by Jo Beverley
There still was no motive for her to harm him, or none that suggested itself, but something had jerked Belinda out of her normal placidity. Chloe remembered the day before when Belinda had almost become alarmed. Chloe had been sniffing at the empty pot, she recalled, and Belinda had said something about honeysuckle.
After a minute or two, Chloe shook her head. It made no sense at all. If Belinda had met Frank, and if she had pushed him off the cliff, there still was no connection with honeysuckle. If there was any chance the young woman was a murderess, however, Chloe could not turn a blind eye. She was determined to pursue it, partly because she still regarded Delamere as her responsibility, and partly because she would teach the men not to ignore her abilities.
She found that as she was thinking, her eyes had been drawn again and again to the Dutch pictures above the fire. What was it about them?
They were in the wrong order!
Instead of being spring, summer, autumn, and winter, winter now came first. When had that happened? As with most familiar objects, she had scarcely been aware of the pictures for weeks. At the same time, something about them had niggled at her since she entered the room. She remembered discussing them with Justin earlier. Surely she would have noticed then if they had been rearranged.
She shook her head. She was fretting over trifles. One of the maids had doubtless had them down during cleaning and hung them differently. She went over and began to rearrange them. It was as she was hanging autumn that her finger caught in the back. She turned it. The backing had been neatly slit. She poked inside, but there was nothing.
She looked at the other pictures and discovered each had a slit in the backing, but smaller and less obtrusive. Had the cuts, perhaps, always been there? She could hardly imagine Herr van Maes giving her the pictures without repairing the damage. How inexplicably peculiar.
Chloe hung the last two pictures and then sat contemplating them. What possible reason could there be for such an act? Was she wrong to have this feeling constantly that things were not right at Delamere? Apart from Frank’s death, which could well have been a freak accident, she really had nothing to go on. The feeling, however, would not be banished.
She wondered if the Dowager could be the explanation for the strange happenings—the disturbed stores, the slits in the pictures. But Stephen’s mother was rarely unaccompanied and totally lacked guile.
Randal came into the room. “Are you cast into the dismals too?” he asked. “Grandmama says the weather has brought out her rheumatics.”
“Oh, poor dear. Has she everything she needs? Belinda has a whole repertoire of receipts for anything which ails you.”
“She is well at the moment. She says you want to leave on Tuesday.”
“Yes. That should be time enough for Justin to settle in, and we should be on our way before the winter sets in.”
“It’s only October, Chloe. Why the hurry?”
Chloe looked up. “I’ve been here nearly two years, Randal. I’ve forgotten there’s a world beyond Lancaster.”
He dropped elegantly into a chair. “There is, and it’s as boring as ever, and it ain’t going anywhere. It seems a bit heartless to abandon Justin here with bucolic Belinda.”
“Perhaps Humphrey Macy will solve that problem.”
“He’s coming, is he?”
Something in his tone alerted Chloe. “Don’t you like him?”
Randal shrugged. “He’s hardly a crony of mine but he’s bon ton. Seen everywhere and pleasant enough. A bit fulsome, don’t you think?”
“I suppose so, but that doubtless comes of toadying to the Prince of Wales all the time.”
“Disrespectful chit,” remarked Randal. “The Macys are an old Whig family, so it’s almost his duty, but I’m sure he fits in at Carlton House like a plum in a basket of hothouse fruit.”
Chloe chuckled. “With the Prince as a pineapple?”
Randal shouted with laughter. “God yes! And Lady Jersey a plump, juicy peach.”
“What of Lady Hertford then?”
His blue eyes twinkled. “Undoubtedly a prune, and strangely out of place.”
“As out of place as Macy here,” Chloe commented idly. “Ah well. It was kind of him to keep George company, and it must indicate devotion if he is coming north again to woo Belinda. You think he’s well-to-do, Randal?”
“He puts on a good show, but then half of Society is all tinsel and glitter over a hollow core. I’ve never seen him gamble deep, but he’d have to at Carlton House. Why so concerned?”
