James drummed a stern finger on the scarred table. “Our first priority is to see you don’t hang. We need to work toward reducing the charge to manslaughter instead of murder.”
“Are you offering to assist in my defense?” Patrick asked his friend, surprised. MacKenzie was trained as a solicitor, not a barrister.
James waved a dismissive hand. “You’ve saved my own sorry arse on more than one occasion, and a solicitor’s life in Moraig is so deadly dull as to justify killing someone, just to stir things up. You’ll not deny me the chance, even if I’m relegated to the sidelines.” His green eyes narrowed. “Is there only the one witness? Perhaps we can discredit her testimony.”
“Aye. Just the one.” Patrick took a cautious sip of his whisky, welcoming the noxious burn. “But Miss Baxter’s word will be devilishly hard to dispute.”
David’s jaw tightened. “Miss Baxter? Julianne Baxter?”
“Aye.” Patrick offered his friend a half-hearted scowl. “No thanks to you, she’s shown up here in Moraig.”
David returned a conciliatory grimace. “Ah hell, I am sorry about that. She was far too curious when your name came up in Brighton.” He paused, and then lifted a brow. “Pretty bit of skirt, though, and you’re still unattached. Perhaps you could seduce the truth out of her.”
Patrick eased back, his muscles slowly uncoiling. “Well, that pretty bit of skirt is upstairs right now. She came to tell me the news of my father’s death and the looming inquest. And I’d as soon strangle her as seduce her, thank you very much.”
James’s mouth turned down in his predictable solicitor’s frown. “I am trying to understand Miss Baxter’s motivation. Why would the witness whose statement could well send you to the gallows come to Moraig to find you?”
This was the part Patrick himself didn’t understand. There was no reason for Julianne to be here, to have delivered this news. No possible logic could have propelled her to traipse across the country to confront a man she had accused of murder.
Then again, logic had never been Miss Baxter’s style.
“She came to deliver an apology, of sorts, although I can’t credit her with having much of a conscience. If she did, she wouldn’t have lied in the first place.” Patrick studied his glass. “She’ll pay for it though. With her reputation, I’m afraid. Reverend Ramsey saw her at my house this evening in a state of . . . undress.” He smiled tightly against the memory. “The man almost had an apoplectic fit.”
David chuckled, a whisky-rich sound. “I thought you said you didn’t want to seduce her.”
“I didn’t touch her.” Patrick swirled the pale liquid around his glass a studious minute. Perhaps he should have touched her. He’d certainly enjoyed kissing her, once upon a time. He felt an acute discomfort in the thought of her near-certain downfall, though it was scarcely his fault she’d shed her bodice in his bloody kitchen. When word of this misadventure reached London, her reputation would be as close to destroyed as an unmarried woman’s could be, lacking an actual babe in her arms.
“You mentioned Miss Baxter had come to apologize,” James said slowly. “Could she have changed her mind about what she saw that day?”
Patrick considered their conversation on the kitchen floor. She’d not said anything about changing her mind, not even when he’d directly asked her if she believed him capable of murder. “No, I don’t think so. It is more that she regrets seeing what all of this has done to my family. But there is no undoing it. She’s been called as a witness for the inquest. I really don’t see any way around it.”
“A wife cannot be compelled to testify against her husband.” James shrugged. “Privilege of marriage, and all that.”
“Given that I don’t have a wife, I fail to see—”
“Yet,” James interrupted. “You don’t have a wife yet.” He leaned forward. “You claim she is sorry for her role in all of this. Did she provide a sworn statement after Eric’s death?”
Patrick thought back to that terrible day. The local magistrate had been there—that much he recalled. But he could not remember her giving anything resembling a sworn statement. “No, I don’t think so.”
“If you can convince Miss Baxter to marry you, you’ll have dispensed of the sole witness to the crime and neatly dealt with the problem of her damaged reputation.”
The suggestion made Patrick feel as if he were the one who had been shot. “She accused me of murder, MacKenzie. I assure you, she won’t have me.”
