“Damn it, go back to Sussex. I have no message for my sister.”
The footman beat a retreat. Vergil slammed the door after him with enough force to shake the books on the library’s shelves.
He stared down at Pen’s note on the floor, and then at Bianca’s letter, crushed in his fist. He uncrumbled the latter and pressed it out.
It was ostensibly written to Pen, but he could hear Bianca talking to him.
My dearest friend,
When you receive this, I should be on my way to France. I apologize for leaving this way, but I thought it unlikely that I would receive your approval if I announced my plans. I thank you for all of your kindness toward me, but it is time to do what I left Baltimore to accomplish, and there is no reason to wait any longer.
Nigel has graciously offered to accompany me. He anticipates marriage, but I do not see how such an alliance will benefit me. However, in the eventuality that he can persuade me otherwise, I have taken measures through Mr. Peterson to ensure that such a development does not create difficulties for any of my friends in England. For the next few months, I will no doubt have to live off my expectations unless Laclere agrees to forward me funds when I contact him. I daresay that Nigel will be an excellent tutor in delaying payment to tradesmen.
Please address my heartfelt thanks and love to your family, Pen. I hope to see you again, if you have room in your circle for one more artist and room in your heart for one troublesome girl.
Please convince your brother that he must not follow me.
Your errant friend,
Bianca
He could hear her enunciating each word. He pictured her writing them. She did not sound or look smug or even excited. She appeared serious and determined and worried. She should be. She had no idea of the danger she may have put herself in by placing herself at Nigel’s mercy.
What the hell was going on? Was she the most shameless of flirts, conducting an affair with one man while she rehearsed with another in the wings? This flight with Nigel suggested so, especially since she indicated that she might not bother to marry him, either.
He read that section again and experienced both delicious relief and dreadful misgivings. Shrewd, clever Bianca. She was absolutely right about the alliance benefiting her not at all. On the other hand, marriage to Bianca would settle things very nicely for Nigel.
Her cousin would be most displeased if she refused him. That displeasure, and the conclusions which it could suggest, kept presenting themselves to Vergil with merciless explicitness.
There had never been any proof that Nigel had tried to harm her. But over in France, if she blocked one path to her fortune . . . No one even knew her in that country. Who would voice suspicion if an accident should happen?
With a new, cold calm he read her letter once again. Its full implications unfolded. She made reference to arrangements having been made to prevent difficulties. His dread deepened. If that meant what he thought, she could be in grave danger when Nigel learned what she had done.
It also indicated that this had been planned while she was still in London, perhaps even before she had ended their affair. He tried not to put too much stock in the notion that Nigel had somehow forced this course on her, but a ridiculously heady beam of hope broke through the darkness that had filled his heart since that day in Pen’s library.
Convince your brother that he must not follow me. The order read like a desperate warning.
He called for Morton. “Prepare for a journey of about a week. Also, send for Dante, will you? He is still in the city. I need to speak with him.”
“Certainly. We will be going north again, I assume.”
“No, we leave for France. I must go to the City now. See that Pen’s footman is fed and rested before he heads back. Tell him to inform my sister that I will be following Miss Kenwood despite her instructions that I not do so.”
“Mrs. Gaston is gone?” Bianca pulled her cloak tighter, to ward off the sea breeze blowing through the cottage garden. Nigel’s great coat flapped around him.
“She has gone into Cherbourg to visit her friend.”
“I should like to be in Cherbourg myself, Nigel, and not this rustic farmhouse. Actually, I would like to be in Paris. I do not think that we should have to stop here for days because Mrs. Gaston has a sick friend.”
“It would be inappropriate for us to travel without her, Bianca. Unless you have changed your mind about marrying right away.”
She broke the dried head off a spindly stalk of dead sunflowers. “Let us go for a walk, Nigel. Actually, I welcome her absence today, and the chance to have some private conversation with you.”
He strolled beside her out the gate and through the orchard. They crossed the field of clover to the cliff walk. The wind whipped stronger here, icy from the water. It blew Nigel’s hair into a tempest and ruddied his skin.
“I have changed my mind about marrying, Nigel.”
“You are tired from the journey, Bianca. Once we are settled in Paris you will see things differently. More clearly.”
“You mean that I will remember your threats about Laclere? I find myself thinking that the viscount can watch out for himself, dear cousin. And I am seeing things most clearly. Mrs. Gaston, for example. I see that she is more than an acquaintance to you. You must think me insufferably stupid if you believed I would not recognize the neat arrangement that you have made for yourself.”
He exhaled a laugh of defeat. “I will admit that she is an old friend. We met over a year ago when she visited Paris, and . . . But it is in the past.”
“After hearing the noise coming from her chamber last night, I am not inclined to believe that.”
He had the decency to flush at least. Either her frankness or her worldliness had caught him off guard, which was exactly where she wanted him right now.
“Did you assume that I would be asleep, or that I would be too ignorant to understand? The two of you might have waited until I was not under the same roof.”
“It was impetuous and indiscreet of us. I never thought that you . . . I will explain to her that our friendship cannot go on.”
