by Jo Beverley
“I suppose I would,” Belinda said. “For Dorinda’s sake.” She looked at Chloe and smiled, perhaps the most open, friendly smile she had ever directed at her. “I must feed her now. That’s the way it is with a child. One thing after another.”
Chloe watched her go, then went to the window and stared at the rough, gray sea. It looked cold and unforgiving. Like a bad name once earned.
14
AFTER THE STUDY HAD BEEN SEARCHED, and Randal and Macy had gone away, Justin took out the letter and forced himself to read it again. It disgusted him.
It was the sort of letter he might write himself to Chloe, if they were apart.
He wanted to tear Claude limb from limb. He wanted to destroy all Randal’s cool, seductive beauty. He wanted to strangle Chloe with his bare hands. . . .
She had denied all knowledge of it.
Who would put such a thing in her desk, though, and for what reason?
He knew he should be thinking about the missing list, making further plans to find it, but all he could think of was Chloe. If he did not go to her soon and apologize, wipe out all trace of doubt and suspicion, he would lose her.
He couldn’t lose her. Yet he couldn’t eradicate all doubt either.
Perhaps there had been lovers. It would not be so surprising with Stephen such a neglectful husband. With bitter humor, Justin allowed that in some circles, only two lovers would be considered moderate. He could surely forgive her that. After all, it must all be in the past.
He remembered her in Randal’s arms. Perhaps she had treasured that disgusting letter. No, she had simply forgotten about it.
The thought could not be strangled. Perhaps her current lover, Claude, was a French spy. Chloe could have struck Budsworth this morning, then secreted the potato somewhere. Soon she would be away with it to join him.
Justin discovered he had the letter compressed into a pellet in his hand, and smoothed it out again. For no good reason, he felt he should preserve it.
He groaned and pounded the desk with his fist. The truth was, he didn’t care how many lovers she had taken to her bed, or if she was a traitor. He didn’t care if her work led to a thousand deaths. He wanted her with a flaming passion all the greater for having been smothered so many years.
With heavy effort, duty rose to take control. If she had the package, he must find a way to get it from her. Then he would do his best to save her from the consequences of her actions. Perhaps then he could begin again to try to win her love.
He struggled to make intelligent plans but found his brain unable to cooperate. With a sigh, he tucked the letter and the handkerchief back in his pocket and went to change for dinner, steeling himself to act as if none of these revelations had ever occurred.
He met Randal coming away from the library.
“I assume, by the way,” said his friend lightly, “that I am off Macy-guarding duty?”
“Of course,” said Justin. The effort to speak normally was excruciating. “I don’t know what to do next.”
He must not be a very good actor. He could see Randal, as if through glass, looking at him with a frown.
“You could talk it over with Chloe,” suggested Randal meaningfully.
They said Randal tired rapidly of his conquests. Was he trying to palm off his unwanted mistress on his friend? Justin knew one of his hands was a fist, and kept it out of sight.
“I don’t think so.”
Randal studied him with apparent concern. “I’m doubtless meddling again, but you didn’t do anything silly, like try to drag her to your bed, did you?”
Justin felt sick. Was he going to receive a lesson on how to handle his beloved? “Under the watchful eyes of Margaret?” he queried.
Randal shrugged. “Oh well.” With that, he ran lightly upstairs.
Justin watched coldly. Such easy charm. Such a perfect body. If Justin had a pistol in his hand, he might very well have fired it—destroyed the man and removed him from Chloe’s orbit forever.
In a moment, the madness passed, leaving a sour miasma to disgust him. It was only a handkerchief. Anyone could have put it there. Anyone could have written that letter. He had to trust them both. It was that or go mad. It occurred to him that next time he saw Othello performed, he would have much more sympathy for the vengeful Moor.
Justin climbed the stairs slowly, feeling old and unbearably tired.
Chloe was tidying her hair in a dispirited fashion when there was a knock at her door. She opened it to find Randal. He was inside before she could object.
