by Allison Lane
He shifted in the saddle.
She had seemed special – young, innocent, caring, and beautiful. They had shared many ideas – according dignity to the lower classes, finding employment for weavers who had lost their livelihoods to the mills, paying men enough so their children would not have to slave in manufactories for pennies, educating the tenants so they could understand and accept the advances in agriculture…
Not all the ideas had been practical, and his time in India had proved that life could have been much worse for the lower classes. But her enthusiasm had been catching. Her aura of integrity would have snared even the most cynical. Caught up in the memory, he could believe it still.
The heaviness in his loins pulled him out of his reverie. Fool! She would not pull the wool over his eyes again. John’s revelations still reverberated in his head. If he lived to be a hundred, he would never shed that hateful voice.
Get out! You may have tricked Father into splitting my inheritance, but that’s the end of it, John had growled the moment the solicitor was gone. His fingers had beat a furious tattoo on his copy of the will. If you don’t leave today, I will throw the Thompsons off their farm. They are worthless peasants, incapable of producing enough to cover their rent. And Cotter deserves a lesson in humility. It is time he learns who really owns that land.
James had blanched, but he’d known protest would only make matters worse. He should have realized that helping the Thompsons and educating Cotter would cause trouble. But he had not expected his father to die.
Yet John’s next words had driven even the tenants from his mind.
Don’t consider taking Mary with you – not that she would agree to go. She is mine. His mouth had twisted into a smirk as he licked his lips, driving a stake through James’s heart.
You lie! he had shouted, his temper shattering.
Never. But rest easy, dear brother. I didn’t seduce her. She threw herself at me on her eighteenth birthday. Too bad you are so timid. If you had pushed her a little harder, you could have had the ride of your life. She has tricks you won’t have run into elsewhere. I’ve never had a more eager wench, and that beauty mark on her bottom could stir lust in the coldest shaft.
He had laughed at James’s white face. Laughed and laughed and laughed. It echoed still.
James clenched his teeth. The cruel words had haunted him for months, though he would never believe that Mary had instigated the affair. He knew John too well. The initial contact had either been seduction or force. After that, threats of exposure would have kept her in line. But it would explain why Northrup had married her.
This way lay madness. The past could not be changed. And he could not have known her as well as he thought. Her unwillingness to come to him for help belied the friendship he had thought they’d shared. She should have known he would protect her.
She had fallen silent and was looking at him in puzzlement.
“I will call on your husband tomorrow,” he said to cover his inattention.
“You will find him in the churchyard. He died a year ago.”
“What? He cannot have been more than fifty.”
“Dear Lord.” She backed her horse a pace, her stare making him squirm. “Did you actually believe I had married Frederick’s father?”
“What was I to think when you introduced yourself as Lady Northrup?”
A sigh accompanied a rueful shake of her head. “I forgot you would not know about his death.”
“You married Frederick?”
She nodded.
“Why? He was at least two years your junior.” The question slipped out without thought, and he nearly kicked himself in disgust.
“My reasons are my own, my lord,” she said coldly.
“Forgive me,” he begged, unwilling to endure the shadows in her eyes. “That was intolerably rude. You say he passed away last year?”
“He fell into the quarry.” She shrugged. “Justin is now the baron. I hope you and your friends will join us to welcome him home. Five years in India will have made him a stranger.”
Turning away, she cantered in the direction of Northfield, leaving his mind a swirl of uncertainty. If five years abroad made Justin a stranger, what had a ten-year absence done to him? And why the devil had Mary wed a schoolboy?
But watching her disappear around a corner distracted his thoughts. Her horsemanship had improved immeasurably. As had everything else. The straight back flared into alluring hips that set his blood to boiling. He hadn’t seen anyone that enticing in years.
* * * *
Mary changed out of her habit without summoning her maid. She needed time to put the morning in perspective.
James.
He had changed considerably since she had last seen him, but she could not decide if that was an improvement.
The greatest difference was his demeanor. In memory, he was always smiling, his enthusiasm contagious, his heart as big as the world. He had been a gentle dreamer dedicated to healing the ills of the world. Despite the height that should have overwhelmed those nearby, he had never intimidated her. It distinguished him from John – whose arrogance and incipient brutality cowed nearly everyone and made people forget that he and James were identical twins.
She shivered.
The dreamer was gone, vanquished as if he had never been. That was why she had thought for one instant that it was John she faced. In his years away, James had shed his gentle nature and now exuded a masculinity that took her breath away and left funny, prickly feelings crawling over her skin. She would have to stay clear of him, for he had become dangerous – perhaps even as dangerous as John.
There had never been a question about John’s character. He had been arrogant from the moment he understood that he was Ridgeway’s heir. His temperament had ranged from disdain to anger to an obsequious charm that made her skin crawl. He had expected instant service from his staff, instant gratification of any whim, and subservience from anyone he considered socially inferior. And he had never once lifted a finger for any of them. In fact, he had often gone out of his way to hurt people.