“I would not be so fast to throw her over.”
“Between her and you, there is no choice. It does sound as if you expect me to choose. It is very provincial of you, Bianca. Very American.”
“You choose me so quickly? That must mean that she does not have a fortune and that her income is too small.”
“Now you insult me. I understand if you are vexed because of last night, but my first concern is your safety and my second is my affection for you. Your income is the least of it.”
“My income is hardly the least of it, although it surely comes after a few other things. The Manchester mill, for example. I know about the offer from Mr. Johnston and Mr. Kennedy. A very large sum of money just for your small share. With my forty-five percent under your control, not only could you sell them a majority ownership, but you could become very wealthy in the process. My yearly income is insignificant in comparison.”
Nigel’s expression darkened. Down below, the sea roared against the shore. Gulls glided overhead, and the snapping wind bore the scent of ocean salt.
“I will not deny that it would be convenient for me to sell my share of the mill, Bianca. I have some debts. Great-uncle chose to leave me virtually nothing besides the estate, and barely enough income to maintain it. I had expected more.”
“You had expected everything, and lived in Paris as if it were already yours.”
“I certainly did not expect him to renew a connection severed long ago and give so much to the daughter of—”
“Of his only son and the woman whom he loved,” she interrupted. “That is not how you planned to say it, of course. You almost betrayed your true intentions for me, as well as your prejudices. That is the reason I will not marry you, aside from the fact that I can feel no love toward a man who is a blackmailer. You would never allow your wife to perform. If I were willing to be so
me man’s caged bird, as you so aptly phrased it in London, I would have gladly chosen Laclere.”
He faced her squarely, blocking her progress along the cliff path. “Your feelings for him are those of a child infatuated for the first time. They will pass. You will be happier with me. We have much more in common.”
“How would you know what I have in common with him? Do you think that you know either one of us?”
“I must insist on the wedding, Bianca. It is not open for negotiation. If you doubt my affection or find none of your own for me, we need not share a bed, but we will marry.”
“You cannot insist on a wedding, Nigel. Even in France the woman must agree to it.”
“You agreed to it by coming with me.”
“I only came with you to get you out of England.”
“Do you think it makes a difference where I am? I said that I would ruin him if you did not cooperate and I can do so from Paris as surely as in London.”
“I do not think that you can. I think that his reputation will take more than one letter to an acquaintance to destroy. He is not his brother. He will not break so easily. You need to be there, stirring the pot, spreading the word.”
“If so, I will return and spread it during high season. Do not play games with me, Bianca. I am not a man to cross.”
Her resistance brought out the sullen aspects of his temperament. His expression had grown saturnine and his tone prickled with resentment and menace.
“I do not think that you will spread stories, Nigel. You see, I am prepared to pay you two thousand pounds a year to keep silent about what you know.”
“As your husband, I would have much more.”
“You will never be my husband, and if you ruin him, you will have nothing. If you demand one shilling more, I will give you nothing and let you do your worst.”
He paced away in annoyance and cast her a hooded, inspecting sneer. “Who would have thought such a sweet face hid such a cunning mind, cousin? Mrs. Gaston said not to underestimate you, that you could not be all childish innocence if Laclere was interested in you, but I only saw those big blue eyes.” He strode back and peered at her dangerously. She stood her ground. After all, when it came to hovering, Nigel could not begin to compete with Vergil.
“It should all be mine,” he snarled. “Your father was dead to him, and I was all he had. If Milton had not stolen his affection he would have been kinder to me, but instead, all I heard about was that high-blooded Duclairc until I couldn’t bear to visit the old man anymore. Then, with his death, he shackles me with Woodleigh, but makes sure that I don’t have the money to enjoy it.”
“Perhaps he challenged you with his bequest, to make something of the estate and thus of yourself. You could hire a good manager and learn. Laclere would help you.”
“I do not want Laclere’s help!”
“Then take the two thousand that I offer or be damned!”
He paced away and back again. Winter fields spread beside him on one side, and the cliff dropped to the sea on the other. This time he strode up so close to her that they almost touched.
She looked into his hard countenance and a tremor chilled her spine.
He had passed from annoyance to cold fury, and from resentment to bitterness. She glanced askance at her position on the cliff path. Very casually she tried to step away from him and into the field.
His arm swung up and blocked her. He swaddled her in the embrace of his great coat and studied her face as if he weighed a great judgment. Ten feet away, the ground disappeared where the cliff dropped to the sea.
“Unfortunately, Bianca, two thousand a year does not begin to solve my financial needs.”
His apologetic tone made panic clutch her heart. The sea and ground appeared to swirl around her. His embrace tightened.
She clawed on his arm. “Stop this now. I am not worth murder, Nigel. The mill is gone.”
He entwined one hand furiously in her hair. “What do you mean, the mill is gone?”
“I sold my share to Vergil before I left. For one hundred pounds. The papers were waiting for his signature at my solicitor’s.”
“You sold a partnership worth almost a quarter of a million pounds for one hundred? Are you a complete fool?” He yelled so furiously that her ears rang.