“Randal. The last thing I need now is for anyone to find you here!”
“Anyone being Justin?” he queried lightly, picking up a spray of pink silk roses from her dressing table and turning them in his fingers.
“Anyone,” she repeated stonily.
Oh God, if Justin finds you here, she thought, it will confirm all his suspicions. And I mustn’t let you know what he suspects, or you’ll probably blow his head off.
Randal eyed her thoughtfully. “You never used to be so missish. What did he find? Love letters?”
Chloe could feel her face burn. Randal’s eyes opened wide with surprise. “Don’t tell me you did have a lover? God Almighty. I never suspected a thing.”
“Of course I didn’t,” she said sharply. “And keep your voice down, for heaven’s sake.”
“But he found letters?” He read the answer on her face. “Even if it wasn’t a full-blown affair, it was damned indiscreet to leave letters lying around, coz.”
“I did not have an affair,” said Chloe precisely. “I did not have any love letters. When I come to think of it, I have never had any love letters.” It suddenly seemed a matter worthy of tears. “There was no time to receive any from Stephen before we eloped,” she mused sadly, “and he was hardly one for writing them when we were apart.” She dragged herself back from the brink of being maudlin. “Be that as it may, someone planted a disgusting epistle in my drawer, and Justin Delamere believed every oozing French word of it!”
“French?”
“Very. Some little worm named Claude.”
“Spicy, I gather,” said Randal, eyes bright with amused interest.
Chloe turned away. “If you like that sort of thing,” she said.
“Well I do, as it happens. Writing them is one of my fortés. ” When she spun around suspiciously, he said quickly, “But I didn’t write this one. Honor of an Ashby.”
Chloe blinked back tears. “Who did, Randal? I can never forgive Justin for his suspicions—you realize he thinks I’m a spy now, working for the despicable Claude—but if I find out who did it, there would be some satisfaction.”
Randal had sobered. “Shall I kill him for you?”
“No!”
“One less Frenchman. What’s the difference?”
“I thought you meant Justin,” Chloe said. “Claude is surely an invention.”
“Then perhaps I should remove the inventor from this earth.”
Chloe found the notion surprisingly acceptable and told him so. “First, however, we have to find out who he, or she, is.”
“Who can write in French?” Randal asked practically.
Chloe considered the matter. “Myself. You and Justin, I suppose. The Duchess is very fluent, having spent a lot of time in Paris before the Revolution. Macy will be able to, I’m sure, but I don’t know about the Dowager, Miss Forbes, or Belinda.”
“Belinda went to a good school, I understand. They’d teach her French, wouldn’t they?”
“I would think so. The same thing doubtless applies to the other two.” Despite that, she knew where her suspicions had landed. “Why would Belinda do such a thing?” she asked, hurt to think the girl should be so malicious.
“If she’s up to her neck in treason, she’d do anything to escape the consequences. Perhaps she has a French lover named Claude.”
Chloe shook her head. “No. She truly loved Frank, for all she wouldn’t marry him, I think because it would injure D
orinda’s chances. I believe she sacrificed herself for the sake of the child.”
Randal was unmoved. “Sacrificed Frank as well, by the looks of it. Even if she didn’t push him off the cliff, there has to be a connection between their love affair and his death.”
“You’re doubtless correct. And I think there has to be a connection between that dratted list and Belinda.” Chloe had a sudden thought. “Randal, did anyone find out exactly how Budsworth was injured?”
“He was hit on the head with a rock, I think. There was one there with blood on it. Large enough to fit into a hand. Quite smooth.”
“But he could have been hit with a stick, a frying pan, anything.”
Randal looked at her with a puzzled frown. “What are you saying? The cook went demented and clonked him?”
“No,” said Chloe, feeling the excitement of clarity. “But it could have been anything, yet Belinda specifically talked about him being hit on the head with a rock. She never came close enough to see the rock you saw.”
“So she must have done it? You’d better tell Justin.”
Chloe felt the heavy misery fall back upon her. “You tell him if you want.”
