by Allison Lane
Time to change the subject. “Mrs. Ruddy seemed more morose than usual when I called at the shop this morning.”
“Poor woman.” Miss Hardaway shook her head as she refreshed their tea and slipped another biscuit to her dog. “It has been a year since their daughter died. The date brought it all back.”
“Of course. It doesn’t seem that long ago.”
“For any of them. Influenza is a curse. Polly Sharpe still hasn’t recovered her strength.”
Didn’t want to. But Mary kept the observation to herself. Miss Sharpe was another spinster. Since her failing memory couldn’t compete with Miss Hardaway’s nose for gossip, she drew attention to herself through ill health.
Miss Hardaway’s eyes suddenly gleamed. She cocked her head to one side, a sure sign she had a new tale. “Mrs. Bridwell was quite upset with Lord Northrup yesterday.”
This was the first Mary had heard of it, though that was hardly surprising. Justin had spent nearly every waking hour with Fernbeck since his return. He had shocked the tenants by personally helping with repairs and by working in the fields cutting hay. Was he trying to prove that he was different from Frederick, or did he really enjoy manual labor? She had not found an opportunity to ask, for he kept to his military habit of rising at dawn, so she saw him only at dinner. And he had not discussed estate matters with her since they had gone over the books together. “So what is Mrs. Bridwell upset about now?” she asked.
“He succumbed to heathenish influences in India. She admonished him quite sharply – just in front of the chandler’s shop, it was. He denied everything, practically calling her a liar to her face, though he could hardly do otherwise after attending services last Sunday.”
“I wonder what bothered her so.”
Miss Hardaway sniffed. “I couldn’t hear all of it, for I was talking to Lady Carworth at the time—” Her face twisted in frustration. “But she demanded that he speak with the vicar, then prattled on and on about Jezebels and Baals and false prophets. He responded with something about King David sleeping on hillsides while tending sheep, though I’ve no idea why.”
“Ah!” Mary laughed. “She discovered that he sleeps with his windows open.”
“He’ll make himself ill.”
“At the moment he is reveling in England’s cool air, though I doubt he will continue the practice once summer ends. But he hated the heavy heat of Indian nights. The servants are appalled, but I see no harm in it for now.”
“The devil walks at night and can enter through open windows.”
“I don’t believe the devil relies on carelessness. The previous earl did not sleep with open windows – or did his servants suppress that fact?”
“No.” Miss Hardaway relaxed. “As usual, Mrs. Bridwell is finding fault. She has been positively bursting with excitement now that she has four new gentlemen to admonish. She chided Sir Edwin this very morning for his unnatural interest in barbarians.”
“The Romans.” Mary smiled.
“And she is appalled over Mr. Crenshaw’s reputation.”
The rest of the call passed pleasantly. Miss Hardaway vented her own pique at the vicar’s wife. Mary let her talk as she mulled the new information about John.
A note that drew him to his death put another face on the incident. Perhaps the writer had been an unsavory business associate here to report a problem. John had not been a man to accept failure, which explained the fight and accounted for the murder once the partner had won. John would have retaliated for the ignominy of defeat. Or a conspirator might have decided that John made an uncomfortable ally. But how did that tie in with a local killer? And he had to be local, she admitted. James had also been attacked.
Taking leave of Miss Hardaway, she turned Acorn’s head for home. But she had barely left Ridgefield when she met James.
“Quizzing the gossips?” he asked.
How had he known? But she merely nodded. “I heard something interesting about John. And a rumor about you.”
He raised his brows and waited.
“The rumor claims that you were quite friendly with Napoleon and might still be working for him.”
“Surely you cannot believe that.” His voice cracked, the shock in his eyes proving his innocence. It was rapidly overwhelmed by fury.
“I don’t know you,” she pointed out, wondering what he might say.
“I’m the same man I was before,” he protested.
She merely stared.
He inhaled twice to bring himself under control. “I met the Corsican monster at a reception shortly after he was declared Consul for Life. He made a point of personally greeting all the English who were in attendance – several dozen of us, for many flocked to Paris during the Peace of Amiens, you might recall. I found him charming on the surface, but calculating beneath. It was obvious that he was only biding his time until he felt ready to attack again.”
“Bridwell also claims that you remained in France long after the peace collapsed.”
“No. I was in Vienna by then. Once we heard about the decrees against Englishmen, I moved on to Naples. Austria has changed allegiance more than once since this affair started, and I didn’t want to take any chances.”
“So who would know you had met Napoleon?”
“John.”
“Why would he care?”
“I no longer try to explain his actions. He must have delegated someone to follow me when I left Ridgeway.”
“Of course!”
He raised his brows.
“When John fired the staff, he kept one man on – your father’s valet.”
“It makes sense. Rigby – his own valet – would have done anything for him, so delegating him to follow me is not surprising. Morrell was the obvious man to keep. Without a reference, he was unemployable. He could not afford to retire, for Father had left him only a modest legacy. And John hated him.”
“Why?”
