by Allison Lane
“No.” He could not erase every fear, he conceded. “In fact, his father has offered him a seat in Commons. But Amelia seems a levelheaded young lady whose training will see her through every challenge.”
He deliberately introduced the idea, because Mary had been responsible for that training. He suspected that many of her fears mirrored her own concerns. She did not feel comfortable even in local society, so she assumed that Amelia shared that unease.
“You have a point,” she conceded when he dared mention this conjecture. “But not entirely. Neither of the girls is at ease in company. Frederick was not well liked, and my reputation is tarnished. Because I raised them, people question their morals. And gossip being what it is, the rumors will carry far beyond Shropshire. A single incident could ruin her in town.”
“But Harry’s reputation will protect her,” he reminded her.
“Destroy her, more like.”
“Mary.” He sighed. “London society is not Ridgefield, and men have always been judged by different standards than women, even here.” He caught her glare and returned a rueful smile. “I agree that it is unfair, but that is the way of the world.”
She nodded.
“John was despicable by any standard, but Harry and other young bucks are beloved by all.” He met her gaze. “Yes, he conducted several affairs, but only with ladies of a certain class.”
“Courtesans?” She glared.
“Willing companions,” he corrected her gently. “Society expects such escapades from single gentlemen. They look askance on those who eschew them, for a gentleman is supposed to bring experience to his marriage bed. Harry never knowingly bedded a married woman, though society would have shrugged if he had, so long as the meetings were discreet.”
She gasped.
“I know that your upbringing was different, but the ton does not always follow church teachings. All that matters is that Harry is honorable. He does not seduce innocents; he does not fleece greenlings; he does not lie or cheat.”
“So a gentleman is welcomed as long as his adultery is discreet and his fleecing confined to men old enough to know better?”
“All too true,” he answered before he spotted the twinkle in her eye. He laughed. “You are far more knowing than you let on. Many gentlemen have flexible ideas about what constitutes dishonor. But my friends and I take a literal view. Marriage vows include fidelity. Breaking them is dishonorable. Harry would never do so, which is what you really wanted to know, isn’t it?”
She nodded, but he knew there was more, for other fears shadowed her eyes. He ignored her uneasiness about moving into aristocratic society. That could be dealt with later, but this might be a good time to give her something to ponder.
“Harry will be gentle with her, Mary. He would never hurt her, for allowing fear into his bed would reduce the pleasure for both of them.”
She snorted, though she tried to cover the sound with a cough.
“I am serious, Mary. Intimacy is beautiful, bringing enjoyment to both parties. It is true that a brutal man can make it painful, but inflicting pain changes the nature of the contact to assault. Think about it.”
“Very well.”
“Good. Have you learned anything new since we last spoke?”
“Nothing. But contemplation has forced me to admit that you are probably right about Frederick.
“That he was murdered?”
She nodded. “Justin talked to Squire Church yesterday. The evidence for accident seems conclusive at first glance, but it does not stand up under scrutiny.”
“Did he notice marks on the road?”
“He didn’t look. He found a man with a broken neck in the bottom of a quarry, so he decided the fall had killed him. Frederick’s clothes were muddy despite landing on bare rock, thus he must have fallen from his horse onto the muddy road. Drunkenness explained how he wandered over the edge.”
“But?” She had accepted murder, so there had to be more.
“The fall was a straight drop – no projections to snag him on the way down, for the quarry wall undercuts the road at that point. He did not roll once he landed on his right side, yet his left temple carried a wound.” She stared at his head where he had absently shoved the hair back, exposing his own cut. “One could make a case that he struck his head when he fell from his horse, but the tops of both boots were full of mud.”
“Somebody pulled him to the edge.”
“I believe so, and it must have been the same man who attacked you. Since your only provocation was asking about John’s death, the three incidents have to be related.”
He nodded. “I also spoke with Isaac, and got a more detailed description of John’s injuries. They included a blow to one temple – which was why Isaac assumed John had been overpowered by a larger, stronger assailant.”
“But it was a rock, so the motive must relate to something John and Frederick both did. But that is more likely to involve people from London. They came here rarely and never remained long.”
“Nonetheless, the culprit is here. John fled after Frederick’s death, returning to London. Why would a London killer wait to dispatch him until after he had returned to Ridgeway? Besides, yesterday’s attack removes the last doubt.”
Mary’s heart leaped into her throat. Another attempt? Heat and cold washed over her in waves.
“What happened?” Somehow, she kept her voice steady, though she had to set down her cup lest her hands betray their shaking. She wanted to leap up and examine him for wounds.
“While I was visiting Ridgefield yesterday, someone sawed halfway through the axle of my phaeton. If I had been speeding as gentlemen are wont to do, it would have broken on that curve by the quarry.”
She shivered. “How long were you in town?”
“Most of the day.”
“That does not help much, then. It was market day. Anyone could have been there.”
“And probably was. But the note that drew John to his death must have come from someone he trusted – or someone who impersonated someone he trusted.”