“And what about Belinda?”
“We’ve searched the place. If she’s hidden the potato, she’s been careful. I don’t know if it was wise or not, but I told her what the package we’re looking for is, how important it is. I’m sure, if she knows anything, she will come forward with the information.”
“Very well.” He went toward the door. “Any chance of me making you see sense?” he asked gently. “You can’t exactly blame a man for being upset at finding erotic letters in his lady’s possession.”
Chloe raised her chin. “I see everything all too well,” she said. Randal just shook his head.
As Randal walked out of the door, Justin was in the corridor. It was as if a flame burned in his eyes. Randal felt the hair rise on his neck in response to the challenge, but Justin said nothing, just turned to go downstairs.
Randal whistled quietly and went off to change. Justin’s suspicions had obviously spilled over onto all mankind. He’d be lucky to leave here with his skin, much less his friendship, intact.
Chloe was dismayed to find the whole household down to dinner that evening. She felt unable to handle the Dowager at the moment and raised her eyebrows at Miss Forbes, who slipped over.
“She would come, Lady Stephen. I tried to dissuade her, for she is a little disturbed, but she became most upset. I will see to her.”
Chloe nodded. Her mother-in-law was wearing one of her more recent gowns in gray and blue cambric. With a small, lacy cap on her graying curls, she looked quite decorous. She was staring into the fire and muttering to herself.
Chloe went to sit safely by her grandmother.
“Well,” said that old lady. “Fascinating business, watching a kitchen being turned out. You’d be amazed at what they have there, my dear. Thank the Lord no one has ever asked me to cook anything, for I wouldn’t know where to start.”
“But no unusual potatoes.”
“Not a one. I had a most interesting lecture, however, on the types of potato. Never realized there were so many, and all used for different things. Fascinating.”
Chloe smiled. The Duchess had that effect on her. “I daresay you’ll be poking around in the kitchens at the Towers when we go there.”
“What?” exclaimed the Duchess. “Invade Monsieur Fraquette’s preserve? He’d resign on the spot. He’s had offers from most of the people in England rich enough to afford him.” She looked at her granddaughter shrewdly. “Now that I’ve got you to smile, tell me what occurred this afternoon.”
“Belinda’s letter?” said Chloe, deliberately evading the issue.
“No. I got all that from Randal. Probably perfectly true. George wouldn’t be the only man in England to be tricked into marriage. In fact, you’d think just about anyone could do it, once that bumpkin was worth the effort.”
“But I still don’t see why Belinda would think it worth the effort. I don’t believe she’s so mercenary.”
The old lady’s eyes were shrewd. “No, but perhaps Frank was.”
Chloe looked at her with sudden understanding. “Frank made her? And she did it because she loved him.” She thought it through and it began to make sense. “It was clear George would not live very long, and once she had her jointure . . . But by then she had Dorinda, and as she said, she couldn’t give Dorinda a father like Frank Halliwell. Do you know, I think Dorinda must be George’s daughter, after all.”
Chloe looked over at Belinda with understanding and tremendous sympathy.
“Now,” said her grandmother. “About that other letter.”
Chloe was mutinously silent.
“The upstairs maid has it Justin found a letter in your desk and, so the story goes, ‘came over all queer.’ ”
“I am not going to talk about it,” said Chloe with icy clarity. “Not here. Not now. But it is even more urgent that we leave. I want to leave tomorrow.”
“I’ll get the rheumatics again,” said the old lady calmly.
“What?” Chloe stared at her. “It was all a put-on?”
“Well, at my age, a twinge or two is unavoidable, but I thought I’d better make an excuse in case you panicked. I gave that foul-smelling embrocation to the Dowager. Now she has two pots of it. No wonder Belinda has such a reputation as a healer if she always makes stuff like that. Anyone’d get better to avoid it.”
“Grandmama,” said Chloe forcefully, “did you hear what I said? I want to leave tomorrow!”
