Yancey suddenly turned toward him. “Why did you bring me out here, Sam?”
“For the privacy.” Well, the moment had arrived. He reached a hand into his trousers pocket and couldn’t believe how tense he felt. “And to give you this.” He pulled out a small black velvet ring box. “I thought, under the circumstances, that you should have it.”
Irritated that his heart should be pounding and his palms sweating like that of some silly young swain, Sam held the box out to her … much as if it were his heart.
“I don’t want it,” Yancey said, shaking her head, refusing to take it.
Instantly insulted, Sam became stubborn. “What do you mean, you don’t want it? Of course you do.”
Shaking her head, Yancey eyed the box warily and then him suspiciously. “No I don’t. What is it?”
“See? You don’t even know what it is.”
She poked her nose a little bit closer to the box and really stared at it. “Then tell me.”
Sam exhaled his irritation. “It’s a poisonous viper whose bite will strike you dead in less than a minute.”
Undaunted, she poked a finger at the box. “Well, it’s an awfully little one, then, if it fits in there.”
“Little but potent. Much like you. Now, take it.” Again he urged the box on her.
But again, fisting her hands at her sides, she refused it. “I said I don’t want it.”
Giving up, cursing under his breath, Sam opened the dratted ring box himself, showed her its contents, and felt completely gratified by her gasp of appreciation. Back on his game, he plucked the impressive diamond ring out of its velvet bed, snapped the box closed, tucked it back in his pocket, and held the ring out to her. “Take it. Please.”
But she wouldn’t. Already, she was backing up. “Sam, have you lost your mind? You can’t give me a ring like that.”
He advanced on her. “I’m not giving it to you. It’s a family heirloom. I mean only for you to wear it while you’re posing as my wife.”
Looking suddenly unsure of herself, vulnerable somehow, as if he’d hurt her, she looked down and away from him. “I don’t want to wear it,” she said quietly.
“But I want you to.” Sam heard how petulant he sounded. This was not the warm and tender scene he’d envisioned. But then, nothing ever went how he believed it might where Yancey was concerned. “There’s no need to attach any significance to this act. I’m offering it only for expedient reasons having to do with your employment with me.”
She swung her attention back to him, looking stubborn herself or perhaps angry. “How romantic.”
Sam gestured his helplessness. “I strove for romantic to begin with. And you rejected that. This is very simple, Yancey. As the wife of a duke, you would be expected to have jewelry and to wear it. I simply thought it would forestall any questions, that sort of thing. Now give me your hand.”
Unbelievably, she still wouldn’t, putting both of them behind her back. “No.”
She was going to drive him insane. But sudden amusement had Sam chuckling. “Yancey, what do you want me to do? I can’t see us in a wrestling match. Or is it that you want me to go down on one knee and do this?”
She pulled a face, her bottom lip poking out to show she’d taken offense. “No. Of course not. Don’t be silly. Why would I want you to do that? We’re not really married. We’re not getting married, either. And I don’t care what anyone thinks. I don’t want the ring. And you can’t make me wear it just because you’re the duke and my employer and I’m posing as your wife. So there.”
His eyebrows arched, Sam just stood there, waiting for her to run out of denials. At last, into the quiet, he asked, “Why are you so afraid of marriage, Yancey? It won’t kill you.”
A look of pure pain, one that pinched her nostrils and furrowed her brow, crossed her face and then was gone. “My experience says different, Sam.”
“Your experience?” Sam’s knees stiffened with shock. “Are you telling me that you’re already married?”
“No. Hardly.” Then she surprised him by stepping up and plucking the ring out of his hand. “Oh, give it to me. I’ll put it on and wear it. But only as long as you understand that it doesn’t mean anything.”
“Certainly. Not a thing,” Sam lied, smiling as she put the ring onto her left third finger. It slid perfectly into place. The diamond, almost the size of her knuckle, overpowered her tiny hand … but looked very right there.
Apparently pleased despite herself, she waggled her fingers … a purely feminine gesture … and then held her hand out and surveyed it from all angles. Then she looked up into his eyes and realized she’d been caught. She dropped her hand to her side and lifted her chin, giving him a good snubbing. Sam laughed softly at her antics, feeling warm, tender, angry, defeated, hopeful, completely lost to her. Christ, he was doomed.