“More than once Morrell divulged the truth when John was blaming me for his own escapades. Father never questioned Morrell’s word, even when it implicated John.”
“Poor Morrell. No wonder he killed himself.”
“What?” James blanched, his sudden fists jerking his horse off the path.
“He jumped from the tower a year later.”
“Another sin on John’s shoulders. I just discovered that he impersonated me, making me appear equally cruel.”
“You didn’t know that?” She pulled Acorn to a halt, her mouth hanging open in shock.
“How could I? I wasn’t here.”
Why had she spoken aloud? She shifted uncomfortably, wishing herself elsewhere.
“What are you hiding, now?” he demanded.
“Nothing. I was just amazed at your ignorance. He has impersonated you for as long as I can remember.”
“Why did you never tell me?”
“I thought you knew. You must have known. Only the most credulous could have fallen for his act, for he wasn’t all that good at it. I never had any trouble telling you apart.”
But some had been fooled, she recalled. John had tricked the Adams brothers half a dozen times before she had revealed the truth. And her father, who was far from stupid, had been confused more than once. So it must have been something else that gave him away. His soul, perhaps? She had always sensed the character beneath the face, not even needing sight to tell the difference.
He sighed. “You are one of the few then. Most people accepted his word about his identity. And he deliberately sought to destroy me. Spreading lies – like the spy tale – wasn’t enough to satisfy him.” He explained his conversation with Cotter.
“Calumny was one of his specialties,” she agreed, recalling the many stories John had spread about her. “But it means the servants will never trust you.”
“Why should they matter more than tenants and neighbors?”
“They may know something vital. John was unexpectedly summoned to meet a man on the day of his death. He attacked one of the footmen,
demanding to know when and how the note had arrived, but the boy knew nothing.” She repeated Miss Hardaway’s story.
“Who was it?”
“Robby. His brother works for Miss Hardaway. She believes John’s killer followed him here to repay him for double crossing him in some illegal scheme.”
“It won’t do. That attack on me was connected.”
“I know, but arguing with Miss Hardaway would have revealed that. Yet it is unlikely that John was deeply involved with any local wrongdoers, for he was rarely here. Of course, he might have stumbled across another man’s crime.”
“How ironic if he died for something he didn’t do. Did Miss Hardaway mention the summons to Isaac?”
She nodded. “But he dismissed the notion – this was during his search for the mythical highwayman. He never spoke of it again, but she did hear that no note was found.”
“I will look into it.” He sighed. “That explains what he was doing on that road, and why the killer expected him. But it makes it less likely the staff knows anything useful.” He recounted his morning explorations and his hope that someone had overheard John making an assignation.
“So we haven’t made any real progress.”
“Yes, we have. Robby may know more. In particular, he may have understood some of John’s mutterings. And the killer is definitely local – no outsider would know Brewster’s Ridge. We just don’t have a name yet.”
She nodded.
“I tried to find out who was at the Lusty Maiden the night Northrup died, but no one remembers. The usual crowd includes merchants, servants, tenants, and members of the gentry, but until Northrup’s body was found, nothing had seemed different from any other night. There were no arguments, no unpleasantness. I don’t want to press or the questions will raise suspicions.”
“I doubt anything will turn up. If there had been anything odd, rumors would have started long ago.”
“I don’t know. Memory can be a funny thing. Sometimes hindsight offers a new perspective on events. Remember Miss Crabbe? She could cite chapter and verse of every mistake made by every resident in Ridgefield for the previous fifty years.”
“True. And wasn’t she proud of it! I always held my breath when she came to call for fear I would do something awful. She would have made sure every person in town heard about it.”
“But she was not above admitting that she’d been wrong. She had one story about old Barnes that made his face turn red every time he heard it, but after Tate’s wife died, Tate admitted that the fault had actually been his. Miss Crabbe apologized very publicly to Barnes and even claimed she should have figured out the truth for herself. In reviewing her memories, she was able to point out the evidence that she had misinterpreted.”
“I don’t recall that.”
“You wouldn’t. I was only ten or eleven at the time, and she rarely mentioned it again. Too bad she is not still here. She could have solved this mystery in no time. What happened to her?”
She shook her head. “Dropsy – or so the doctor claimed. Her legs swelled to twice their usual size, making it impossible to walk. It was almost a relief when she passed on.”
“How about Mr. Morwyn?” he asked, naming an elderly man he had called on regularly during his last visit home.
“He died about six months after you left.”
“Did John annoy him?”
“No. He died quite peacefully in his sleep, leaving his man a large enough legacy that he could retire. Remember how he always wanted to have his own garden?”
He nodded. “I’m glad for him, and more than pleased that Morwyn lived peacefully to the end.”
She frowned as their horses entered the forest. “Did you expect John to bother others besides your tenants and servants?”
“I had wondered. He seemed to single out those I cared about.”
She shook her head. “I doubt he even knew who they were. Just as few people ever discussed his deeds, no one ever told him anything. Unless he had delegated someone to watch your every move, he would have had no idea where you went or who you saw.”
