Never Resist Temptation

by Miranda Neville

  So, thought Anthony angrily, Candover has been living off Jacobin’s inheritance from her mother for all these years. The man had deserved killing.

  “Jacobin de Chastelux stands to benefit considerably from her uncle’s death,” said Hawkins. “More so than the male heir.”

  “Is the property hers outright,” Anthony asked, “or does she hold only a life interest in it?”

  “If Miss de Chastelux marries, her property will go to her husband, and to her children if she has any. If she were to die unwed, it reverts to the estate.”

  Anthony saw what that meant, even as the damn runner continued to look triumphant at finding a cast-iron motive for Jacobin to murder her uncle.

  “Don’t you understand, you dolt, that Edgar Candover had a perfect motive for killing Candover and making sure his cousin was blamed? That way he’d get the whole lot, including the valuable part of the estate.”

  “It seems convoluted,” Hawkins objected. “I prefer the more straightforward motive. Criminals are rarely subtle.”

  Anthony wanted to shake him. “To hell with what you prefer. It’s in Edgar Candover’s interest to see his cousin dead before she marries. And she’s supposed to be marrying me in two days’ time.”

  “You intend to kill me?” Jacobin still could scarcely credit it. “You killed Candover,” she said, “though I don’t understand why. And I certainly don’t see why you have to kill me.”

  “I don’t want to,” Edgar said earnestly. “But it’s the only way. If you’re alive I’ll never get the Avonhill estate. My cousin squandered and gambled away most of his fortune except that one property. For eight years I’ve held things together getting no thanks and very little respect. But I didn’t mind because I knew that eventually I’d get the title and Avonhill. It’s the only thing he never mortgaged, and I made sure enough money went back into the land to keep it profitable. It’s a snug little place and will suit me. I’m a very modest man. He never told me the estate was your mother’s and was to go to you. When I discovered the truth a few months ago I knew he had to die before he spent everything.”

  Jacobin considered this latest evidence of her uncle’s perfidy. “I don’t want it,” she said, trying to placate Edgar. “You can have it. Storrington has plenty of money.”

  “I wish I could accept your offer, but Storrington would never let me have it. Once you’re married he’ll have control over it. You should have accepted my offer while you had the chance.”

  “You won’t get away with it, Edgar. Storrington will hunt you to the ends of the earth, and if he doesn’t kill you, you’ll hang.”

  “Oh no. You will be blamed for killing Candover. Your note confessing to the crime will be found near your body. You are going to commit suicide in a moment of remorse.”

  She looked for a weapon. Edgar wasn’t much bigger than she was, and she was strong. A large and ornate vase stood on a side table. Sèvres, she thought irrelevantly, and ugly. She wanted to weep when she remembered the last time she’d smashed Sèvres porcelain in this house. She looked forward to breaking it over Edgar’s head.

  Though her glance was discreet, he noticed the object of her attention. “Don’t even think about it, Jacobin, or I’ll shoot you.” He was pointing a gun at her, a twin of the pistol that had killed Candover.

  “You’ve been planning it for months, haven’t you? My God! You probably even meant for me to be blamed for the poisoning. Did you see me in Brighton that night?”

  “I knew you were in Brighton. No one ever thinks I’m clever.” His voice shook with resentment. “Without me your uncle would have been under the hatches years ago, but I got no thanks for my work. But when you ran off with Jean-Luc, I knew he wasn’t any use to you. Cousin Candover didn’t know that, all he cared about was Jean-Luc’s cooking. He believed you’d truly eloped with him. I traced the two of you to London and found out he’d got you a position in the prince’s household at Carlton House. Then I just had to wait my opportunity, wait until Candover was invited to dine. It was convenient that it was in Brighton rather than London. There was always food to be purchased after Brighton dinners.”

  “So all those words of affection you said to me at the Argyll Rooms were nonsense.”