“Don’t dismiss the possibility outright,” David cautioned. “If the girl came all the way to Moraig, it suggests she might feel something for you. Guilt, attraction—what does it matter, if it works in your favor?”
“I could never—”
James’s hand slammed down on the table, cutting him off and rattling their glasses. “You need to stop thinking that way. You could hang for this, Patrick. This isn’t a lark we are talking about. It’s your goddamned life.”
“You think I don’t realize my neck is two steps shy of a noose?” Patrick retorted. “But to trick her into it . . .” He trailed off, abruptly stepping over that first, gentlemanly impulse that he would never do something so calculated, and then veering right to the spot where his friends were urging him. The thought of spending a lifetime saddled with the woman’s sharp tongue and shallow thoughts might make the gallows seem an attractive option, but there was no denying his body approved of Julianne’s ample physical charms.
His conscience aside, he might be able to do such a thing, might be able to justify such a terrible means to achieve a much-needed end. There was an odd symmetry to such justice, he had to admit. The unfairness of the situation did more than chafe—it rubbed great, gaping wounds in his soul. If things continued gathering speed along this treacherous path that stretched before him, his sisters and mother—who were undeniably the innocent victims in this drama—would be turned out of the house they had always known, near penniless. And there was that small, trifling matter that he would very likely be hanged for a crime he did not commit.
The repeated reminder of what he stood to lose—namely, his neck—made his pulse thump uncomfortably in his veins. Who was to say he couldn’t marry a woman under such dire circumstances? Particularly the woman who had caused all of the trouble?
“I would be the worst sort of bounder,” he said hesitantly.
“Better a bounder than a corpse,” James argued.
Patrick tossed back the remnants of his whisky before raising his eyes to meet his friend’s intense gaze. “You are maddeningly persistent.”
“A good trait to have in a solicitor.”
“Well, in a friend, it is proving nettlesome. You don’t know her like I do. I might prefer the noose.” Although, as soon as the words tumbled from Patrick’s mouth, an unbidden thought came to him, of Julianne, flushed and flirtatious, waltzing in his arms. Of the small sound she had made, there in her throat, as he’d deepened that ill-advised but unforgettable kiss.
He’d felt more than a marginal attraction to her then.
“Then you’ll condemn her,” James said quietly.
Patrick’s gaze jerked up from the distraction of his empty glass. “How will I condemn her?” he demanded.
“Offering false testimony against a peer is a serious offense. Potentially a hanging offense.” James chased his chilling words with a nonchalant shrug. “You claim she lied about the events of that day. Marrying the girl to prevent her testimony would protect her as well. If you don’t, she’ll be compelled to give a statement under oath. And I swear to you, I am going to do my damnedest to prove her claims false.”
Patrick’s thoughts cartwheeled against the threat James had flung out so mercilessly across the table. Until now, his neck was the only one he had considered at risk. “But I was not a peer when my brother died,” he protested.
James raised his glass in a jest of a salute. “You are a peer now, in case you haven’t sorted it out yet in that thick skull of yours. The charge is still pending
, and there is no legal means to prevent your recognition as heir. You will be tried in the House of Lords.”
Patrick slumped back against the hard back of his chair. He was a second son, had never expected to claim a place in the peerage. For so much of his life he’d kept his nose in his books, outside the rank and file. The thought of being shoved into their midst left him feeling numb.
But that was nothing compared to the thought of Julianne with a noose placed about her long, pretty neck.
“Being tried in the House of Lords is your best chance to survive this. It is devilishly hard to prosecute a peer who is guilty of murder, much less one whose crime is more correctly considered manslaughter. And with the new law removing the privilege of peerage, those who sit in the House will probably be more reluctant than ever to find others of their own class guilty.” James hesitated. “But if she testifies against you, it won’t go well for her there.”
