by Allison Lane
But that had not been the worst insult. By the time they were three-and-twenty, their father had been fretting over John’s activities, even while excusing most of the London gossip as wild oats. James had suggested placing John’s inheritance in a trust so that youthful profligacy would not damage the estate in the event that John got the title before he settled down. The earl had dismissed the idea, but someone had overheard the conversation and sent word to John. That was what had sent him hurtling back to Ridgeway, where he found that James had convinced the earl to adopt agricultural reform. Meg Price had been ravished the next day. So, in a way, he had been responsible.
He shuddered.
Only now did he admit that a trust would never have worked. John had not been sowing wild oats. He had not been misguided or immature. Time had not made him more responsible. Even their father’s mollycoddling and eagerness to overlook John’s failings had not ruined his character.
John’s problem had been far more basic. He had needed to be the best, the most powerful, the most successful. Facing a mirror image of himself every day of his life had eaten at him. James’s existence had proved that John was not unique. There was another man who shared his looks, his talents, his breeding. A man who had earned widespread respect and genuine affection – two things John had never experienced.
He shuddered.
John had been more depraved than James had ever suspected. His problems had arisen from his own character; his actions had been taken by his own choice.
James ran frustrated fingers through his hair.
But even John’s willfulness could not excuse murder. And so he had to find the killer. Justice was more important than the victim’s character. A man who could kill once would find it easier to kill a second time, and for less cause. James had called enough tragedy down on his dependents. He could not be responsible for more.
He returned to the drawing room and joined a whist table.
“Lady Northrup hosts delightful parties,” said Lady Carworth while dealing the first hand.
“For one of her reputation,” said Mrs. Bridwell with a snort.
“Martha—” began Lady Carworth.
“You know very well she is no better than she should be,” interrupted Mrs. Bridwell. “I have heard revolting tales of her escapades. Estimates make her familiar with half the men in this shire.”
“I doubt it,” protested Sir Richard stoutly. “I’ve seen no evidence to support those tales, and I know for a fact that many of them are false.”
“Ha!” Mrs. Bridwell pursed her lips as she arranged her cards.
“Be honest, ma’am,” he urged her. “Every one of the stories you so gleefully cite predates your arrival in Ridgefield. There has not been a single new tale in eight years.”
“That doesn’t make them false.”
“Where did you hear them?” asked James.
“Here and there.”
“Discounting anything my brother might have said, for he delighted in prevarication, who else claims knowledge of misbehavior? I know of no tales before I left.”
“There were a few,” claimed Lady Carworth. “Though only in town. I doubt they would have reached Ridgeway. I believe the first surfaced in 1800.”
“She would have been barely sixteen then,” he protested.
“Old enough,” insisted Mrs. Bridwell. “And why else would her husband all but abandon her?” Her triumphant smile made him long to wring her neck.
“Spade lead,” said Sir Richard, determinedly turning the topic. “I find it distasteful to disparage one’s hostess in her own drawing room.”
James followed suit, but his mind was not on the game. If the stories had started in 1800, then he was not responsible, for he had paid her little heed until two years later. So why had John turned on her? He had to be behind them. She had sworn that he was responsible for stealing her reputation. Which meant John had been making her life miserable for more years than James cared to contemplate.
Mrs. Bridwell continued to mutter imprecations under her breath. Mary was her favorite target, though her barbs skewered nearly everyone in the room. Since her eyes turned to him so often, her performance had to be for his benefit. Surprisingly, not one criticism touched on John.
Her attitude hardly became the wife of a vicar, raising new questions. The parish was under the earl’s control. Already he suspected that the vicar was grossly inept. So why had John kept him on? The Bridwells were hardly assets—
Which answered the question, he admitted, hiding his glee as he trumped Mrs. Bridwell’s ace. They were another plague John had inflicted on the district. But their loyalty to John so long after his death was odd – and gave him yet another thread to investigate.
Mrs. Bridwell uttered more self-righteous criticism.
James grimaced. Didn’t she understand that her husband’s future rested in his hands?
CHAPTER FIVE
“The evening was quite a success,” said Amelia once the last guest had departed. Justin had accompanied an old friend home, so the girls joined Mary in her sitting room. “Mrs. Bridwell grumbled, of course, but that was only to be expected.”
“You enjoyed yourself, then?” asked Mary.
Amelia nodded, settling onto a couch with a sigh of relief. She had danced for hours.
Caroline was too excited to sit and continued to twirl about the room. “Wonderful night. I danced nd dncd n dncd…”
“Slow down, Caro,” urged Mary. “You charmed everyone, but you are letting the excitement carry you away.”
“I know.” She inhaled deeply, then perched on a chair. “And I made some mistakes. Lord Ridgeway couldn’t wait to get away from me.”
“What happened?”
Caroline clenched her hands. “He is big and intimidating – and he scowls. I do not like gentleman who tower over me.”
“Did he say anything to disturb you?” asked Amelia.
“N-no. But I could not slow my tongue.”
“It is all right, Caro. One needn’t charm everyone,” Mary reminded her. “Did anyone else give you trouble?”