“Not a complete fool,” she said. “Not your fool, for one thing. If you forced me into marriage, I had no intention of letting you sell that mill out from under Vergil. Nor would you enjoy the fruits of its sale. And if you chose to expose him out of spite, I made sure that he would at least be wealthy in his social oblivion.”
“It is not legal. It cannot be.”
“Why not? My trustee and guardian approved, I am sure. And if it is not, I am told that your courts work very slowly on such matters. We will all be dead before it is resolved.”
“That is a very real possibility, sweet girl,” Nigel snarled. “I was rather counting on selling that mill, you see. You have placed me in an impossible situation.”
Her feet left the ground as he began carrying her. Frantic, she kicked and pummeled and bit. Grappling like a madman, he tried to haul her to the cliff.
Suddenly the fight left him. He set her down again and stared at her in shock. His gaze appeared inward, as if what stunned him was in his own soul.
“God, Bianca, I don’t know what came over me. I would never—”
Something distracted him. His head turned, and a frown broke over his squinting eyes.
She caught her breath. Heart pounding, she followed his gaze down to the house.
A coach was stopping there. Mrs. Gaston had returned.
Bianca extricated herself from Nigel’s hold and ran down the hill. She staggered out of the orchard just as Mrs. Gaston was handed out of the carriage.
The man who offered his help was not the coachman.
Bianca stopped a hundred yards from the house and tried to make sense of the sudden appearance of this visitor.
Nigel caught up. He came up beside her and his expression showed that he had not expected this development, either.
“What the hell is Witherby doing here?” he muttered.
chapter 21
Vergil’s hired mount was tiring, but he urged him on. His impatience would not permit rest now. Too much time had been lost in Calais. It had taken him two days to track down the inn where Nigel and Bianca had stayed, and find the servant who had overheard their plans.
The discovery that Nigel and Bianca had not gone on to Paris, but instead had removed to an isolated cottage on the Normandy bluffs, only deepened his misgivings.
Two women were traveling with the man, the servant had said. The news hardly reassured him. The other woman was most likely Mrs. Gaston.
They were playing their old game, but the prize was very high this time. Too high. The value of Bianca’s inheritance, hell, the value of the mill alone, exceeded anything they had gotten with their blackmail. If Bianca resisted once in France . . .
For all intents and purposes, they had killed before.
It had not been hard to follow them. Nigel had hired a superb coach for their journey, and such things were noted in villages. In the last one, some farmers had directed him to the cottage by the sea, which had been leased by the blond Englishman.
He angled toward the timbered and plastered farmhouse hugging the rugged rise. A sparsely planted garden cringed inside low stone walls. A screen of bare orchard blocked his view of the coast, but the roar of the sea droned louder as he approached.
No one emerged with his call. He dismounted and entered.
Three people sitting in the cottage expressed no surprise with his arrival. Bianca looked at him fearfully, Nigel only scowled, and Mrs. Gaston smiled with contentment.
Another person waited in the cottage too. Someone Vergil had not expected, and who grinned at the way Vergil reacted to the shock of seeing him.
“It took you long enough, Laclere,” Cornell Witherby said.
Bianca jumped up
and ran into Vergil’s arms. “You should not have come,” she said as she kissed him.
“He had to, Miss Kenwood,” Witherby said. “Didn’t you, Laclere? There was no way you would allow her to leave like that.” He turned to Mrs. Gaston. “I told you that he would come.”
Nigel rose and distanced himself from the other two. “I want you to know that I had no role in this, Laclere. I did not realize they sought to lure you here. I did not even know Witherby was this whore’s cohort.”
“To say you had no role is an exaggeration,” Vergil said. “You may have been duped by Mrs. Gaston, and this may not be unfolding as you expected, but you did what was needed to get Bianca to accompany you.”
“He said that he knew about us, and about you and the mill,” Bianca said. “He threatened to ruin you.”
He took her face in his hands and ignored the others for a precious moment. “You should have told him to do his worst, darling. If it meant having you with me, I would have gladly been ruined.” He embraced her closely and looked at Witherby. “I know how Mrs. Gaston procured my brother’s letters, but learning about the Earl of Glasbury— You are the worst scoundrel, Witherby. You befriended my sister and then betrayed her confidences. Only she could have told you about the earl.”
“I really wish you had left it all alone, Laclere.”
“You killed my brother. I could not leave that alone.”
“I killed no one.”
“You may as well have pulled the trigger.”
“No one was supposed to die,” Mrs. Gaston said. “We asked for a little money, that was all. Not even very much. A few thousand. Why the viscount and others felt the need to go and kill themselves—well, that isn’t our fault they reacted so rashly.”
She appeared annoyed by the bad behavior these men had shown, and the trouble it had caused.
“First Milton and Dante, then Pen. Finally me. You two have used the Duclairc family again and again in this crime of yours.”
Witherby got up and strolled over to the mantel of the hearth. A pistol rested on it. “Your family has been limping along for generations. The weakness begged to be exploited.”
The Saint Page 29