  “Oh no, Jacobin. I would have married you then. I used to envy Jean-Luc. For eight years he had all your smiles, all your attention, and you hardly noticed my existence.”

  Though she’d rather have spat at his declaration, flattery might buy her some time. “I wish you’d told me then, Edgar. I was always fond of you but I had no idea. And now I see how very intelligent you are.”

  His pale eyes warmed a little and he smiled. “That’s good of you to say so, Jacobin.” He moved closer to her, and for a moment she thought he was going to kiss her. Vile as such a prospect was, it might give her a chance to snatch away the gun.

  Instead he pressed the barrel of the pistol into her ribs. “It’s time for your suicide, my dear.”

  “I’ll never write a note,” she retorted. “You’ll have to shoot me.”

  “No need. The note’s all ready and sitting on that pretty little desk over there. I’ve had plenty of time to practice imitating your handwriting.”

  “Anthony will know I didn’t write it. There’s no paper in that escritoire.”

  “No matter,” Edgar said, unimpressed. “I fancy Lord Storrington will be too stricken with grief to recall such an unimportant detail. Now, lead the way out, please. And don’t forget, I won’t hesitate to shoot you here if you give me any trouble.”

  “Out? Why?” Jacobin had an insane notion that Edgar was worried about blood on the carpet.

  “You’re going to drown yourself in the millrace, just as Storrington’s mother did.”

  “How do you know she killed herself?” Jacobin had learned that fact from Kitty earlier in the day, but it certainly wasn’t general knowledge.

  “Candover told me in one of his drunken fits. Said he’d driven her to it, boasted of it because he’d fancied her himself and she turned him down. We Candovers don’t like to have our wills thwarted,” he concluded with a touch of manic and pathetic pride.

  She couldn’t let him do it to Anthony. Even if she had to die, at least it wouldn’t be in sinister imitation of his mother’s demise. She’d fight Edgar just to spare Anthony that grief.

  Anthony’s horse was spent by the time he slid from its back and abandoned it at the front door to rush into the hall. Hawkins, whose lesser-bred nag was slower but had more stamina, was at his heels.

  “Simpson,” Anthony yelled. “Where is Miss de Chastelux?”

  “I haven’t seen her this afternoon,” the butler replied stiffly.

  Kitty emerged from a drawing room. “Anthony,” she said in a worried voice. “Jacobin has disappeared. She’s not in her room, and we can’t find her anywhere downstairs.”

  Barely registering that Walter Thornley stood beside her, holding her hand, Anthony grasped Kitty by the shoulders. “When did you last see her?”

  “Several hours ago.” Kitty’s tone was sheepish. “Perhaps she went out for a walk.” She sounded doubtful, as well she might, given that the rain was coming down in sheets, assisted by a growing gale.

  He tore into the library and looked out of the window. There was one hope. In the half light he could make out something white clinging damply to the urn.

  Thank God.

  “The hamlet,” he said. “Have someone follow me with a heavy cloak and order a bath—two baths—for our return.”

  His own attire was still sodden from the ride but he gave it no mind. She was likely awaiting him, warm, dry, and safe in the Queen’s House, yet his anxiety wouldn’t be assuaged until he had her in his arms. He ran out of the library door and took the steps from the terrace in leaps.

  He could see light in the Queen’s House but the door was swinging, wide open. “Jacobin,” he shouted at the threshold.

  He could hear nothing above the wail of the wind, the creak of hinge
s, and the thudding of his heart. Something—a movement?—off to one side caught his attention, and he peered into the deepening gloom, to the other end of the lake. She couldn’t be out on the bridge, could she?

  The bridge, Jacobin thought. It had to be on the bridge. Once they had crossed it, Edgar would push her down the steep slope into the roaring stream. She’d considered her chances of swimming to safety and regretfully dismissed them. She was, at best, a weak swimmer and the water would be icy, the current fierce, and her clothes would weigh her down.

