A tear, large enough to make rings, dropped into her soup. Soon, Beth promised herself, soon she would be over this weakness. She would be strong again. Perhaps not so confident, not so sure the world revolved around herself, but nothing was going to make her cry. She would put pain and terror behind her and face the world as Terence did. Head up, shoulders back, and damn their eyes! No one would ever make her weak again. Not husband, father, brother, or well-meaning friends.
Ten minutes after Ferris ushered Terence O’Rourke into the drawing room at the Refuge, a groom was riding ventre à terre toward a certain address in Exeter. As Mrs. Helen Archer and her guest were sitting down to dinner, their host strode into the room, the elderly butler running after him, still reaching for Lord Monterne’s many-caped driving coat, which trailed off one arm.
“So it is you,” Rodney declared, glaring at Terence while flicking his arm so Ferris could tug off the hanging coat sleeve. Hat, gloves, and whip tumbled onto the oriental carpet as the butler, revealing his attack of nerves, lost his attempt to juggle his master’s accouterments. “Fool!” Rodney snapped, then gave his full attention to his guests. Hands on hips, he looked down the length of the table where a place for O’Rourke had been set directly opposite Mrs. Archer, the two of them flanking his own empty seat at the head. If he were very lucky, Rodney thought, they wouldn’t see the fear beneath his anger.
“Back from the Americas, are you?” Rodney sneered at the Cit who dared claim his left at table. “Fighting Red Indians, were you? Or perhaps buying Louisiana for your employer?” He rather enjoyed the sneer he’d managed to put into employer, the implied insult to the employee as well. He raised his brows. “I can’t seem to recall . . . did we invite you?”
“Beth did,” Terence responded with deceptive mildness, even as every muscle tensed, ready to spring. “We were raised together. Six months is a long time to be apart.”
“To be sure,” Rodney murmured, noting a maid hurriedly adding a place setting. He bowed to Nell Archer. “If you would be so good as to overlook my lack of proper dress, Ma’am, I’ll join you at table.”
“Of course, my lord. We are delighted you have arrived in time.” Nell could only hope the frisson that shook her was not noticeable. Obviously, Monterne had been summoned home. And there was bad blood between these two. Somehow she had not expected the so-charming Lord Monterne to be openly hostile to a guest. There was history here she couldn’t fathom.
At the end of what seemed an interminable meal, made bearable only by Terence O’Rourke’s colorful tales of life in Louisiana, Nell excused herself, using Beth as her reason to hurry back upstairs rather than await the gentlemen in the drawing room. Even as she did so, she wondered if her cowardice was justified. Should she stay, try to steer them away from pistols at dawn? No, she acknowledged, nothing and no one would ever steer Terence O’Rourke from his determined course. Then again, she doubted Monterne would fight him. Duel with a Cit? Heaven forfend!
“Port in the bookroom?” the viscount proposed, rising from his chair. “More private, I believe. We’ll wait on ourselves, Ferris,” he told the butler. We don’t wish to be disturbed.”
Without a word, Terence followed him. A fine room, he thought, admiring the extensive collection of leather-bound volumes, the black marble fireplaces, the comfortable forest green leather chairs, the deep rich colors of a carpet which would have brought a fortune on the London market. He sat in the chair Monterne indicated with a wave of his elegant hand. A bottle of port, two glasses thunked onto the table between them. His host poured, handed Terence a glass filled with the ruby red wine from Portugal.
“So,” Rodney challenged as he held the glass up, examining the glow of the heavy wine in the flickering flames of firelight, “have you come to carry out your threat?”
Through all the many miles from London, the long nights at inns in Hampshire, Wiltshire, Somerset and Devon, through all the hours since his visit to Beth’s sickroom, Terence had debated what he would say when he was face to face with Monterne. Would he simply strangle him, as he wished to do? Or remember that if he did not keep his temper, no one would win this all-important game? Both Knight Errant and Fair Maiden would come to grief. His legal right to be here was shaky at best. He was a single man, not a blood relative, not even a so-called gentleman, though his eveningwear at the moment far outshone that of his host, who was still dressed for riding.