“If he’s tied to the wrong connections,” said Chloe, “we don’t want Belinda to marry him.”
“Don’t we?”
Chloe fixed him with her sternest look. “No. Altruistically speaking, I don’t see any reason why Belinda shouldn’t make a comfortable second marriage. In more practical terms, if she’s well-established, she won’t hang around Justin’s neck. After all, Dorinda is a cousin of Justin’s, and of mine in a way.”
Randal shrugged. “Just as long as you don’t expect me to marry her.”
“Of course I don’t. And don’t encourage her, either. I know she’s casting eyes at you, just like every woman who crosses your path. Freeze her out, if you want, but don’t raise her hopes.”
Randal sighed. “Trapped here in boredom and she denies me the only available sport.”
Chloe stood. “I’m sure you can find some pastime—”
Suddenly, she was spun down on Randal’s lap. “An offer?” he queried wickedly.
Chloe struggled, but not very hard. She was laughing too much. “Don’t be daft, as they say round here. Randal, let go.” He was far too strong so she relaxed.
“That’s better,” he approved. “I’ll let you go if you promise me some other amusement.”
Chloe found she was enjoying her position. There was nothing particular to Randal about the pleasure, other than the fact he was the only man she could imagine feeling so comfortable with. It was just that it had been a long time since she had been held by a man.
“What amusement did you have in mind?” she asked, as she leaned her head on his shoulder.
“You’re the hostess.”
“Nonsense,” she retorted lazily. “Justin’s your host. Go and discuss it with him.”
“No need,” said Randal.
Something in his voice made Chloe look up. She felt herself go red as she saw Justin staring at them with astonishment and, perhaps, anger. She leapt up before she realized this must give the whole scene an even more improper appearance.
“Pistols at twenty paces, Justin?” drawled Randal, laughter in his eyes. “If not exactly amusement, it would enliven a dull morning.”
Justin’s expression was unreadable. “Unless Chloe is claiming molestation, I see no need for that. She is her own mistress.”
“Of course he wasn’t molesting me,” said Chloe, flustered. Then she saw this did not quite give the impression she wanted. “You know Randal . . .”
“Of course I know Randal,” said Justin coldly. “If you can spare the time, Chloe, I really do need your assistance with estate matters.” He stood by the door in a way that made the suggestion an implacable command.
“Of course,” said Chloe, knowing she was a flustered red. She followed him out of the room, aware of Randal’s amusement, feeling very like a naughty schoolgirl.
Damn all men.
The atmosphere in the study was chilly as they went through all the current business of the Delamere estate with Chloe filling in the background. By the time luncheon was announced, she was heartily glad to escape, but Justin stopped her as she made her way to the door.
“I’m sorry if I reacted badly earlier,” he said. “I can’t help but think of you as a lady under my protection, but you are not really that.”
“It doesn’t matter,” she replied, glancing at him and seeing no trace of anger or condemnation in his face. “I just felt rather silly, to be caught like that.”
“Not very discreet, to
be sure. Chloe, I am not sure that Randal—”
“Heavens, Justin,” Chloe broke in. “Never think that Randal and I were . . . We were just being foolish, playing a game.”
A smile twitched his lips. “Were you? Be careful, my dear. You can still get burned at that game, and Randal is, I think, somewhat inflammatory.”
Chloe put her hands on her hips. “Justin Delamere, we were not even playing that game . . . Oh, what a ridiculous conversation this is. As far as I’m concerned, Randal is about as inflammatory as a bucket of cold water.”
It was as if a cloud passed. He grinned. “You must be the only woman in England to feel that way. I must quote that to him when he’s feeling full of himself.” After a short silence he added, “Do you really mean to leave on Tuesday?”
Chloe nodded and looked away. “It’s time.”
“It may seem like ages to you, my dear, but I have only just arrived.”
