Harlequin E Shivers Box Set Volume 4: The HeadmasterDarkness UnchainedForget Me NotQueen of Stone

by Tiffany Reisz

  Winrow’s face did not betray any emotion. “Certainly, my lord. What would you have me do with them?”

  “Good God, how am I supposed to know? Chuck them in the nearest dustbin…”

  Winrow cast a slightly plaintive glance in my direction. “I will arrange to have them moved to a more suitable place,” I said soothingly, and I sensed the butler’s relief. He gave me a stiff little bow. “I expect Finty or Eleanor will want to keep them,” I explained to Uther when Winrow had left the room.

  “Finty and Eleanor can keep them in their new home,” he said. My confusion must have shown on my face because he added, “The home they will need to find so that they can leave us in peace once we are married.”

  “Oh, no, Uther! This is their home. I would not for the world expect them to leave it.”

  “You might not, my sweet, but I bloody well will.”

  The next morning, Finty’s shoulders drooped as she carefully placed the photographs into a cardboard box. “I knew that Uther would want to change things,” she explained sadly. “It’s only natural that he would. But…” She sighed, regarding the photograph of Cad and Bouche. “Oh, Annie. I loved them so much and these pictures are so much a part of what they meant to me. It’s going to be very hard not seeing them here every day.”

  It did seem harsh, but Uther had made his thoughts on the matter very clear. “You can put the pictures in your room or Eleanor’s,” I said.

  “Yes, of course I can.” She attempted a smile. “Don’t mind me and my silly sentimentality!”

  Uther and Nicca had gone into Wadebridge to meet with a solicitor about some legal matters. I felt suddenly cold at the thought that Uther wasn’t there within the walls of Tenebris. This was followed by a feeling of intense foolishness. My own neediness terrified me. Was I destined to spend the rest of my life feeling this extreme loneliness whenever he was not at my side? This wasn’t who I was! I was made of sterner stuff. Yet at the same time, in his absence, a niggling sense of annoyance at Uther’s behaviour crept in that I did not feel when I was with him. What harm did it do to have the photographs here? And if they had to be moved, why must I be the one to deal with the sadness in Finty’s eyes and the censure in Tristan’s?

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  “But this is fascinating! Your mother actually knew Lady Sarah Wilson?” Tristan asked, and I nodded in confirmation. He flicked through the pages of my mother’s diary, exclaiming over some of the points and muttering in frustration at the missing pages. “My dear Annie, do you know who Lady Sarah is?”

  “I know that she was a war correspondent who sent dispatches back to the English newspapers giving details of conditions in Maheking during the siege. From my mother’s diary, I also know that they became good friends during that time,” I explained.

  “Lady Sarah was the youngest daughter of the Duke of Marlborough,” Tristan told me. “She was born a Churchill, and later married Lieutenant-Colonel Gordon Wilson, who was second in command to Colonel Baden-Powell at Maheking. My dear Annie, your mother must have been a very important lady if she could count Winston Churchill’s favourite aunt as her best friend!”

  I started to laugh at the very idea. “No, indeed she wasn’t! She was a boer’s daughter on a visit to her aunt, whose husband owned a baker’s shop. My grandmother is a wealthy woman now, but most of her fortune was made after the Boer War. In those days, my mother’s family was a humble one.”

  Uther appeared in the study doorway. He caught my eye and jerked his head toward the door, indicating that he thought I had heard quite enough family history for one day. I suspected that he had plans for me that did not involve paperwork, and a tiny shiver of anticipation ran down my spine. I offered a sympathetic expression in return and watched him shrug, then depart. The invisible bond that held us together tugged at me, willing me to go with him. Convention and my liking for Tristan kept me where I was.

  “But this is most intriguing,” Tristan exclaimed. “I am at a loss to understand how your mother came to move in the same circles as Lady Sarah, let alone grew to be on such good terms with her. Did you say your mother met your father during the siege of Maheking? Could he have known her ladyship?”

  “I think that was highly unlikely. He was an artillery man under Lord Baden-Powell’s command, a common soldier with no rank or fortune.”

  “What was his name?”