Yancey turned to him. “I’m sorry I was so rude just now. I misunderstood your intentions,” she said, sounding as if she’d rather be branded with a hot poker than have to apologize for something.
Determined to enjoy this moment, Sam crossed his arms over his chest, arched his eyebrows, and said nothing.
“Oh, all right, Sam, the ring is beautiful. And you were right. A married woman, a duchess, would have a ring like this.” She held her hand out again and smiled. Then she frowned. “What do I say to your mother and Roderick about it? Obviously, I wasn’t wearing it earlier when I met them.”
“I doubt if Roderick got as far as staring at your fingers. And it was my mother’s idea. The ring, I mean.”
A look of pure surprise claimed her features. “Your mother’s idea?”
Sam nodded. “Where did you think I was all afternoon after we came back inside?”
“You said you were going to your study. To do the accounts.”
“And I did. Then I thought about everything and went up to my mother’s rooms, shooed all her maids out, as well as Mrs. Edgars, and told her the truth. All of it. I thought she deserved that.”
“Oh, good for you, Sam. Certainly, she deserves the truth. But how did she take it?”
Sam exhaled sadly. “My mother has buried her husband, his parents, her own parents, and one of her sons. She took it in stride, except for Roderick’s part in all this, assuming he has one. And I think he does.”
“As do I. But that poor woman. I mean your mother. Still, I think there’s a lot you’re not telling me, Sam. I saw her faint, remember, at the mere sight of me.”
“Rest assured you have the same effect on me.”
Finally … a laugh from her. “Be serious.”
“I am. Of course, Mother was very sad about Sarah and very angry with me for not telling her before now about Sarah’s, well, illness. She’s also thrilled with your being a Pinkerton. All very high drama to her. But most especially, she’s absolutely horrified that she sent you those letters by mistake.”
Yancey nodded. “That’s quite a mix of news and emotions to deal with for one woman. No wonder she’s taken to her bed.” Pensive of expression, Yancey spoke as if only thinking aloud. “Well, I can question her tomorrow. That’s soon enough with Roderick out of the house.” She focused on Sam. “The letters. Did you ask her what the trouble was that she alluded to in them?”
He grinned, watching Yancey’s beautifully delicate face for her reaction to this bit of news. “You’ll appreciate it after our discussion this afternoon regarding children. Or our lack thereof.”
She shook her head. “I don’t understand.”
“You will. Grandchildren.”
“Grandchildren?” Yancey echoed.
“Exactly. Distraught over Geoffrey’s demise, over losing one son, she suddenly wished to be surrounded by a large family. And that means children. Or to her, grandchildren. She then realized that I was her only hope for producing the same. And here I stubbornly refused to discuss my wife, from whom I’d told her only that I was estranged. Well, she thought me silly and stubborn. And she feared, if left to my own devices, sh
e’d never have grandchildren and, besides that, the duchy needs an heir. So she took it upon herself to orchestrate events.”
Yancey looked shocked, as he knew she would be. “Dear God, Sam.” She was all but sputtering. “Look at what her letters have set in motion.”
“I am all too aware. But never underestimate the power of a mother who wishes to dandle on her knee the heir to the hereditary title.”
Yancey startled him by clutching at his sleeve. “Stop right there. If you don’t produce an heir, Sam … who inherits Stonebridge?”
“I know what you’re thinking, so you won’t be surprised to know that it’s Roderick, will you?”
She frowned. “No, I’m not surprised, not in the least.” Releasing her hold on his shirtsleeve, she gestured for him to continue. “But go on, then. Your mother…?”
“I feel certain you will appreciate this, too, Yancey. She hired a London investigator and sent him to America to contact my wife.”
“Just as I suspected. My Englishman.”
Sam nodded—and labored under the growing conviction that he was merely verifying for her things she already suspected. “But instead, of course, and as you are too fully aware, he found you. Apparently the man was a bit bumbling, and not as good as you Pinkertons.”