“I doubt it.” She met his eyes straight on, then nearly lost track of her thoughts as heat again coiled inside. “He would have invited a trusted friend to the Court. I believe he went out because he did not trust the man. The note made him so furious that he intended to settle matters his own way, possibly by killing its writer when he reached the meeting site.”
He frowned. “It is possible. He was clearly ambushed.”
“There is an abandoned shepherd’s hut on Brewster’s Ridge a quarter mile past where his body was found. Perhaps that was the meeting place.” She sighed. “I wish I knew what the note said. Maybe the man was blackmailing him, or had threatened blackmail to draw him out.”
“You have a devious mind.”
She would have taken offense, but he had spoken absently, still in shock over admitting that John might have plotted murder. Learning such truths about a brother was bad enough. Being a twin must make it worse. Twins were supposed to be close.
“Maybe I’m wrong,” she said, more to console him than because she believed it.
“No, it fits too well, and places Sir Tristan at the top of my suspect list.”
“Why?”
“Rumor claims that John debauched Sir Tristan’s daughter. John was killed midway between Ridgeway and Sir Tristan’s estate.”
“I never believed the rumors about Julia. John had been gone for two months before they started.”
“So you think he was innocent?”
“Of that charge, yes. Why would she hide it so long?”
“Maybe she discovered she was increasing.”
“That’s a thought. Or perhaps they had an affair, but she claimed rape when her father discovered she was no longer innocent. Or she might have had an affair with someone else, but cited John to protect her lover – everyone knew he had a roving eye and would resort to force if seduction failed. Or her lover might have started the rumors because she spurned him.”
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He sighed. “You can think of far too many possibilities. A lady should not know so much about the sordid side of life.”
“Why? Ignorance makes one vulnerable. If I had been less naïve in my youth, I would have done a better job of avoiding him.” She bit off her words, but it was too late to recall them.
“Did John force you?”
His voice had turned dangerous, revealing a fury she could not explain.
“No. He tried to seduce me, but I refused.”
“And he just dropped it?”
“He was young enough at the time to retain a few scruples, though I had to strike him before he accepted my reluctance. But he never forgave me for turning him down.”
“Thus the lies he spread. How old were you?”
“Sixteen.” She shrugged.
Back in 1800. Damnation. “I wish I had known.”
“Why? Short of killing him, you could have done nothing without hurting me worse. Don’t you understand him yet?”
Pain squeezed his eyes shut. “Yes, I understand him far too well. You bested him, something he would never have forgiven. His original lies hurt you but did not ruin your life. So he drove off your suitor with worse stories, which added credence to his earlier tales. And he ordered the Bridwells to keep the stories alive. Did he have a hand in arranging your marriage?”
“No. Frederick’s guardian suggested that. He wanted the lot of them off his hands as quickly as possible. John did not learn of it until later. Then he took Frederick under his wing.”
“Frederick and John would have become friends and allies anyway,” he pointed out. “They were too much alike.”
“Enough. There is another problem with Sir Tristan,” she said, ruthlessly returning to business, though she should have realized ten years ago that John had driven George away. It was so obvious. “The killer struck down Frederick as well. But no rumor connects him with Julia.”
“Perhaps not, but it would not have been the first time they’d shared a victim.” He snapped his mouth shut, proving that he had not meant to reveal that.
“I don’t need protection. After seven years as his wife, nothing surprises me.” She sighed. “But you are ignoring the killer’s choice of weapons. Rocks and knives are hardly aristocratic tools. Wouldn’t Sir Tristan have used a pistol if he wished to dispatch John?”
“A pistol would call dueling to mind, casting suspicion on gentlemen with recent grievances. Surely he is smart enough to choose weapons that would point to the lower classes.”
“Then why kill John on a lane leading to his own estate?”
He frowned. “Perhaps he didn’t think of that since the murder was actually on Ridgeway land.”
“Don’t blind yourself as Squire Church does,” she warned. “If you have to twist the evidence to make it fit a theory, then the theory is invalid. It is more likely that the killer chose the spot because the rumors supplied a ready scapegoat. So who else do you suspect?”
He frowned, but allowed her to move on. “Walden. He could have easily lured John away from the house – inspecting an estate problem, for example. And he would be able to destroy the note if John had not already done so.”
“True, but he was a meek man. Why would he have harmed Frederick?”
“Perhaps it was an accident. He couldn’t express his rage at John, but it might have burst out at another target. He might have met Frederick near the quarry and found himself in a quarrel. If John learned the truth, he would have sought revenge. Or more likely, John would have used his knowledge to blackmail Walden into some other crime. Seeing endless repercussions over an unintentional death, Walden would have had to eliminate John.”
“Interesting theory. You also have a remarkable imagination. So why did John leave after Frederick’s death?”
He frowned. “Coincidence?”
“Unlikely. Even John should have attended the funeral of his closest friend, if only to encourage Bridwell to blame me for Frederick’s dissolute life. What about your tenants?”
“I had discounted them, for few of them can write and none well enough to impersonate a friend. But if someone was blackmailing him, then they will have to go back on the list.”