  “I don’t know,” I replied bluntly. Sensing his embarrassment at my response, I continued, “We believe, from a letter I found in my mother’s belongings, that his first name was Austell, and it seems likely that he came from Port Isaac. That is one of the main reasons that Rudi and I chose to holiday here.”

  “You parents didn’t marry?” His blue eyes held a world of sympathy as they scanned my face. And, of course, if anyone could sympathise with how I felt about my illegitimacy, Tristan could.

  “No. Van der Merwe is our mother’s name. We have no idea what our father’s family name was.” I smiled in an attempt to show him that he had not upset me with his questions. “We hoped to discover, while we were here, something more about him. But with only a first name to go on, it was always going to be a difficult task, wasn’t it?”

  “Perhaps not,” he said. He drew the book containing the family tree forward and opened it, running his finger up the page. He tapped a name for emphasis. Born in 1765, Tynan Jago’s grandfather—the man who was the first Uther Jago’s father—had been named Austell. “Far too long ago, of course, and Austell is quite a common Cornish name,” Tristan pointed out. “But we do have another string to our bow.” He gave me a cheeky grin that made him look suddenly younger. “Sarah Wilson just happens to be a neighbour of mine in Mayfair. She can be a cantankerous old snob at times, but she loves a gossip over a glass of port. It doesn’t take much to get her onto the subject of ‘the good old days’—those halcyon times of starvation, typhus and dysentery—in Maheking. I’ll sound her out about your mother, see what I can discover.”

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  “I am going to take Eleanor back to London with me,” Tristan explained to Finty and me. “She is old and change is difficult for her to accept. It is only natural for Uther to want to make Tenebris his own, but it is distressing for her to see so much that is familiar disappear.” He kept his voice neutral, and I knew that was for my sake. He was far too diplomatic to malign Uther in my presence. “Do you care to join us, Finty? You are very welcome.”

  “Oh!” A shy smile crossed Finty’s delicate features. “Ordinarily, Uncle Tristan, you know I would love to do so. But, do you know, I find I would quite like to stay at Tenebris just at the present time.”

  “Yes, I thought you might,” he said. They both looked out of the window at where Rudi stood poring over his sketchbook.

  When it was time for them to leave, I helped Eleanor into the car and placed a blanket over her knees. She turned her sad blue eyes to me and gripped my wrist with surprising strength. In a voice that was rusty from decades of neglect, she said softly, “Be very careful, child.”

  I glanced around to see if anyone else had heard this remarkable phenomenon. It appeared they had not. “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “Look into your own heart and into those around you,” she whispered, sitting back in the seat with a tired smile. “You will find that all is not what it seems.”

  For some reason that I could not quite fathom, I didn’t mention to anyone else the strange circumstance of the woman who had been mute for over half a century suddenly finding her voice. When I looked back and examined my motives, I knew it was because I did not want to have to explain what she had said to me. Instead, I stood with Finty and dutifully waved until Tristan’s elegant Bentley disappeared along the track.

  I returned to the parlour where Uther and Nicca were yawning over the newspapers. Rudi and Finty followed me. Their hands were clasped, and identical smiles adorned their faces. Something about them—a glow, a shimmering happiness—dragged at my heart in a way that was alien
to me.

  “We are going to be married,” Rudi said proudly, and Finty snuggled shyly into his side, her eyes bright with love as she gazed up at him. “Tristan gave us his blessing before he left.”

  Nicca jumped up, clasping Rudi’s hand and clapping him so hard on the back that he staggered a little. Then he swept Finty up into a bear hug, swinging her round in a circle until she squealed for mercy.

  “I couldn’t be happier for you both,” he told them. The words irked me, like a bit of food stuck between my teeth. Why couldn’t he have said the same to Uther and me, even if he didn’t mean it?

  After that display, my own hugs and congratulations seemed oddly muted, and I was aware of Rudi watching my face with disappointment darkening the golden depths of his eyes. Finty was so overexcited that she appeared not to notice.

  Uther sent for champagne. “The plan to rid the place of the hangers-on seems to be going well,” he murmured to me over the rim of his glass as we drank a toast.

  Later, as I changed for dinner, Rudi came to my room. His face was serious as he sat on the edge of my bed.

  “This isn’t like you, Annie.”

