate, step-by-step, how the code was broken and exactly what that journal says.” To Rand’s mortification, his voice broke. “You owe me the chance to do that, Father. All my life you’ve dismissed me, and you’ve already admitted that was a mistake on your part. You owe me.”
It didn’t take days.
Four hours later, his father slumped in his chair and buried his face in his hands.
SIXTY-SIX
STANDING IN HER mother’s perfumery, Lily gazed out the window and squinted into the distance. “Where on earth is he?”
On another day, Rose might have laughed, but she didn’t. “Poor Lily. Give him time.” She chose several cheerful yellow daffodils and added them to an arrangement. “He had to ride there and convince his father and then come all the way back…why, he likely won’t be here for hours.”
Mum plucked rose petals, tossing them into the clear glass bulb of the fancy distillery Ford had made for her while courting Violet. “Your sister’s right, dear. Come and help me. It will take your mind off the waiting.”
With a sigh, Lily walked to the table and idly picked up a rose. “I know Rand will convince his father,” she said, as much to assure herself as them.
“Of course he will,” Rose said. “If you’d seen that translation, you’d be even more certain. Rand’s brother intended murder. Their father won’t be able to deny it.”
“But that doesn’t mean he’ll allow us to wed.”
That statement was met with silence, because, unfortunately, there was no arguing with it. No guarantees that proof of Alban’s intent would lead to the marquess changing his mind.
“Tell me about Hawkridge,” Rose said at last. “Is it beautiful?”
“Very.” Lily absently plucked rose petals. “Much newer than Trentingham—Rand’s father built it just before the war—and every room is exquisite.” Except for Rand’s, which was rather plain, but she didn’t feel up to explaining that. “Why, the dining room even has leather on the walls, with designs stamped in pure gold. But the place is eerie, I think. Or perhaps it’s just cold. It feels as though no one there has been happy for a long, long time.”
“Perhaps they haven’t,” Mum suggested. “But that will change, of course. You and Rand will be happy indeed, and your happiness will rub off on everyone else. And I imagine that after you move there you’ll be able to make improvements, make Hawkridge Hall feel warmer and more like home. If you cannot redecorate the whole house, you should at least have a say in the rooms assigned to you and Rand.”
Picturing Rand’s tiny chamber, Lily sighed. Maybe—assuming they were allowed to marry—they could occupy Alban’s suite of rooms instead. But if that were the case, a complete overhaul would be necessary before she’d agree to sleep there even once.
Rose added several carnations to the colorful spray she was creating. “Will you live at Hawkridge all the time, then? Will Rand have to give up his post at Oxford?”
“I don’t know. He and his father have yet to discuss any details like that.” She tossed the last of the rose petals into the glass bulb. “All of their energies have been focused on the marquess’s insistence that Rand wed Margery.”
Mum fitted the lid on the distillery. “Has Rand resigned himself to leaving his position?”
“I don’t think he’s had enough time to think about it. But I doubt he’ll be happy leaving Oxford.” Lily hoped he’d be happy just being with her. Whether at Oxford or Hawkridge or somewhere else entirely. But she knew better. “He worked very hard to attain that professorship. And he enjoys that life. He’s never fancied himself an earl, let alone a marquess.”
Finished, Rose stepped back to eye her masterpiece. “I shouldn’t think that would be hard to get used to.”
Rose might have mellowed a bit, but she was still Rose.
“How about you?” Mum asked. “Will you be happy at Hawkridge?”
“I’ll be happy wherever Rand is,” she said, knowing it was true. “I’ll have him, and my animals…”
Her voice trailed off.
Mum looked up sharply. “What is it, dear? Are you afraid Lord Hawkridge won’t approve of your menagerie?”
“No,” she said slowly. “He loves animals—more than people, truth be told. He raises mastiffs.”
Mum smiled. “Well, then, it sounds like Hawkridge will be the perfect place to build your animal home.”
Rose tweaked a few flowers, balancing the arrangement. “I imagine Hawkridge has plenty of space.”