“Not really. I stumbled a bit with Sir Edwin because I was still upset from Lord Ridgeway, but he did not seem to mind. He is a fascinating gentleman.”
“And steady,” observed Amelia.
Caro smiled. “He spent quite half the evening with me, talking and dancing.”
“Was he in London this past Season?” asked Mary.
“Yes, but he did not enjoy it – except for the time he spent at the British Museum with their expert on Roman remains. Sir Edwin’s estate contains what might be traces of an ancient settlement, so he is anxious to return and resume his hunt. He also needs to deal with his young brother, who was sent down from Eton for locking a dozen geese in his tutor’s rooms.” She giggled.
“Being sent down is no laughing matter,” Amelia reminded her. “He should not have disclosed such ignominy, especially to someone he barely knows.”
“Why?” Caroline appeared puzzled. “No harm was done. Prescott will return to school next term, and that tutor is dull, stupid, and bad-tempered – or so Sir Edwin recalls from his own school days.”
“I expect he is, but that does not justify breaking the rules,” put in Mary.
Caro scowled. “Perhaps, but I cannot condemn the boy. His prank was harmless – not at all like those Frederick favored. Remember the time he locked you in the dairy, Amelia? And that ghost caper, when he dressed up like Mad Cousin William, terrorizing a maid so badly that she broke a leg trying to escape?”
“And Frederick laughed.” Amelia’s eyes had hardened.
“Sir Edwin would never risk hurting anyone. Nor would Prescott.”
Mary frowned at her vehemence. She had not expected Caroline to form a tendre for the scholarly baronet. Sir Edwin was quiet and calm, far more like Amelia than the excitable Caroline. But they had passed much of the evening together.
“Nor would Mr. Crenshaw,” admitted Amelia. “I should not h
ave criticized you, for we carried on a similar conversation. Mr. Crenshaw earned a reputation for playing pranks during his school days, though none were spiteful.”
Mary nearly gasped at the warmth glowing in Amelia’s eyes.
“But your assessment is correct,” Amelia continued. “Not all pranks are alike. Frederick’s were always cruel.”
“Mr. Crenshaw’s weren’t?” asked Mary skeptically.
“Not those he mentioned. Even the one that got him sent down for a term left the headmaster laughing. I found him fascinating.”
“Perhaps, but tread warily,” warned Mary. “A gentleman would never tell tales that might call his character into question, so you do not know that all his pranks were harmless. And he is friendly with Lord Ridgeway, who has yet to prove he is not like his brother.”
“Despite reducing the rents for all his tenants?” Caroline’s voice had intensified. “And he will collect no rents at all this year.”
“I have heard nothing of that.”
“Lady Carworth mentioned it. He only made the announcement today.”
“I am delighted for Ridgeway’s tenants, but that does not negate my concerns,” insisted Mary, suppressing the warmth creeping into her heart. Why had James said nothing when she’d mentioned Ridgeway’s appalling rents? “Sir Richard has met Mr. Crenshaw several times in London and reports that the man is widely known as a rake. He might be welcomed into society’s drawing rooms, but I would not take his words to heart.”
“He considers me nicer than the young ladies gracing London this Season,” Amelia said stubbornly.
“That is precisely what I mean.” Mary sighed. “Amelia, a rake flirts with every female he meets, paying her pretty compliments that puff her vanity. It is as natural as breathing. I doubt he plans to seduce you, for your breeding would then force him into marriage, but he will certainly try to lure you into indiscretions. Even an innocent-seeming kiss would ruin you if Mrs. Bridwell or Miss Hardaway heard of it.”
“He wasn’t flirting,” insisted Amelia. “I can tell the difference between sincerity and flattery.”
“With the gentlemen you have known all your life, but you have little experience with London beaux. Do you recall what happened with Charlotte McCafferty?”
She reluctantly nodded.
“I don’t,” said Caroline.
“It was five years ago, so you may not have heard about it.”
“Charlotte was empty-headed and silly,” said Amelia. “So when a London gentleman looked her way, she looked back, meeting him secretly and allowing him too many liberties. But he was merely amusing himself during a duty visit to his grandparents. Naturally, she heard nothing from him once he left. Anyone with sense had understood his purpose from the beginning.”
“Be careful about casting aspersions,” warned Mary. “Especially when your information comes from Mrs. Bridwell.” She stared until the girl nodded. “While it is true that Charlotte lacked education beyond the finer points of manners and fashion, she was quite astute about people. Many of those who loudly condemned Lord Willis after he left had doted on him during his visit. In truth, he was a charming rogue who could talk water into flowing uphill. Charlotte believed every word he said – not because she was stupid or credulous, but because he made every word sound like gospel. And she had no experience with a manner quite common among London beaux.”
“But—”
Mary ignored Amelia’s interruption. “I am not accusing Mr. Crenshaw of being another Lord Willis. All I ask is that you be careful. I would hate to see your heart bruised because he chose you as his country diversion.”
“What happened to Charlotte?” asked Caroline.
“No one is sure. She left not long after he did, supposedly to live with an ailing aunt. Few believed the tale, but nothing has been heard of her since.”