Cold fingers of worry squeezed Patrick’s chest. “There’s no time. She’s underage, and if she’s to have her way we’re both off for Yorkshire on tomorrow’s coach.” And more to the point, Julianne was the toast of London and could have her pick of nearly anyone she wanted. Compelling a woman like that to marry a man she believed capable of murder would be about as easy as threading a rope through the eye of a needle.
“Hang that.” David rolled his eyes. “You are in Scotland. The sodding truth is you can be married within the hour if you want to. Or have you forgotten the disgraceful circumstances of MacKenzie’s marriage?”
Patrick somehow found a grim smile at that. No, he had not forgotten his friend’s drunken night and hasty wedding, which had somehow—against all odds—turned into a marriage to envy. “I really wish you wouldn’t use that word.”
“Sodding?”
“Hang. I prefer to avoid the reminder, if you don’t mind. And I cannot be married tonight if she refuses me. Which I assure you, she will if she believes I offer marriage for a devious purpose.”
“Then delay the journey.” James leaned forward, his hands splayed on the table. “Woo her. Convince her of your affection. Convince her of her ruin. But for God’s sake, don’t return to England without fixing this.”
Chapter 6
Was it possible to require a bath after a bath?
If one made a habit of traveling in mail coaches and rolling about on filthy floors, it seemed likely. Julianne’s bathwater quickly turned a weak-tea shade of brown, and as faint-headed as she felt that so much dirt had been permitted to accumulate on her, the idea of soaking in such water was worse still.
But even dirty water was preferable to slipping back into her gown. It lay in a foul green heap, sullying the floorboards beneath. She climbed out of the cooling bath and eyed her only clothing with a dawning sense of horror. Sliding back between those sticky, bloodstained layers wasn’t just a poor idea: it was close to a physical impossibility.
She wrapped herself in the threadbare excuse for a towel the maid had left and, lacking even a proper comb, tried to pull her fingers through her wet, tangled curls. All the while, she felt dragged under by the events and revelations of the day. She’d hoped, she supposed, she would have arrived in Moraig to find Patrick Channing as unlikable and unredeemable as the London gossips claimed him to be. Then it would have been easier to forgive herself for her role in all of this. Instead, she’d found a man who devoted his life to saving those whom fate had frowned upon. She’d ruined his life, and he’d gone on to make a new one. A good one.
She glanced down at her nails, the tips of which were ragged as a result of her ill-timed journey. Not for the first time, she cursed the impulsiveness that seemed to trail her despite her best intentions to keep it firmly harnessed.
And where on earth was her bag? She had expected it to be brought up a quarter hour ago, and had left explicit instructions regarding its prompt delivery.
Its absence sent her mind careening in a dangerous direction. Had it been stolen from the posting house? Its imagined loss was as much a cause for panic as the thought she might have to wear the green walking dress again.
A firm knock at the door granted a reprieve from her mounting panic. “Just a moment!” she called out, securing the towel in a hasty fist across her chest, her skin itching in anticipation of a clean night rail. “Come in.”
But it was not the hotel maid who came into view as the door tipped open. Patrick stood on the threshold, his head skimming the top of the door frame. His brown-eyed gaze locked on her face, a fact that should have seemed comforting, given the other bits and parts of her that might have drawn his attention. But this was Patrick, and she was almost naked, and even that safest of visual exchanges jarred with the ferocity of a thunderclap.
Despite the chill in the air, heat licked along her limbs. Heavens, but standing in close proximity to this man did unexpected—and not entirely pleasant—things to her stomach. She filled her lungs with the necessary outrage. “I am not dressed, Patrick!” She wrestled the towel higher, praying she was not revealing worse in the process of ensuring her bosom was covered.
“Then you should not have invited me in.”
Her gaze settled on the hard line of his jaw. On another man, the expression might have been easy to dismiss, but for Patrick, who wore his emotions on the inside, he might have well been shouting. Why did he look angry? She was the one standing with only a towel to protect her from total ruin. The man ought to avert his eyes, at the very least.
He held up her bag in this right hand. “I’ve brought your things from the posting house.” His lips flattened into a straight-line frown. “The way you demanded.”