“You don’t need me here anymore, Justin.”
“Don’t I?”
Chloe knew in that moment that she could stay. At a word Justin would offer her his hand, and perhaps his heart. Reactions warred within her and she turned away. He came up behind her and placed warm hands on her shoulders.
“Tell me what you are thinking,” he said softly.
Chloe shook her head. She could not put her feelings into words even if she would. Was he moved by convenience, nostalgia, or could it be love? If it was love, would it make any difference? Stephen had loved her once, after a fashion.
His hand moved up to the bare skin of her neck and played in the soft curls there. Chloe sighed and leaned back against him. His arms slipped round and she rested there.
They had never touched like this before. They had been close, almost intimate in their knowledge of each other, and yet they had rarely touched. For she had been Stephen’s.
They did not speak. They did not move. Still, they communicated. Chloe knew she was offered here a feast she hungered for and yet . . . and yet, she wasn’t sure if it was real or not. If it was real, that perhaps terrified her most of all. She never had to surrender to Stephen as she would have to surrender to Justin.
“This has its virtues, my dear,” he said, “but I can think of more promising positions. If I sit with you in my lap, will you be as quiescent as you were with Randal?”
Chloe pulled out of his arms and moved two quick steps away. “No.”
She had expected a protest but when she turned to look at him, he was smiling broadly. “Why do you look so pleased with yourself?” she asked.
“When you are in my arms, Chloe, I do not want you to be quiescent.”
“Justin—”
He stopped her with a raised hand. “Please don’t run away on Tuesday.”
“I must.”
He sighed. “I had intended to stay here for a while, but I suppose I will have to follow you.”
Chloe blinked. “You can’t do that!”
“Is there a law against it?”
“I’ll be going to the Towers.”
“Do you think Randal won’t invite me?” he asked.
“I’ll tell him not to,” said Chloe imperiously. Justin just raised a brow.
Chloe left abruptly, before he could say more. She ran Randal to ground in the billiard room, potting balls with cool efficiency.
“Come to offer me a game?” he asked, leaning picturesquely on his cue.
“No,” she said. “Randal, if Justin asks to be invited to the Towers when we leave here, can you not do so?”
He looked at her. “Be a bit uncivil, wouldn’t I?”
“Your reputation will stand the strain, I’m sure,” she retorted.
He idly chalked the button. “A man don’t have so many friends he can afford to offend them.”
“Are you saying you won’t oblige me?” Chloe asked in amazement.
“Basically, yes.”
“Why not?”
“Why should I?”
Faced with this, Chloe turned away. “Randal. He’s . . . he’s wooing me.”
“Always thought he was a knowing one.”
Chloe turned back. “Randal. He’s a Delamere!”
“So are you.”
“Not for long.”
“Anyway, a saucy Ashby throwing up the dirt at a Delamere is like the pot calling the kettle black. I think you and Justin would suit very well.” He turned and casually made a cannon, then moved round to the white ball and potted the black.
As he replaced the black on its spot he said, “What is it that bothers you so, Chloe?”
Forced to put it into words, Chloe hesitated. “I want a quiet life, Randal.”
“You wouldn’t like it. If you married Stodgy Cedric you’d be climbing the walls within a year. You’d probably run off with an adventurer.”
“I have to get away from here before I make any decisions.”
Randal look at her and shook his head. “All this rusticating has dulled your wits, my girl.”
“And what is that supposed to mean?”
He laid down his cue and walked over to her, coolly elegant, and probably the most devastatingly attractive man in England. He took her hand and raised it to his lips, slowly. His lips brushed over her fingers softly, and then back again.
“Randal—”
“Hush.”
He drew her into his arms. She felt his hands on her back and tilted her head up automatically, perhaps to protest. What was he about? If he had suddenly decided to pay serious court to her, it would be most embarrassing, but there was only wicked amusement in his clear blue eyes as one of his hands slid up to play in her dusky curls.
“What are you thinking, my dear?” he asked.