“Why warn me and not Caroline?” demanded Amelia, ignoring their exchange. “Do you believe I am more likely to make a fool of myself?”
Mary blanched. “That was unfair, Amelia. You must both beware. I only mentioned Mr. Crenshaw because we know he is a rake, but Sir Edwin could be just as dangerous. We know nothing about him beyond his odd friendship with Ridgeway.”
“Odd?” echoed Caroline.
“They would seem to have nothing in common – which proves how little we know about any of them. Perhaps their interest is genuine, but we must be wary. They have spent their lives in sophisticated circles. Sir Edwin has postponed an undertaking he is anxious to start in order to visit the earl. Sir Richard swears that Mr. Crenshaw usually visits Brighton this time of year – again, proving that he gave up his own pleasure to come here. And we know little about Ridgeway. How did he pass his years abroad besides dabbling in trade while in India? All I ask is that you guard your hearts until you know them better. Connection to Ridgeway is hardly a recommendation.”
“Sir Edwin asked if he could call tomorrow,” said Caroline.
“So did Mr. Crenshaw.”
“Very well. They will be welcome. But you must promise that you will never make an unchaperoned assignation with either of them.”
Caroline and Amelia readily agreed, then left for their own rooms. But Mary stayed, her forehead creased in thought. She had hoped the girls could interest at least one of the gentlemen, but now that they had, she feared it had been a mistake to invite any of them. Perhaps she should have taken Justin’s warnings to heart.
James was no longer the man she remembered – if he had ever been. Why had he accepted John’s lies without checking the facts for himself? She had thought him smarter than that and far less reckless. Nor would the old James have accused her so rudely, interrupting a gathering in her own home to do so. It made those tales of an Indian mistress and child seem more believable.
She huddled deeper into her chair.
His accusations had revived the pain of John’s worst lies. People were so credulous – and James most of all, she concluded sadly. John was the last man she would have allowed to touch her. Intimacy with anyone was repugnant, but John’s very presence had made her skin crawl since the day she had witnessed him bludgeoning a kitten. She had been six.
But James had always seemed different – kind, generous, and willing to help anyone in need, without the condescension his father employed on those few occasions when he had played benevolent lord of the manor.
James had genuinely cared. He had paid to fix the church roof, found new buyers for the potter’s wares, rescued two of Payne’s sheep that had been swept away during a spring flood – and Payne had not even been a Ridgeway tenant.
So his accusations hurt, even more so because she had not expected such vitriol from him. He was not the self-righteous Mrs. Bridwell or the disdainful Lady Carworth. He had once been her friend.
But that had been many years ago, and now she had to wonder if he had ever been a friend. Her admonitions to the girls had breached the ramparts surrounding her own memories. Had she ever truly known James, or had she exaggerated every trait that set him apart from John?
They had seen little of James for several years before his last visit, for he’d spent most of his school breaks with friends, then moved to rooms in London. Only a month had elapsed between his return home and his father’s death.
How naïve she had been in those days. James had grown to full manhood during his stay in London. The craggy face that intimidated when twisted into John’s habitual frown could soften breathtakingly when influenced by James’s crooked smiles. He had cropped his hair to a Grecian cap of dark curls according to the fashion of the day. And his laughter had been like a fresh breeze blowing through the neighborhood. Was it any wonder that his flirtations had turned her head?
What an idiot she had been. First with George, then with James.
Sighing, she wandered to the window and gazed up at the stars. She hadn’t thought of George in years.
The son of another vicar, he had been visiting a school friend before assuming a post as cura
te to a Leicestershire rector. She had been flattered when he chose to court her – and a little wary. Curates had minuscule incomes and could rarely support wives. But he had a small inheritance that would supplement his earnings until he found his own living.
They had discussed marriage more than once. But he had never spoken to her father. Then he’d left without a word, bidding his hosts farewell a full month early.
She had been devastated. Then furious. If he had suffered a reverse of fortune or a change of heart, the least he could have done was to explain it to her. It had to be one or the other. No message had summoned him away. No disagreements had occurred. Ten years later, she was still baffled.
And hurt. His defection had injured more than her feelings. Everyone in town had expected a betrothal. When he left so abruptly, the gossip-mongers assumed she had driven him off. She might have weathered the storm if she’d admitted turning him down, but lying had never occurred to her. So they’d concluded that her virtue had been compromised, letting their imaginations run wild over her supposed transgressions.
Her tarnished reputation had never fully recovered. The sly looks and snide remarks had made appearing in public a chore. Yet locking herself in her room where she could grieve in private had not been an option. Too many parish duties fell to her.
Thus James’s flirtation had been welcome. It had quieted the gossip and added sparkle to her days.
Perhaps he had been trying to help her. That had been the effect of his attentions at first. Or perhaps he had been amusing himself. But he had not considered the inevitable consequences. When he left – which he had done within the month, slipping away without a word, just like George – his desertion had added fuel to the rumors, subjecting her to vicious attacks that still echoed in area memories. Everyone assumed that they had been conducting an affair, so his departure had cast further calumny on her reputation. Even worse, the suspicions that he had brought about his father’s death also hurt her, for they were inextricably linked in the public mind.