“I am here,” he told Monterne, “to discover the truth. Beth seems to think someone is trying to kill her.” A rank understatement . . . not yet an open declaration of war. Terence had to stifle a grin of satisfaction as Monterne was unable to hide his flush of relief. Too soon, you bastard. You have no idea what I’m really thinking.
“I have men investigating. So has Squire Blunden, the magistrate,” Rodney babbled. “I cannot imagine who might wish to harm her. We can only conclude we have a monster among us.”
Ah, yes, a monster. Such a tall good-looking one at that, with a tongue that spouts slick words of silver. “There have been only the two attempts?” Terence asked, leaning back and crossing his ankles as if the potential murder of his sister were just another small problem in the daily life of a busy merchant.
“Yes,” Monterne replied earnestly, “the incident at the bog and the pony cart accident.”
“A push and a cut rein, I understand?”
“Quite so.” Rodney poured himself another glass of port. “I . . . I didn’t believe her at first . . . she probably told you. I thought she had imagined someone pushing her into the bog. But after I saw the rein had been cut nearly through, there could be no doubt about it. If not for the groom, we believe she would have perished.” Terence didn’t know whether to be surprised or disgusted by the sincerity, the anguish, in the gray-blue eyes which were suddenly raised to his. “Someone is truly trying to kill her, O’Rourke, and I can’t even begin to imagine why.”
“Then why,” Terence asked, “am I told Beth has frequently been ill before this accident, has been seen with bruises, whip marks on her arms, even fingerprints upon her neck?” He’d not wasted the short hours he’d spent at the Refuge. Even Mrs. Ferris had not been exempt from interrogation.
“I . . . I . . .” Rodney jumped up, stood with arms folded in front of his chest, staring into the fire. “She’s told you!” he burst out. “I know she’s told you. I have a sickness, Monterne, I can’t call it anything else. I’ve tried to keep it away from Beth . . . that’s why I go to Exeter where there are women who understand such things.” He hung his head. “But I have not always been successful. The choking . . . I was asleep, dreaming. Didn’t know what I was doing.” Rodney’s voice broke. “I don’t want her dead, you’ve got to believe me. I want a child, I want to conquer this terrible compulsion . . . live in peace.”
Terence scrambled to make sense of what he’d just heard. He’d made his considerable reputation, as well as his wealth, by being able to read people’s sincerity, or lack thereof. At the moment he’d almost stake his reputation Monterne was telling the truth. The viscount truly didn’t know who was trying to kill his wife. It was, of course, one of the possibilities Terence had considered. Nonetheless, not being able to blame the attempts on Beth’s life on her husband made his mission in Devonshire a great deal more difficult. And considerably less satisfying. Right now, it appeared the other problem would have to wait. Monterne wasn’t likely to attack his wife with her brother across the hall.
“I brought men with me,” Terence said, laying his cards—well, some of them—on the table. I have begun my own investigation. I trust I will have your full cooperation?”
“Of course,” Rodney assured him. “Anything, anything at all. But don’t you agree the matter is puzzling? There is no one who would benefit by her death.”
He wasn’t going to fall into that one, Terence thought. If Monterne ever realized who had the most to gain from Beth’s death, the most reason to see her dead before she bore a child—namely, Terence O’Rourke—m
atters could become impossibly complicated. And dangerous. The only deterrent to the convenient disappearance of Terence O’Rourke was the backing of Tobias Brockman and his empire and an endless supply of dangerous men who would follow in his wake if anything happened to the Merchant Prince of Brockman & Company. Monterne had just demonstrated a definite skill in extricating himself from a very nasty situation, presenting himself as an object of pity, a man incapable of controlling his actions.
Except, murderer or not, Terence thought, Viscount Monterne was one of Beth’s problems. And he had come here to solve them all.
Chapter Twenty-one
Terence tapped softly on Beth’s bedroom door. He’d left Monterne finishing the port and staring sightlessly into the fire. A bad business, Monterne, and what he was going to do about it he didn’t know. All the way from London to the West Country, it had been easy to say, I’m going to kill the bastard. Yet now—already—the lines between black and white were beginning to blur. There was only one certainty. He had come here for Beth, she was all that really mattered. He must be sure she understood that. Be sure she had not slipped so far into pain, fear, and despair that she no longer trusted him.