  “What isn’t?” I could hear the dangerous note in my own voice. He knew me well enough to recognise it, too, but this was obviously going to be one of the rare occasions when he didn’t back down in the face of my stronger personality.

  “My sister Annie wouldn’t be jealous of my happiness.”

  I ignored the suggestion that somehow I was no longer his sister Annie. “Jealous?” I swung round on the dressing table stool. “You really think that?”

  “It’s how it looks, Annie.”

  I drew a deep, steadying breath. “Why would I be jealous of you and Finty becoming engaged when I am about to be married myself?”

  He held my gaze. “Perhaps because what Finty and I have is a normal, happy, healthy relationship. And because somewhere deep down inside—in a part of you that you haven’t acknowledged—you know Uther is not the right man for you. Perhaps you even know what the rest of us do…that there is something very wrong about your relationship with him.”

  “The rest of us? Have you been having cosy little chats about us with Finty and Nicca? Perhaps darling Uncle Tristan or poor, dear Aunt Eleanor?” I mimicked Finty’s breathy voice, and then felt mean and spiteful for doing so.

  “You know me better than that. But you are different when you’re with him, Annie. It’s obvious to anyone who knows you. And I know you best of all.”

  “You know what, Rudi? I think you should mind your own bloody business about who I marry, and I’ll do the same for you. I happen to like Finty”—Was that true? The thought fluttered away from me, rather in the manner of Finty herself—“but if you want to get me started on whether I think she’s the right wife for you—”

  He interrupted me. “You mean she might not cope with the climate and the insects and the animals in Africa, don’t you? Yes, she might struggle with those things, Annie. She’s not evil, though, is she?” I didn’t answer. I knew where this was going, and I couldn’t trust my voice. He stood up, his limp more pronounced than ever as he walked to the door. “You can look daggers at me all you like. I mean it, Annie. Uther is evil, and if you had any sense you would run a mile—several miles—to get away from him.”

  When he had gone, I turned to study my reflection in the mirror. My face was white, my eyes huge. Because, until now, Rudi and I had never argued or even exchanged an angry word. And contrary to what anyone—an image of Ouma’s strong, tanned features appeared in my mind—might think, it was not because he had always, before this day, deferred to me. It was because I actually listened to him. Because his opinion mattered to me. And because, when we did disagree, he was usually right.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  “You are left with only me now, aren’t you?” Nicca asked. We were rarely alone together, a circumstance I knew was his choice. On this occasion, however, he had deliberately sought me out while I was seated in the parlour, writing a much-put-off letter to Ouma. When I returned an uncomprehending look, he continued in the same harsh tone. “Well, Eleanor is most unlikely to return to her family home. The place where she was born and has lived all her life. Finty will be off to Africa soon. So there is only me left for you and Uther to get rid of now. Don’t worry, I’ll go quietly. But there is something I want you to hear first.”

  I bounced up from my seat. Following my conversation with Rudi, another lecture was the last thing I needed. But there was a very determined look in those blue eyes. In this mood, Nicca Jago had the ability to make me feel like I was back in that Ladysmith schoolroom on the day I put a toad in the teacher’s desk.

  “What’s the matter, Annie? Don’t you want to know the truth about the man you are going to lock yourself away with, all alone here at Tenebris?” Nicca demanded, and I knew from his expression that he had fought a bitter battle with himself before confronting me. I tried to walk away then, but he grabbed me by my upper arms and shook me. Shocked, I squirmed and twisted in his grip, but he didn’t release me. “No, by God, Annie, I’ve stood by and watched for long enough. You are going to listen to this!”

  I tried a new tactic and subsided against him, standing still and submissive and timing my breathing to match his own. I thought it would unnerve him, but he didn’t respond. “Very well, Nicca,” I said quietly. “What do you wish to tell me about Uther? Your brother…the man I love?”

  He drew in a ragged breath, which I felt resonate through my own body. “God knows how hard I have tried to dismiss these thoughts about my own brother, Annie. I haven’t spoken of my suspicions to another soul, but before you marry him, you deserve to know.” It was as though the words were being dragged forcibly from him one by one. “I don’t believe that Rory Jago was killed by a sniper’s bullet. I think Uther murdered him.”