  The railing of balusters along the sides of the gently arched structure was low, no more than knee-high at most. If she could distract Edgar as they crossed she might be able to unbalance him and push him into the water. It wasn’t much of a plan but the best she could come up with. She had the advantage of near darkness and knowing the territory.

  She could feel Edgar’s breath on her neck each time she hesitated on the rain-soaked path, and he pressed her from behind.

  “Keep moving,” he muttered.

  They were at the end of the bridge now, and she increased her pace, praying she wouldn’t slip on the three shallow steps that led to the apex of the structure and that Edgar would. At her little spurt of speed, she drew away from the gun barrel that had been nudging her back the whole way from the Queen’s House. She listened intently, desperately waiting for her chance.

  It came, she thought. Not sure if she was correct in sensing a hitch in his walk, a booted foot hitting the riser of a step, she swung around with all her strength, slamming her arm against Edgar’s body.

  She heard a splash—the gun falling into the water, she hoped—and hurled herself at her cousin. He slumped onto his rear, arms splayed, his head against the railing.

  “You bitch,” he shouted, struggling to rise, but she was on him now. She grabbed him by the ears and banged his head against the stone coping, over and over, beyond caring what she did to him.

  Afterward she realized she might have killed him had a pair of strong arms not pulled her away.

  “You rescued me again,” she muttered.

  “I think you rescued yourself,” Anthony replied. His tone was steady, even a little amused. But the way he held her close to his hammering heart and pressed kisses over every inch of her face told her all about the measure of his relief. “It seems to have been Edgar who needed rescuing.”

  She twisted her head to see her cousin, blood oozing from his head, being trussed up by Tom Hawkins.

  “You knew I was strong.”

  “It’s lucky I like strong women.”

  “I love you,” she said, and relaxed into his embrace.

  Chapter 29

  With Edgar awaiting trial for Candover’s murder, Kitty had decreed that a hasty marriage was unnecessary and they could wait for St. George’s, Hanover Square in the spring. A compromise was negotiated in the form of a Boxing Day wedding at Storrington in the presence of every cousin, distant connection, and miscellaneous member of the ton who could be lured to Sussex for the occasion. A surprising number had been ready to change their Yuletide plans at the last minute.

  Charming people for the most part, but Jacobin found life somewhat lacking in drama. And excitement. It seemed like an age since she’d been able to snatch more than five minutes alone with Anthony. Being a fiancée was tame compared with the role of a mistress. With the house bursting at the seams, discreet nocturnal passage creeping was an impossibility.

  The day before Christmas she excused herself from a ladies’ decorating session in the drawing room and crept outside. Through the windows of the library she could see a group of men sitting around with glasses of brandy and spending a thoroughly enjoyable afternoon without the distraction of holly, pine boughs, and mistletoe.

  James Storrs glimpsed her from the room and winked at her. She’d already established a friendship with Anthony’s easygoing younger brother. She shrugged at him and rolled her eyes. He must have drawn his brother’s attention to the window. Anthony looked out at her with a smile that made her heart race.

  Quickly she turned her back on him, not without a come-hither glance over her shoulder and a wave of a length of satin ribbon. She was running low on garters. When she reached the London shops she was going to have to get some new ones, in every available color.

  It took him a ridiculously long time to extract himself from the masculine gathering. Probably listening to an improper story, she thought waspishly as she roamed around the saloon of the Queen’s House. Its rich rococo decor, in marked contrast to the faux rustic exterior, never failed to make her think of France. With a pang of nostalgia laced with sadness, she wished her parents could be at her wedding.

  And Anthony’s too. She found Catherine Storrington’s actions perplexing. Although Anthony had come far in reconciling himself to her death, it would take a long time for him to be truly at peace with her abandonment of him. He had accepted that he would never discover the identity of his mother’s lover.