Mrs. Mapes’s round face peered through the door’s narrow opening. “She’s asleep,” she hissed at him, frowning.
“No, I’m not!” The surprisingly strong protest easily penetrated to the hallway where Terence was standing.
He grinned at the nurse, pushed open the door. “Get a cup of tea, Mrs. Mapes. My sister and I need a few words in private.”
Arms akimbo, her plump figure swelling in indignation, Mary Mapes continued to bar his way. Her Dartmoor drawl was so pronounced Terence had to strain to understand her words. “Now, sahr,” she declared, “’tis said yoor not my lady’s blood kin, so I cannawt let you in. ’T’would not be proper. Lose m’place quick as cat c’d lick an ear, I would.”
“But I have my lord’s permission,” Terence lied with ease. “So off you go, Mary, me girl. I can scarcely ravish the lady in the time it takes for a cup of tea.”
The nurse’s basilisk stare told him what she thought of that remark, even as he could see her being charmed by his brogue while puzzling out how he knew her first name.
“Mary, go away!” Beth commanded sharply. “The only danger I am in at the moment is being protected to death. Now, shoo, go!”
Terence favored Mrs. Mapes with the brilliant intimate smile which had been his stock in trade for as long as he could remember, opening even the most reluctant doors. With a final harumph, the portly nurse stalked out, softly closing the door behind her.
Terence crossed the room slowly, suddenly feeling more like a thirteen-year-old attempting his first serious conversation with a girl than a man of the world, eight and twenty. For a few moments he stood silently by the bed, looking down at the girl he had adored for so many years. Even when they’d squabbled, or stooped to downright quarreling, he’d never let her fall off the pedestal on which he’d placed the tiny baby given into his safe-keeping. That was the trouble, he supposed. She’d been his shining goal, his inspiration. His grail. And just as unobtainable. When, in truth, she was merely human. Imperfect. Though with not as many faults as his own. And, now, very much in need of his help.
“I’ve come to apologize,” Terence said. “Not just for our childish quarrel this afternoon, but for . . . everything. A year ago you asked for my help, and I did nothing. We should have stood shoulder-to-shoulder, you and I, and told Tobias he was wrong. All I can do now is try to mend things. How, I truly don’t know, but I swear I’ll not leave here without you.” Hell and damnation, he wished she would stop staring at him as if he were a stranger. From haunted eyes sunk into a thin face which had once been a graceful oval. Sorrow and disillusion obscuring the fresh-faced girl he once knew. Her sparkling smiles, her radiant energy, her sheer joy in living snuffed out like a candle.
Guilt clutched his throat for a moment, silencing his glib Irish tongue. Beth had understood him well enough, but the girl before him was a husk of her former self, seemingly indifferent, as if no amount of help could rescue her from the morass into which she had plunged. She might trust him to keep her alive, but what would be left? Beth Brockman, carefree princess, was gone forever. Damnation! He refused to believe he’d lost her. But now was not the time to discuss the matter. Clearly, in Beth’s eyes he was nearly as close to being a villain as her husband.
As always in times of crisis, Terence fell back on solid pragmatism. “There’s a mystery here I must solve,” he said. “Something, at the moment, inexplicable. Until I find out what this menace is, you are not safe anywhere. And, besides,” he added more lightly, “I doubt you feel up to days and days of jouncing about in a carriage.”
“A pretty speech,” Beth murmured. Words of thanks stuck in her throat. Terence, outlined against the glow of the roaring fire like a fallen angel against the fires of hell, was everything she had ever wanted. Now gone forever. She was soiled, defiled, broken in body and in spirit. She had nothing left to give, even if she were free to give it. Even if Terence wanted her, which she doubted. He was talking about family love and loyalty, the duty of a brother to his sister. He was assuring her she could still trust him, depend on him, in spite of his desertion at the time of her marriage.
It would have to be enough.