As children, the twins had been a study in contrasts. John was demanding; James, introspective. John dominated any gathering; James melted into the background. John took what he wanted; James gave what he could. John paid back any slight tenfold; James forgave even blatant insults. Despite attending different schools, their years away had intensified those contrasts. John returned harder; James, softer. John was devoted to wine, women, and gaming; James was fascinated by agricultural advances, inventions, and social reform.
Until now. James had hardened, becoming more purposeful. Anger twisted his mouth into the same expression John had always worn. Yet she could still sense his moods. Something had been bothering him today. Estate problems? A grueling journey? He had to have just arrived, or she would have heard news of him in town.
The years had broadened his character and sharpened his impact. He was no longer a man who could fade into the background. His presence now demanded attention. And that could be dangerous, reviving pain and shocking the populace.
She smoothed her hair before heading for the study.
Someone had murdered John. Most people believed that the culprit had been a chance-met vagrant, despite ample evidence to the contrary. She was not blind, but she now prayed the killer had followed John from elsewhere. If the man was local, what would he do when he encountered John’s replica?
CHAPTER THREE
James sipped brandy as he faced Isaac Church across a broad desk. He had known the squire all his life, for Isaac was only one year his senior. They had played together as children, attended the same schools, even contemplated a joint investment. But their friendship had not survived James’s departure.
Hurt and disillusioned over John’s claims and reeling from John’s threats, James had severed every tie with home. His only contact during his years abroad had been with his London man of business, who had promised to keep his location private. Even afte
r returning, he had not visited his former friends. They were part of the past – a past he had not wished to revive.
Thus he had avoided everyone he knew, settling in Lincolnshire, where he kept a low profile. And he had eschewed London society. Why tempt fate?
It had seemed reasonable at the time, for he had never expected to see Shropshire again. But now that he was back, his abrupt departure and its attendant rumors stood between him and the local residents. Isaac had greeted him civilly, but with the same lack of warmth he would have accorded a pushy tradesman or a petty miscreant. If it had been another man, James would have ignored it, but he needed to regain at least some of their former ease, for Isaac was the magistrate in charge of investigating John’s murder.
“I heard there was some confusion about why I left home,” he said, forcing the issue into the open.
Isaac took snuff and sneezed three times before answering. “Since you had announced no plans to leave, that should not surprise you. The most popular tale describes how you killed your father.”
“By causing his fit?”
He nodded. “Though some claimed there was no fit. According to that theory, the family lied to cover the blow that struck him down.”
“My God!” He shakily set his glass on the desk.
“The fight supposedly occurred during an argument over crimes you had committed.”
“Lies, though we did have a heated discussion over one incident. I was innocent of the charge.”
He nodded gravely. “No need to be coy. We all know about Meg Price. And I never believed you guilty of it. Another rumor swore that you fled to avoid marriage, either via compromise or because you debauched a well-born maid.”
Mary? She was the only girl he had flirted with before leaving. But she was not that well-born, so he didn’t ask. There was no truth to the speculation anyway.
“The arguments raged for months,” continued Isaac. “Your father’s servants kept passions high – in part to retaliate against John for turning them off. They swore you were innocent of every charge, reminding folks that your argument had preceded your father’s attack by a full day, and that John had argued with him in the interim, but few accepted the claims.”
No one could have done so, he realized. Not after John acceded to the title. Tenants, craftsmen, merchants. All owed their livelihoods to Ridgeway. John would have ruined anyone who blamed him. So they would have ignored the servants’ claims, attributing them to fury over the lost positions.
“A few more theories were posed, but none was believable. The marriage tale died rapidly, for no one could produce a viable candidate. The doctor set the murder story to rest. Ridgeway met with those who blamed him for driving you off, and they decided he was innocent.”
That sounded ominous. But claims that he’d killed his father accounted for his cool reception at the Court.
“Why did you leave?”
He shrugged. “John ordered me to. He was unhappy about Father’s will and threatened to relieve his frustrations on the tenants unless I obeyed.”
“No wonder you cut all connections.” He relaxed with the words, noticeably warming. “But you could have stayed in touch.”
“No.” Word would have leaked out if he had written, drawing John’s wrath onto Isaac.
“I suppose not,” he agreed, meeting his eyes. “But he is no longer here. Will you stay?”
“I doubt it. My home is now in Lincolnshire. But enough of the past. What can you tell me about John’s death?”
Isaac sighed. “Very little. He was killed Christmas Day. But no one admits seeing or hearing anything.”
“Cause of death?”
“Murder.”
James glared. “I’m not stupid, Isaac. That much information accompanied news of my accession – as you well know. How did he die?”
He sighed. “Multiple stab wounds. His arms and legs were bound, so someone may have been questioning him.”
Or torturing him. James shuddered. Torture indicated violent hatred, but John had been capable of inciting it.