  Her attention fixed on the late Lady Storrington’s desk, which she recalled had once resided in her boudoir and been brought to the Queen’s House after her death. It was an elaborate object, not large, but paneled in two or three different woods and trimmed with ormolu. At a glance it looked like a small armoire, but the front hinged down to form the writing surface and reveal an intriguing nest of drawers, cubbyholes, and little cupboards. Although far more elaborate, it reminded Jacobin of a piece her mother had owned in Paris.

  Her mother had told her Marie Antoinette was particularly fond of such desks. In fact the French name for them, secrétaires, with its double-entendre connotation of secrecy, had been used by the queen’s detractors to suggest that she was using her numerous writing desks to conceal secret documents. With nothing else to do, Jacobin poked around in the piece, opening and shutting drawers and doors to see if there could possibly be a hidden compartment.

  Idle curiosity became genuine interest when she noticed that a niche on one side was shallower than its twin. There might be a space behind it large enough to hold a small bundle of papers. Groping inside, she detected a slot, about the size of a sixpence. She inserted a fingernail and pried away the back panel. Something fell out: letters, and a miniature portrait in a gilt frame.

  She knew who it was at once, for the face was as familiar to her as her own. Chestnut curls, brown eyes, a firm straight nose, and a cleft chin. A masculine version of herself. Her father.

  Silently she handed him the miniature.

  “Is this your father?” Anthony asked. “You didn’t tell me you had a portrait of him. You really are very like him.”

  “I found it in the desk.”

  His mind grappled with the meaning of her words. “Why…how?”

  He accepted a letter from her outstretched hand and examined the single sheet carefully. The paper was of good quality but the folds were fragile, as though it had been opened and read many times. The handwriting was unfamiliar, in a foreign style. “It’s in French. Will you read it to me?”

  She nodded, eyes shining with tears.

  “‘My dearest Catherine,’” she translated. “‘With a heavy heart I write my adieu to you. I understand that your duty and devotion to your family must come before our love. You will return to England with your good husband and live once more with your beloved Anthony and the little Kitty. Don’t be sad, my love. The thought of your melancholy weighs on my soul. I want only your happiness, and it tears my heart that we can never find joy together. Be happy with Lord Storrington and your precious children whom you love so much. I shall marry Felicity and do my best to be a good husband, for she deserves it. And I shall devote my efforts to improving the lot of my unhappy country, to making my fellow citizens free and happy and peaceful. Have care of yourself, Catherine. And avoid Candover. Although he will be my brother-in-law, I fear his malice and his spirit of vengeance.’”

  Tears poured down Jacobin’s cheeks and choked her voice. “‘Since the first moment I saw you at T
rianon your beauty and loveliness of spirit have possessed my senses. Although our love will never be consommé…’”

  She hesitated. “Consumed…or consummated?”

  “Consummated, I imagine,” Anthony said softly.

  “‘Although our love will never be consummated, the very great passion I have for you will never die. On the day of my death I shall hold your image in my heart. Adieu my Catherine, my very dear Catherine. I will love you always. Auguste.’”

  Anthony’s mind was a blank.

  “I’m sorry, Anthony,” she said, but he was hardly attending.

  “Impossible. It’s incredible.” He tried to think, though his brain felt as though it were stuffed with bran.

  He was the handsomest man in France. Candover’s words came back to him during their first infamous card game. He hadn’t heeded them at the time, but it was the first hint: that Candover had hated his brother-in-law because he’d won the heart of the woman he wanted. It was all there had he thought to look: the clues to a trail of events that led from a visit to Marie Antoinette’s retreat at Versailles in 1786 to this moment in this house, built in imitation of the same corner of the French royal estate.

  “How could I not have seen it?” he said aloud. “The truth was there to see had I interpreted things correctly.”

  Jacobin couldn’t believe it. She was standing there, her heart broken, and he was thinking logically.

  It wouldn’t last, she knew. Soon the anger that had long burned over her uncle would turn against her father, then her.