“That you have run mad,” she said, just a little breathlessly. He was, after all, amazingly attractive, and she wasn’t dead yet.
He lowered his head and his lips skimmed softly down over her forehead and nose, to hover over her own.
Chloe struggled slightly, but his arms tightened and she couldn’t escape. “Randal!”
Very softly, he whispered, his warm breath mingling with hers. “What is worrying you, my dear? Be honest.”
Then she knew. She looked up into his eyes, which demanded the truth. “Justin might come in again,” she whispered.
He dropped a quick kiss on her lips and released her.
“The time for decisions is past, Chloe,” he commented dryly.
Chloe took refuge in anger. “You conceited oaf! Do you think a woman can resist you only if she is in love with someone else?”
He leaned back against the billiard table, grinning insolently. “That seems to be the case so far.”
Chloe made a little growl of exasperation and looked around for something with which to attack him. Finding nothing, she said, “I think I will set Justin onto you with pistols.”
“I wouldn’t if I were you. We visited Manton’s and I’m by far the better shot. Give up, Chloe. You and Justin are in love. It’s clear as a pikestaff to an observer. It’s my opinion you’ve been in love since you first met, and you only married Stephen by mistake.”
Chloe felt shock lance through her. Tears rose in her eyes. She brushed them angrily away as his expression turned from humor to concern.
“Sometimes, Randal, I could hate you,” she declared as she ran out of the room.
Chloe took luncheon in her own room, only picking at the food. Randal had forced open a door into an area of feeling she had hoped buried forever. Young and heedless, she had never thought, on that long journey to Scotland, about the two men as different from one another. She had known she was going to marry Stephen, she had wanted to marry Stephen, but she had thought they would always be together, the three of them.
It was on her wedding night that reality intruded. It had not been an unpleasant business, all in all, for Stephen was a kindly lover, but she had missed Justin. Over the next few days, she had been bothered by the times he had gone off to leave them together. On the return
south he had frequently ridden beside the carriage instead of within, and she had wished he wouldn’t.
After the young couple, facing scandal boldly, had established themselves in Town, Justin had disappeared and his absence had been a void in her life. Soon she heard he had bought a commission. She followed the adventures of his regiment closely, scrutinized every casualty list. They had met briefly on only two occasions after that, and on the last one . . .
They had been in the small library of Stephen’s house in Clarges Street, all three of them. Justin was in uniform, and looked splendid. Chloe remembered thinking that, and noticing how Stephen looked pale and puffy around the eyes by comparison.
She and Justin had hardly spoken to each other, and yet she was conscious of him at all times. When he passed her a glass of wine their fingers did not touch, and yet there had been a sensation, a vibration, between them. She had stared up at him, startled. His eyes held an arrested look.
Then Stephen left the room to fetch some object. She and Justin had sat in silence. She finally looked at him, and found him studying her. They had said something then, she did not know what.
She did remember suddenly being aware of his body beneath the uniform, of the long strong muscles of his legs, the tendons of his sun-browned hands, the breadth of his shoulders. It had come to her that in lovemaking with Justin she would feel more than the mild contentment she experienced with Stephen.
She had leapt to her feet in alarm, and he had risen too, concerned. Stephen returned at that moment. She had made an excuse and escaped.
She and Justin had never met again until he came to Delamere as Lord Stanforth. She had buried the memory of the occasion, of the betrayal she had committed in her mind, deep down.
To leap joyously now into Justin’s arms, over Stephen’s grave, was unthinkable. Did he not feel it? Perhaps he had not been as guilty as she. Perhaps he had not, in the secrecy of the night, toyed with the idea of Stephen ceasing to exist, so the other possibility could become reality.
Even now, the thought of it overwhelmed her with guilt. She covered her face with her hands. Thank God she could at least say that the news of Stephen’s death had filled her with nothing but grief for him. Any other reaction, no matter how involuntary, would have been intolerable.