“It wasn’t a pretty sight,” continued Isaac. “But I cannot think of a more deserving victim.”
“No one deserves that,” he countered, barely hiding his anger. “I don’t care how grievous his faults were, I want his killer found.”
“I’ve tried, but this is not a simple case. Little evidence was left near the body. No one has come forward with any information, and nothing new has turned up in six months. Where would you suggest I start? The list of potential suspects includes most of England.”
“Surely you know something!”
“The killer was tall and strong.”
“I thought no one admits to seeing anything.”
“True. But the incident started with a fight. Even if the killer ambushed him, it would take great size and strength to have overpowered John that quickly. Yet I have no witnesses, and no one knows which of his dubious activities might have killed him. No strangers were sighted in the area.”
“If no one saw a stranger, then the killer was local. So which of his dubious activities did he practice here?” Only great effort kept his voice cordial. He hated discussing his family’s skeletons with others.
“You cannot assume the killer is local. The weather that day was the foulest we had all winter – blinding snow complicated by high winds. An army could have marched through Ridgefield unseen. As for his activities, he was rarely here. If one of his associates turned on him, it was undoubtedly an outsider.”
“Are you aware that John’s servants believe I killed him?” he asked wearily.
“Which explains why you are anxious to find the real killer. But you needn’t bother. Only the Ridgeway staff believes it.”
“Do you think I want the killer found just to divert suspicion from me?” he demanded, glaring daggers at his former friend.
Isaac paled.
“I want the killer found because I cannot condone taking a life. Any life. John may have had problems, but he was still my brother.”
“Very well.” Sighing, he topped off their glasses and pulled out a sheaf of papers.
“Why do people believe I killed him? I’ve not been near Shropshire in years.”
“Human nature. When someone is murdered, folks naturally suspect the one who benefits the most. And you must admit that there was no love lost between you. His death handed you the earldom and a tidy fortune.”
“A title I don’t need, half a dozen properties on the verge of ruin, and a mountain of debts that includes three mortgages. You should know me better than that.”
“Debts? The Ridgeway fortune is legendary.”
He shook his head. “It was never as large as rumor suggested.” But Isaac’s skepticism bared another of John’s petty revenges. He ran frustrated fingers through his hair. “Damnation! I should have expected him to remain quiet about how Father left things.”
“Which was?”
“John got the title and estates. I got most of the money.”
“No wonder he tossed you out.”
James cut off the retort that sprang to his lips. “That is ancient history. I want his killer found, Isaac. Start at the beginning and tell me about your investigation.”
“He wasn’t found until late Boxing Day, so the killer had ample time to make his escape. The wind had shifted so much snow that we don’t even know which way he went.”
“Where was he killed?”
“Near the lane across Brewster’s Ridge. We found his body behind that rocky outcropping halfway to the top.”
Something nibbled the edges of James’s mind, but Isaac’s next words drove the thought into hiding.
“The obvious conclusion was that he had been set upon by a highwayman.”
“That seems unlikely.”
“In retrospect, but it was a viable theory at the time, and investigating it gave me the opportunity to check the whereabouts of every large, strong man in the area. I learned nothing pertinent. Every poten
tial local suspect is accounted for. If it wasn’t a chance-met stranger, then his killer followed him here.”
“Was he was robbed?”
“No.” He shifted uncomfortably. “His purse was intact, he was wearing an emerald ring, and his horse wandered back to the Ridgeway stables. But his assailant might have been interrupted before he could complete the job.”
James frowned. He was a magistrate in Lincolnshire, so he knew the procedure. One could not ignore any theory, but he suspected that Isaac had followed a blatantly erroneous trail. A fight, binding, multiple wounds, lack of robbery. Why had he entertained thoughts of a highwayman for more than half a minute? “You know he was killed by a personal enemy, so who wanted him dead?”
“No one local,” he insisted. “John had just returned after a six-month absence. That is a long time to hold a grudge. But since no one saw the culprit, I have no way to trace him.”
“Are you sure John did not meet anyone after arriving home? He could incite fury faster than any man I know.”
Isaac nodded. “No one called at Ridgeway, and John did not leave the estate until he went out to meet his killer. The servants would hardly lie about that.”
“What do you think happened?”
“I think the culprit is from London, but I have no way of tracing him. No one is willing to hire a runner.”
He would, but this wasn’t the time to push. He was not yet convinced the killer was an outsider. “Are there no hints of local involvement?” he demanded, watching Isaac’s eyes as the man again shifted. “Not a single rumor?”
“Well…” He sighed. “A new story started about six weeks ago – which makes it highly suspect – but it might contain a grain of truth.”
James waited in increasing impatience while Isaac ordered his thoughts. Nursing a killing fury for six months was usually difficult, but not when John was involved. Every day James found new evidence of vindictiveness. John had saved all his childhood grudges, brooding over them year after year. How many had he avenged once he gained the title? Every victim would be a potential killer.