“No. I mean, yes, there are acres and acres of land.” Lily took a deep breath and decided to come out with it. “You might as well know that if the marquess blesses this marriage, it will be with the stipulation that my inheritance goes to him.”
Rose gasped. “How dare he demand such a thing!”
“There was no demand. I offered of my own free will. Hawkridge was mortgaged during the war, you see, to provide funds for King Charles. The marquess was on the verge of losing it when Margery was dropped in his lap, along with her considerable fortune. Hawkridge would face bankruptcy without her land and money.”
“Or your money,” Rose said darkly.
“Exactly. Don’t look so sour, Rose. It was my idea to offer my inheritance in exchange for the right to wed Rand, and I’ll gladly do so, if only the marquess will allow it.”
Rose plucked a daisy from the vase and pointed it at Lily. “All your life, you’ve dreamed of nothing but building a home for your strays.” She shook the flower, emphasizing her words. “Maybe sometimes I’ve laughed at that, but I know how important it is to you. How can you give that up so cavalierly?”
“I’m in love,” Lily said simply.
But she caught Chrystabel’s gaze on her and knew her mother hadn’t missed the wistfulness in her voice.
SIXTY-SEVEN
NOT THE SORT of man to indulge in self-pity for long, nor to accept blame, the marquess had made an excuse and gone off to his study. Half an hour later, when Rand and Margery asked to talk to him, he readily—if gruffly—invited them in.
They sat in two chairs facing him, gazing up at him seated behind his desk on the raised dais. A few awkward moments passed before Rand cleared his throat.
“Father,” he began, hoping calling him such might mellow the man, “we would like your assurance that, under the circumstances, you will no longer pursue the conviction of Bennett Armstrong for murder.”
“Of course I won’t. I’m a reasonable man when presented with persuasive evidence.”
“Well, then, Margery respectfully requests permission to marry him.”
“Does she?” the marquess asked with a raised brow. He shifted his gaze to his ward. “I haven’t heard such a respectful request.”
“Uncle William…” Margery’s voice shook, and she paused to control it. “May I please wed Bennett?”
“No,” the man snapped. “I didn’t agree before Alban’s death, and nothing has changed between then and now. Marri
age is primarily a business arrangement, and an alliance of Hawkridge with the Maybanks estates is best for both parties.”
“You mean Hawkridge requires Margery’s money,” Rand said, struggling to remain calm. “As I’ve told you, Lily has ten thousand pounds that she’s willing to invest in Hawkridge’s future. Added to her dowry of three thousand, it should be a sufficient sum.”
At Lily’s name, his father’s eyes had softened. It was amazing how much the man had apparently come to like her. He almost looked wistful.
But his expression swiftly hardened again. “I vowed on Simon Maybanks’s deathbed that his daughter would wed my heir. Lady Lily’s inheritance does nothing to mitigate that.”
“Uncle William.” Margery rose and walked over to him, stepping up onto the raised dais. She placed her palms on his desk and leaned toward him, her eyes pleading. “I was an infant when my father claimed that boon, and he was only attempting to provide for my future the best that he knew how. Don’t you think he would have been thrilled to marry me to a baron with Bennett’s vast lands and income? Most especially because I love Bennett so very much, and he loves me in return. You must agree that if my father had had any way of foreseeing such an opportunity, he would have given his blessing freely.”
In the silence that followed, Margery backed down the step and returned to her seat. She folded her hands in her black-skirted lap. A clock ticked on the mantel, unnaturally loud in the stillness. The marquess blinked but said nothing.
“Father,” Rand pressed, hoping the man’s lack of response meant he was considering Margery’s words, “you’ve told me that your treatment of me, in years gone past, was because you blamed me for my mother’s death.”
The marquess’s lips thinned. “I’ve also told you I’m sorry.”
“And I’ve accepted your apology—and your explanation.” Saying the words, Rand suddenly realized he had. “But what I’m wondering now, or perhaps I should say what I’m assuming, is that you loved her very much.”
“Of course I did,” his father said, looking bewildered. “I loved her with all my heart.”