  I surprised myself my managing to stay calm. “I see. And you have proof for this interesting theory, of course.”

  “No, I don’t have any proof, damn it! Just hear me out. Please?” I remained silent, and he risked letting me go. “Uther was in debt. I don’t just mean he owed a few pounds here and there. He was in deep trouble and some of the people to whom he owed money were turning nasty. His gambling has always been his downfall. He said to me once—half-jokingly—that if only Rory would die, all his problems would be solved. Oh, he took it back immediately when he saw the look on my face, but I had no doubt he meant it.”

  “That’s a big leap to make, Nicca, from Uther making a throwaway remark—admittedly one that was in bad taste—to building a theory that he committed a murder.”

  “Rory was our Colonel, our commanding officer,” he continued as though I hadn’t spoken. “And he was a bloody good one. He wasn’t a man to take unnecessary risks. That day, the day he died, was a quiet one. Most officers of Rory’s rank didn’t come down into the trenches at all, but he was different. He wanted to see what sort of conditions his men had to endure. Rory asked Uther to take him on a tour of the trenches so as not to disturb the other men. We called it a ‘make and mend’ day. We were resting, tending the wounded, repairing our uniforms and cleaning our weapons, getting ready for the next push forward. I warned them…” He broke off, his eyes looking into the distance. I knew he was seeing something other than the elegant parlour of Tenebris. Perhaps dwelling on the mud, blood and misery of that Flanders hellhole. “I often wonder if I might have given Uther the idea. I said, you see, that we had seen some sniper action a few days earlier. Rory assured me that he would stay low. He even laughed and said it was good to know his back was being covered by another Jago. They had been gone ten minutes or so when I heard Uther shouting for help. He was carrying Rory’s body.” He passed a hand over his eyes as though trying to shut out a memory.

  “What makes you think it was not a sniper?” I asked quietly.

  He shrugged. “Perhaps it was. Perhaps I’ve allowed the horror of that time in Flanders to cloud my judgment. At the time, I had to
act fast. With Rory dead, I was in command. The opening attack at Passchendaele was planned for the following day, and it was my job to ensure we were ready. It was only later that I began to question the events surrounding Rory’s death. The bullet was very low for a sniper, you see. Rory was shot through the neck. Here.” He pressed his fingers to the base of his throat. “So he must have been standing upright. Which was remarkably foolish for any man in the trenches, but for a soldier with Rory’s years of experience…Well, it is downright bizarre that he should have taken such a risk.”

  “Could he have tried to fire at the sniper if he saw him?” I asked. “He’d have had to stand to do so, wouldn’t he?”

  “It went against all his training to raise his head above the trench,” he said.

  “But the bullet itself must have confirmed that he was shot by a German,” I said. “If Uther shot him, the bullet would have been a British one.”

  “If there had been a bullet it might have answered those questions,” Nicca agreed, “but the bullet passed right through his neck and no trace of it was ever found.”

  “Couldn’t the doctor who examined him tell what distance the shot was fired from?”

  “Annie, we were in the trenches on the eve of a major battle. Before Cad brought his body home after the war and had him buried here, Rory lay in a Flanders Field with the thousands of other men who died in that monumental bloodbath. He never saw a doctor. He was bloody lucky to have a priest say a few words over his body.”

  I thought I was doing a very good job of keeping my temper in check, but he wasn’t exactly helping me. “And what did Uther say happened?”

  “He said he didn’t see anything. He turned away for an instant, heard a shot, turned back and Rory crumpled into his arms.”

  “Nicca, I still don’t see—”

  “No, I’m not telling this story very well, am I?” he said ruefully. “Rory was a man I liked and admired. The circumstances of his death are not a memory I care to dwell on. But there is more to it. In the furore that followed Rory’s shooting, I barely noticed another man—a private by the name of Wilson—make his way into the dugout. He came from the same direction that Uther had come as he carried Rory’s body. He was a little weasel of a man, and I watched him sidle up to Uther and whisper a few words to him. Uther went even whiter and muttered something about speaking to him later. It was a brief exchange, and I thought very little of it at the time. It was only after the war, when I saw Wilson again, that I recalled the incident.”