“But what had he done locally that might attract blackmail? He was rarely here. A blackmailer was more likely to come from elsewhere.”
He muttered what sounded like imprecations. “Perhaps John killed Frederick. That would explain his flight. And if someone saw him, they might consider blackmail.”
“Which puts everyone on the list, not just the tenants.”
“That is true anyway. There is not a resident for miles who doesn’t have a motive.”
“True. But which of them has the strength and accuracy to knock three men senseless with rocks?”
“Ouch!”
She raised her brows.
“I had not considered that particular skill, but it is crucial. I will have to inquire about who throws well. Yesterday’s incident eliminates no one, for anyone in town would have had access to my phaeton. It was parked in an out-of-the-way corner of the inn’s stable yard.”
“Speaking of the inn, what about Barnes? Both James and Frederick were there the night the fire started. And Barnes is both a champion quoits player and an accurate thrower. I saw him pick off a rabbit at twenty paces one day.”
“And he could tamper with my phaeton without drawing attention.”
She frowned. “Not really. He is rarely in the stable yard, so draws the eyes of every groom when he appears.”
Another theory gone. “Then there is Bridwell.”
“Did he have a complaint against Frederick?”
“I don’t know, but he has a big one against me. I sent notice to the bishop yesterday that I wished to replace Bridwell with your brother. If he heard about the letter, he could easily guess at its contents.”
Howard would be pleased to have his own living, for it would allow him to wed. But James’s voice deflected her thoughts, flowing over her like velvet and raising desire. Intimacy is beautiful… Warmth and yearning choked her breast. She wanted his arms around her, his lips on hers, his—
Don’t trust him! It’s a trick! But the yearning increased, reminding her that life was empty, nights were long, and she had no one who could share her thoughts. Once the girls wed, she would have no one at all.
His words no longer made sense. She was falling into the rich depths of his eyes. His voice wove spells that bound her, paralyzed her, froze her thoughts. The warmth burst into flames, consuming her body. Not until he moved did she escape.
“I will let you know if I learn anything new,” he promised, standing.
She automatically rose. “Thank you.” What else could she say? She had no idea what he proposed to do.
Her hand reached out, without thought. Smiling, he raised it to his lips, then bade her farewell. But his fingers lightly caressed her palm before he released her, weakening her knees. By the time she stiffened them, he was gone.
* * * *
James kept his face solemn until he was away from the Manor, then he laughed. He had her. She was firmly hooked. All he had to do now was reel her in.
He shifted in the saddle. He would have stayed longer, but caution had sent him away. In another minute, he would have swept her into his arms – and would have terrified her into locking the doors against him.
She cared. She wanted him as much as he wanted her, but the fear still lurked. Desire had shoved it aside for one glorious moment, but he had not yet won the battle. It was that naked yearning that had eroded his control. Without her fear to hold him at bay, he didn’t trust himself.
He groaned.
He might be frustrated out of his mind right now, but he had to keep it slow. At least she had granted him a dance.
He pulled his mind away from long legs and a generous bosom, unclenching his stomach muscles in his effort to relax. She had thought of possibilities he had not considered, giving him yet more paths to follow. In
vestigating those would keep him occupied.
* * * *
The man stared into the fire, cursing his failure. The cut had been too shallow.
Sawing that axle had been risky, for he had been in a public place in broad daylight. The specter of eyes boring into his back had made his hands shake. And his fear of exposure had made him flee before testing his work.
And so he had failed.
It was time to end it. Long past time. He could no longer rely on an accident. This last effort would raise suspicions anyway. He doubted Ridgeway would consider the cut a prank.
So no more chances. Their next encounter would be decisive. And he had little to fear. No one connected him with John’s death. No one suspected that Northrup’s accident had been well-deserved retribution. Ridgeway’s demise would cause talk, but it should not affect him.
Soon it would be over. Soon he could find peace. Soon…
* * * *
Sir Richard and Lady Redfield considered themselves the luckiest of hosts. Not only were they holding the first formal gathering since word had spread of the Northrup betrothals, but they had no marriageable daughters, so they were not bemoaning the loss of the most eligible gentlemen to appear in Ridgefield in some time. Pity the poor women who were sponsoring elaborate entertainments but now had no chance of snaring a match. Few considered Ridgeway a viable choice. Of course, there was still Northrup. Three-and-twenty wasn’t that young. Seven years of military life had aged him.
Mary smiled as Lucy Granger batted her lashes at Justin. The girl was on her best behavior tonight, determined to erase the memory of her last public appearance.
Lady Redfield did not call her modest gathering a ball. Instead, she had patterned her evening after the informal waltzing parties that were all the rage in London. A full quarter of the sets were waltzes, though she included many other steps in deference to country sensibilities.
Mary had made a point of disapproving the waltz since the first military man returning from the Continent had described it. Allowing a gentleman to hold her in his arms was a repugnant idea, but tonight she perversely wished to participate. James danced divinely, and his arms would have been welcome.