“Tuesday,” said the Duchess implacably. “Randal!” she called, summoning her grandson. He came over and the old lady said, “Save me from this blasted wench. You don’t want to leave tomorrow, do you?”
“Well,” he said, with a glance at Justin. “It depends a bit upon the temperature. But assuming it warms a little, I wouldn’t mind staying another week or two.”
“Getting delicate, are you?” said the Duchess with surprise. “You young people. No stamina.”
Chloe’s gaze had followed Randal’s to Justin. He looked up. She saw the pain in his eyes, and the unwilling suspicion.
She couldn’t endure it. The lighthearted banter of the Duchess and Randal was like an abrasion on her nerves. Chloe stood and walked over to the window, drawing the velvet curtains back a little to look out at the bay. The moon rode high, nearly full, and the rippling waves were silver against the deep.
Someone walked up beside her, and she knew by a shiver of awareness it was Justin. They stood in silence, and a great urge came over her to lean her head upon his shoulder and weep.
“I don’t want to believe it,” he said at last, softly.
What could she say to that? A cloud passed over the moon, and all the dancing lights on the tips of the waves were extinguished. She dropped the curtain and turned to him.
“But do you?”
He looked at her, his brown eyes full of pain. “You are so beautiful, and Stephen neglected you. It would not be surprising if you had lovers.”
“I have no morals?”
“Some people would not consider it immoral.”
Chloe fought a shocking urge to violence. She found she would like to score his sun-browned cheek with her nails, like a cat. “I have no loyalty, then, to my country and my king?” she asked desperately.
He hesitated just a moment too long, then said, “I know you would never intentionally do anything against your country.”
Chloe felt a bitterness well up that threatened to choke her. “You think I am merely a fool then,” she said with brittle flippancy. “You are well rid of me, aren’t you? And look, there’s Matthew, come to announce the meal. By all means, let us go and feast!”
Justin watched her walk away, sweetly beautiful in soft creamy white sprigged with pink roses, dark curls nestled at the nape of her long, slender neck. Above the neckline of her gown he could see the beginning of the delicate hollow
of her spine.
Why, he wondered with despair, could he not simply have said the words he had intended to say. “That letter is nonsense. It has nothing to do with you. And as for Randal, you are close but not lovers.” Instead, he had found himself unable to lie to her, and now he had surely lost her forever.
And worse still, he had hurt her terribly.
Chloe was suffering the beginnings of a headache by the time she sat down to dinner. She longed only to retreat to her room at the earliest opportunity, and not emerge until Tuesday. Perhaps she would develop the rheumatics.
The conversation was desultory. Only Macy and Randal made any real effort to do their social duty.
“Well,” said Mr. Macy at one point. “Treasure hunt enliven your stay, Ashby?”
Randal smiled slightly. “Turned up a thing or two, I’d say.”
“But no missing will. Knew it all along. Legal men satisfied, Stanforth?”
“I’m sure they will be,” Justin said flatly.
“When I was a girl, at Musterleigh,” said the Dowager Lady Stanforth in stately tones, “we often had treasure hunts. My brother Arnold was very ingenious.”
She sounded so normal, Chloe ventured a question. “In what way, Mama?”
The Dowager seemed to be looking back through the years. “He hid my new satin slippers in the curtains. Pinned them in the middle. I didn’t find them for three days.”
This was such a rational conversation, Chloe really thought she should continue it, but with her headache and general malaise, she simply couldn’t. She looked urgently at Miss Forbes, and that lady began to chat amiably to her charge, not minding if the Dowager suddenly wandered off the subject, or forgot entirely what was going on.
“King’s in a very bad way,” said Mr. Macy, seemingly out of the blue, but everyone could follow his train of thought. The King was reputed to be slipping back into madness. The company discussed the likelihood of the Regency finally coming into effect, and the desirability of it. Macy, a friend of the Prince’s, was all for it. The Duchess was far less so.
“George III has been a good king,” she said firmly. “God willing, his doctors may still bring him back.”