And for that, Sam was eternally grateful because the man had brought Yancey into his life. Jealously, wishing he could do it for her, he watched her running a finger over her mouth as she thought things out. “Not so bumbling, Sam. He was good. Very good. He found my address, didn’t he?”
“True. But is that so hard to do?”
She shrugged. “It’s not a secret, where I live. But neither is my address readily available. I like to think this private investigator she hired had to do more than a little snooping to find it.” Suddenly her expression blanked and she stared up at him as if she’d just seen a ghost. “Oh, Sam. Oh no.”
Sam tensed, ready to hear anything. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“Your mother … did she tell her sister that she was going to hire a man to find your wife?”
Frowning, he shrugged. “I suppose. She tells Aunt Jane everything.” Then he understood, and dread washed over him. “Then Roderick knew.”
“Yes. Roderick knew. And no doubt he made good use of that information. I think it’s entirely conceivable, Sam, that Roderick acted on what your innocent mother divulged to her sister.”
Emotion drained from Sam. “My poor mother. I don’t know how much more truth she can take. She will never forgive herself.”
“But she couldn’t know, Sam. No more than you or I could.”
“I know that. But it won’t matter to her.” Sam hung his head, shaking it at the thought of such treachery. Then, feeling dull, perhaps lifeless, he took up the subject again. “Then you think Roderick had an agent in Chicago?”
“No. It’s worse than that. I think it’s more likely that he paid the same one your mother hired and sent to America to keep him informed as well of his, shall we say, findings.”
Outrage and anger seized Sam. “I’ll choke the very life out of Roderick. How dare he plot against my mother? He can plot against me all he wants. I can take care of myself. But my mother is another thing. Entirely defenseless, she is. A paragon of motherhood and virtue.”
Yancey said nothing. She merely stared soberly up at him … waiting for him to calm down, Sam finally realized. He exhaled, rubbed his forehead, and shook his head. “Sorry. You were saying you believe Roderick orchestrated a double cross?”
“Yes. That, and more, of course.”
By more she meant the murder of his wife, for one thing. Sam now believed that the poor unfortunate woman killed in Chicago was Sarah. Why it would be necessary to kill her, he couldn’t think. But Yancey also meant the subsequent attempt on her own life. Sam stared out into the moonlit darkness. “That would certainly explain why things started going badly for you at about the same time letters from my mother began arriving, wouldn’t it?”
“Very likely, yes. It would also explain the same man coming after me who went after Sarah. That much we know. In both cases, he was English and the descriptions matched.”
“Damned diabolical, Yancey.” Righteously angry, Sam sought her gaze. “I cannot fathom such evil. And within my own family. My own blood. How could he kill one of his own?”
Yancey didn’t answer him. Sam slowly became aware that a change had come over her face. She looked … wounded somehow. Sam put a hand out to her and started to speak, to ask her what was wrong, but she shrank away from his touch and said, “It happens more often than you’d realize, Sam. And in the best of families. In my work, I’ve learned that motivations behind even the most despicable of acts are all too … human. Such things as greed. Envy. Jealousy—”
“But they lead to monstrous acts, Yancey. Dear God, my brother and my wife.” Filled with sadness, Sam shook his head. “Call it what you want, but it is evil because how, otherwise, am I to understand how someone could murder their own family? How? I will never understand it. What could possibly be worth it? What?”
Upset as he was, Sam at first thought nothing of Yancey’s silence. But as he calmed down, he recalled the looks of pain on her face he’d noticed twice already in the last hour.
He turned to her, putting his hand on her arm. “You’re awfully quiet, Yancey. Is something wrong?”
* * *
Yancey exhaled, turning away from Sam. Moving woodenly and feeling stiff all over, she stepped over to the low railing that girded the terrace. She closed her eyes, trying to blank her mind. But it wouldn’t allow her to do so.
“Yancey?”
She turned her head slowly, only enough to speak to him over her shoulder. “Please, Sam, just … give me a moment. I need only a moment.”
“I don’t know what’s wrong, Yancey. But … just … I’ll be right here. Waiting for you.”