He was waiting. She owed him thanks. More than that, she owed him her life. She never doubted it. From today forward, her life, which had sunk to a nadir of despair, could only move upward toward that one small pinpoint of light which was the promise he’d made: he would not leave without her.
It was her turn to be honest. “Terence . . . in my whole life I’ve never seen anything more wonderful than the sight of you walking into my room this afternoon. I cried and carried on, wouldn’t look at you. You’d come to save my life and my sanity, and I played the spoiled child. Please forgive me.” She thrust out her hand. A shudder wrenched the length of her body as his hands swallowed her weakened fingers.
Terence, horrified by his body’s sudden surge into lust, nearly pulled away. How, he wondered, with an attraction so vital and demanding, could they have gotten themselves into such an impossible situation?
“Your face is as red as the fire,” Beth murmured, striving for a lightness she didn’t feel. So was hers. The heat suffusing her body was like fire creeping out of the hearth, licking at her toes. Her fingers stayed glued to his, as if letting go would send her spiraling off the edge of the world.
“I must go,” Terence ground out. “Mrs. Mapes will have my head on a platter.” A kiss goodnight, surely that was acceptable. On her forehead, her cheek. The smallest pressure, enough for a whiff of her, of the essence of Beth. But he dared not. If he leaned over, bent his head to hers, felt the softness of her . . . the iron control with which he lived his life might snap. Better to remain Terence O’Rourke, the man who fixed things. Neither brother nor lover. Just the disinterested stranger who observed, analyzed, and got things done.
“Goodnight,” he murmured, allowing his lips to rest for a moment on her knuckles. “Rest well, Beth. I’ve a room directly across the hall.” He returned her hand, placing it gently but firmly between her breasts.
Terence strode from the room as if the hellhounds of Wistman’s Woods were after him. Well, of course Terence would run from her. He must have thought her pitiable, clinging to him like that. It was too late, much too late. She was irrevocably married. She had lost her looks, her spirit, her voice, everything that had made her Elizabeth Mary Brockman, Merchant Princess. The heir apparent had just fled from her. Strong and confident, the Merchant Prince would do his duty to the family, but there was no hope for anything more. She had sealed her fate when she allowed Rodney to dazzle her with his charm, when she had thought it more important to please her father than carve out the life she truly wanted.
Too late, too late, too late.
It was as if the winter had never been, as if the moor’s chill winds were scoot
ing high above them, leaving the narrow sheltered valley to the full warming effect of the bright spring sun, healing the spirit, hinting of better days yet to come. Surrounded by an effusion of spring color, Beth settled into a bower of pillows under the ornate roof of Uncle Bertie’s exotic pavilion and held out her hands for the large book with embossed leather cover which she had asked Terence to bring from the library.
Book forgotten, he stared down at her. The sheen on her blonde curls was returning, her cheeks fuller, though still pale. Sparks of life warmed the amber of her eyes more frequently now, but all too often he saw the haunting depths of hate, dread, and sometimes an emotion he knew all too well—the ruthless determination to survive.
Enough! The light touch, Terence me boy, that’s what needed.
“This looks like an ancient herbal,” he remarked as he handed her the book, then seated himself beside her, taking care to keep a good three feet between them. “Are we trading recipes today?”
Beth’s eyebrows rose. “They might be called recipes,” she conceded, suppressing a sudden surprising urge to giggle. “Yes, you could call them that,” she added with a sage nod, ducking her head to hide her dancing eyes.
She opened the book.
Terence, not quite certain he was seeing correctly, moved a foot closer. Two plump and colorful pillows went tumbling unheeded onto the pavilion’s mosaic floor. Bloody hell, his eyes hadn’t betrayed him. Beth—his Beth—was reading a book like this! He removed it from her hands. Slamming the book shut, he thumped it down on the bench between them.
She laughed. The silly chit laughed! At him!
“Terence, I’m not a child any more. This book is wonderful, a work of art. Men may go out and discover these things for themselves, but a woman needs instruction. If she can’t get it from her husband, then surely a book is better than seeking ah–other sources of knowledge.”
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