“He knew about you.”
She shivered at the implication, but thrust her sudden pleasure aside. Of course John had known of their friendship. He had kept a close eye on her activities for years. But she offered only a bland, “That was different.”
“Good. I feared that I had directed John’s attention to the old people. I am not sure I could live with the guilt if he had harassed them.”
“Rest easy. He left them alone. John cared nothing for others, so he wouldn’t have understood your concern. Visiting the vicarage explained your trips to town. He never knew the pleasure you brought to people like Miss Crabbe and Mr. Morwyn just by listening to their tales. And I know you helped several of them with money.”
“It was no hardship. Miss Crabbe had me laughing every time I called.”
She smiled, but reminiscing about more innocent times was dangerous, building warmth and rapport that could only hurt her in the end. “Are your friends staying long?” she asked, changing the subject.
“As long as I do. Why?”
“I do not wish to see my sisters hurt when they leave. Flirtation may make their stay more pleasant, but they need to understand the effect.”
“I will speak to them, but I suspect they are both serious.”
She frowned. “Can they be trusted?”
“I believe so, though you will have to make your own decision. You don’t trust me, so how can you accept my assessment of others.”
It was such an astute observation that she stiffened, startling her horse.
But you do trust him, whispered a voice. He is different. He’s always been different. You just admitted that recognizing character allowed you to tell them apart. If their characters had been the same, you would not have seen through John’s impersonations.
It’s an act, she insisted, wheeling Acorn down a side path to ride alone. James let her go, further confusing her. Men were always kind and considerate when they wanted something. James wanted information, but she sensed an edginess about him that hinted at less acceptable desires.
And how did she know that she had always told them apart? she fumed as she ducked a low-hanging branch. Perhaps she could only recognize them when an impersonation was intended to tease. A serious attempt might have fooled her.
You knew serious, countered the voice. John wasn’t teasing that day. Remember? James is real. Trust me. He’s not like the others. How does his touch make you feel?
He only wanted to seduce her, she insisted, ignoring the warmth welling in her heart.
Then why did he let you move away from him at the picnic? Even when you grabbed him, he did nothing.
She cursed the voice. But James’s restraint only proved that he had patience. She couldn’t believe him. She couldn’t. All men lied. Experience had taught her too well.
But she did believe him, she admitted as she dismounted outside the Northfield stable. And that was dangerous. She wanted to touch him, which was even more dangerous, because she knew he would hurt her. Physically. Mentally. Emotionally.
And it was already too late. The pain hovered, ready to pounce.
* * * *
James watched Mary gallop away. There was more here than even her usual distrust. And he would bet his entire fortune that John was involved.
He forced himself to sit quietly until she was out of sight. If he moved too soon, he would follow her. He wanted her – and not casually. So how patient must he be to win her?
He was still reeling over her revelations. John had impersonated him since childhood. It put a different face on his father’s apparent capriciousness. He had believed in James’s guilt, because the victims had believed him guilty. So it had not been laziness. Weakness, yes, for he had blindly clung to his fantasy of John’s worthiness. But he had not struck out in uncaring ignorance.
A knot in his chest unraveled, revealing just how much pain his father’s apparent disin
terest had caused.
And deep down, his father must have questioned whether James had truly been guilty. Why else had he drawn up that will? Had he discovered the truth about Cotter’s dog? James had sworn he’d been at Isaac’s at the time, though no one had listened. Or perhaps Miss Crabbe had mentioned that he’d been in town during the incident involving Justin Northrup’s pony.
The last of his guilt faded into oblivion. John had been bad from childhood. The excuses, the second chances, his efforts to remain in the background had all been useless. John had victimized him all his life, but he had been too blind to see it. Yes, John had chosen his friends as targets, but only to derive extra pleasure from his usual activities by twisting a knife in his brother’s heart. The truth was simple. John had hated him – not for anything he had done, not for any flaw in his character, but merely because he existed.
Stupid! Why had he not seen it earlier?
Now that he knew Rigby had followed him abroad, he could see John’s continued meddling. No one had ever explained his odd encounter with the Parisian footpad or that near-fatal accident in Austria. Had John believed the money would return to Ridgeway if James died?
If so, he must have realized the truth, for no more accidents had plagued him. Maybe John had paid a visit to his solicitor. Bradshaw had known that James was abroad, but his clerk might have produced a copy of the will he had revised before leaving.
Had Rigby been responsible for that contretemps in Naples? Or the problems in Bombay? It no longer mattered. He had done well in Bombay despite that original setback. And he no longer had to fear John. He could concentrate on wooing Mary.
She was fighting him – as this latest escape proved – but he’d taken another small step today. So how should he approach her tomorrow?
He turned toward the Court. Calling on Turnby in the morning would give him an excuse to see Mary in the afternoon. In the meantime, he had to interview Robby.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
James followed Turnby into the stable office. It had taken some fancy talking to get him this far, and he suspected that the groom had agreed only to avoid assaulting a lord where they might be seen.