She wanted to offer a thank-you, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, her throat threatened to close and her eyes filled with tears. Silently, she begged it to leave her be, this sudden and overwhelming impulse that swelled within her and told her she must finally speak aloud her guilty deed. With every fiber in her being, she did not want to do this. Yancey fisted her hands, resisting, refusing.
No. She couldn’t do this. She’d told no one, not even Mr. Pinkerton, of her deep, dark secret, one that ate at her soul and deviled her sleep. What would Mr. Pinkerton say? she’d feared. Would he fire her? Lose faith in her? Turn his face away from her? She couldn’t bear disappointing him. He expected such exemplary behavior from his agents. He hired only the best. And he thought her the best. And so, for eight long years, she’d lived with her secret and the guilt and the fear of being found out.
Why couldn’t she go on doing so now? Why?
Her answer was a tightening inside her chest that said she must speak or her heart would explode with the weight of it. Yancey’s features contorted with her agony. No. She couldn’t. She’d sooner die. But the urge was too strong. A small, quiet voice in her mind said this man, Samuel Isaac Treyhorne, the Duke of Somerset, was the one she needed to tell. He needed to hear it, to be saved by it, the voice told her, every bit as much as she needed to confess it.
Yancey closed her eyes and raised her head to the night. Then it was true … she had to do this thing. On her exhalation, she hung her head, feeling nothing, steeling herself. Only by thinking of Sam, of putting him above herself, could Yancey turn around and face him. When she did, she saw him there … in the moonlight that silvered his black hair and cast his face in shadows. He took a step toward her, and she saw in his face his concern and his worry … and what might be his love for her.
Then this was doubly dreadful. Finally, and at long last … love. But too late. Because now she might be forced to kill it in order, somehow and in ways she had yet to understand, to save Sam.
Standing there on the flagstone terrace, on a clear and starry night, feeling suddenly cold despite his co
at around her shoulders, and certain that her heart was not even beating, Yancey spoke. “Sam, just a bit ago we were talking about how someone could kill a family member. You called it evil. And perhaps it is. I don’t know.” Yancey drew in a deep and much needed breath before continuing. “You need to know—No, I feel a need to tell you that I … killed my father.”
There. The words were out. She exhaled a gust of guilt and now felt her heart pounding, her blood racing. Sam said nothing. He didn’t move. He only stared at her. Yancey, though, felt a tremendous burden lift from her soul, a feeling much like a bird taking flight. She felt so light, as if she could spread her arms wide and soar.
But still, Sam said nothing. And his silence brought her back to earth.
Yancey sobered. “Did you hear me, Sam? I said I—”
“I heard you.” His expression matched the flatness in his voice. “Don’t say it again. Please.”
She stood there, alone now with her guilt and her grief. Not for her father. The man did not deserve it. The world was a better place because he was dead. She had no regrets. What she feared was Sam. What was he thinking right now? What would he do? What would he say? Dread once again washed through Yancey. She swallowed and was surprised that it hurt. She put a hand to her throat. Though she felt no lump, it was there. Sorrow was its name. Only when she wiped at her eyes did she become aware of the tears that streamed down her face.
“Why, Yancey?” Sam asked. “What happened?”
She stared at him, not knowing how to begin. She inhaled deeply of the cool night air and exhaled slowly. “All my life, Sam, that man was cruel. Mean. He drank. Gambled. Hit my mother. Hit me. I grew up fearing him and hating him. He’d disappear for weeks, months, at a time. We didn’t know where he was, and I didn’t care. We had a hard life, my mother and I. But things were better when he was gone. We got by the best way we could on the farm. But then he’d come back. He always did. When I was thirteen, he came back for good.”
She breathed in again, this time through her pinched nostrils. Her heart felt like a stone in her chest. Sam said nothing. He didn’t move. He could have been made out of the same stone as her heart. “For five long years after that, we endured him. I would stay out of his way as best I could. But Mama took the brunt of his anger. Then one day … I came upon him, Sam. He was beating my mother. With his fists. Just beating her to death.” Yancey sobbed and covered her mouth with her hand, wanting to hold back the remembered terror.
The Marriage Masquerade Page 28