Julianne’s eye fell on her valise even as the distinctive scent of Scottish whisky—that vile drink that was becoming so fashionable among the ton—floated toward her on the air. Comprehension dawned. He’d been downstairs drinking, all this time. Probably holding her bag hostage to vex her.
Well, if he was going to play at being a slothful ladies’ maid, she would treat him thusly.
Securing the fingers of one hand against her towel, she pointed to the floor with the other. “You may leave it.”
His face remained impassive, but he placed her bag—a little too agreeably—on the floor.
She waved her hand airily behind her. “And you may take my supper tray as you go.”
He eyed her a long, slow moment, seeming to come to some decision. He dutifully moved inside the room. But then he stopped. Closed the door.
Turned the key in the lock and held it up for inspection.
Julianne took a scrambling step backward. She glanced around the room for evidence of what he meant to do behind a newly locked door, cataloging the various blurry pieces that might be his intended destination.
Bed. Hip bath. Bureau. Window.
Her eyes jerked back to the bed. Worse than what he meant to do, what did her treacherous heart want him to do?
His eyes were little more than brown shadows in the dimly lit room, but there was no mistaking the glint of the key in his hand. He examined it a moment, and then slipped it into his pocket. “You had the means to lock the door, and yet did not. Do you always abandon yourself to fate without thinking?”
She tilted her chin upward. “I do not believe in fate.”
“No? You have a means of tempting it, Julianne. You left the door unlocked during your bath. That could have ended badly . . . not all gentlemen knock first.”
“You, sir, are no gentleman.”
He reached down and picked up her bag again. “I believe we established that during our first meeting.” He took a step toward her, and Julianne’s pulse leaped to life beneath her skin at his approach. Not because she was locked in a room with a man suspected of murder, but because she was locked in a room with Patrick, and her pulse had ideas of its own.
He tossed her bag on the bed. “Put something on. There are things we need to discuss.”
“I cannot dress if you stay here,” she protested. The screaming inappropriaten
ess of this scenario made the earlier interaction with the vicar seem the very definition of propriety.
He made no move to extract the key from his pocket, but he did angle his body toward the wall, offering her his back. “I promise I won’t look.” His voice softened. “That is, unless you give me leave.”
Julianne shivered against the onslaught of that deep, rumbly baritone that she suspected, if properly applied, could make women’s clothes everywhere fall off their shoulders.
If they were wearing any, that was.
With that pointed reminder, she rummaged through the bag that seemed suspiciously more mussed than she remembered, and yanked out the first thing her fingers closed upon. “Why are you here, Haversham?”
“Please don’t call me that.”
She shook out her white night rail with a vicious snap of fabric. “Then what should I call you?”
“Patrick would be preferred, I suppose.” He exhaled loudly. “I’ve just come from the public room,” he offered to the wall. “Others . . . know.”
Her fingers tightened over the thin fabric. “Others know what, exactly?”
“About us.” His voice bounced off the faded wallpaper and gained momentum. “And the matter with the vicar.”
She shook her head against his cautionary warning. “I am not worried about a few rumors from the vicar. The man commands a flock of Highlanders, for heaven’s sake, not a London ballroom.” Julianne cast a wary glance at Patrick’s still-proffered back, then dropped the last shred of her dignity along with her towel and jerked the cotton night rail over her head. “Moraig is but a rustic slice of Scotland, Patrick. It will soon blow over.”
“Moraig has wider circles than you might imagine. David Cameron already knows. It stands to reason his new wife does too. I believe you are acquainted with them both?”
Julianne found her comb in her bag and went to work on the damp tangles that were threatening to take permanent root in her scalp. “You may turn back around now,” she told him, trying to reconcile the little town she had glimpsed this afternoon with any sort of gossip trade, much less one substantial enough to send out ripples to be felt in London. “And Cameron is of no consequence. His wife—while lovely—isn’t even a proper lady.”
Moonlight on My Mind Page 7
