The Suspect's Daughter

by Donna Hatch

  His voice nudged her to action. And there was nothing she could do here.

  “I’m sorry,” Jocelyn whispered one last time to the family.

  Still grappling with her own helplessness, she headed to the door with the bundle of soiled linens under her arm. A tall frame blocked her path. Grant Amesbury stood in the doorway, his broad-shouldered form silhouetted by the gray sky outside.

  She made a vague gesture behind her. “I…” she couldn’t finish. Tears stung her eyes and a sob wrenched its way out of her. Clutching the bundle, she pushed past the enigmatic man in her path and rushed outside.

  In the fading sunlight, she stood holding the bundle, her head bowed while silent tears slid down her cheeks, cooling in the breeze.

  Another form approached, whistling. “Ah, Miss Fairley.”

  Jocelyn pressed her hand to her chest as she recognized Mr. Johnson’s voice. How would she break the news to him that his infant son was stillborn? She wiped her tears and raised her chin, determined to face the father with courage.

  “I just got word my Mary is about to have the baby…” his voice trailed off and his cheer faded to concern. “Is she…?” His gaze flitted over her, resting briefly on her gown.

  Following the line of his stare, Jocelyn lowered her gaze to the stain spread over her gown; her pinafore must not have been large enough nor thick enough to protect her clothing.

  “Mary?” he asked hoarsely, paling.

  She cleared her throat. “Your wife is alive and …” she stopped herself from saying well. No woman who lost a baby would be well. “She came through the birth unharmed.”

  His color returned at news of his wife but he waited, clearly sensing her news.

  She cleared her throat again. “But I’m afraid the child was…”

  His jaw went slack.

  “I’m so sorry, Mr. Johnson.”

  He clamped his mouth shut. The muscles of his face worked for a moment. Fisting his hands, he swallowed and drew himself up. “What went wrong?”

  “The cord was wrapped around his neck. It probably happened hours, or even days ago. There was nothing anyone could have done.” Yet she could not shake off the distress eating through her, the suspicion that an experienced, competent midwife could have saved the baby.

  Weeping coming from the cottage reached their ears, and Mr. Johnson turned his head toward it. In soft monotone, he said, “Thank you for your help, miss. We’re obliged.”

  “I’m only sorry I couldn’t do more.” She gestured toward the cottage. “She needs you now, very much.”

  He nodded and moved heavily inside. Sniffling attracted her attention. Two little girls huddled together next to the cottage, staring at her as if she were a monster. When she made eye contact, they both ran inside. Jocelyn stood hugging the bundle, her inadequacy crushing her. She sank to the ground. She’d been helpless to save the child, helpless to offer comfort, helpless to prevent tragedy.

  Horses’ hooves clopping on the ground grew louder behind her.

  “You cannot save everyone, Jocelyn.” Grant held Indigo’s and his horse’s reins.

  She shuddered. “No. But I try to save the ones in my power to do so.”

  “That one wasn’t.”

  She almost snapped at him that he wasn’t a doctor—how did he know if that child could have been saved. But she didn’t have the energy.

  He took the bundle from her and tied it to Indigo’s saddle. She remained motionless, staring over the fields ripe with summer harvest, a mocking contrast to the bereft family inside the cottage.

  Grant pulled her to her feet and guided her to her to Indigo’s side. After boosting her up, he stood solemnly eyeing her. “It’s something I learned in the war; you can’t save everyone. You just do what you can and hope it’s enough. Sometimes it isn’t.”

  The setting sun fell below the cloud bank and cast a warm glow over his grim features, softening the harsh lines. He tilted his chin toward the cottage. “You were very brave and calm in there. Army doctors weren’t always as collected.”

  She wiped the tears leaking out of her eyes. “Not so calm now.”

  “You’re human. You have a heart.”

  Her gaze dropped to her hands. Blood crusted around her fingernails. She probably looked like a ghoul, blood-stained and drained of life. A breeze blew a strand of hair over her eyes, and she pushed it back with shaking hands.

  “You’re exhausted,” he said softly. “Let’s get you back.”

  She nodded, grateful to let him take the lead. What a relief to rely on someone else for a change instead of always being the responsible one. She cast a sideways glance at Grant Amesbury, surprised to find in him a source of comfort.

  Each time she thought she understood him, she discovered a new facet of this remarkable man.

  Chapter 17

  Grant guided the silent, pale woman home, checking to make sure she didn’t fall from the saddle in her exhaustion. Her inner strength surprised him. No gently bred maiden of his acquaintance could have accomplished what she’d done, nor even tried. His sisters, Margaret and Rachel, were no wilting lilies, and Margaret had spent much of her youth in the stables helping foal horses, but he couldn’t imagine her delivering a baby.

  The efficiency with which Jocelyn dealt with the situation, including such a crushing blow, left him in awe. She rode next to him in silence. No hysterics, no wailing, just quiet, compassionate grief for one of her tenants who’d lost a child. She probably knew every tenant by name. They clearly loved and relied on her.

  This remarkable lady was no simpering weakling whose interests centered on finding a rich husband. Here was a woman of substance. And heart. The lucky man who won her love would have no fear of lies, no fear of deceit, no fear of betrayal.

  The sun set and the clouds darkened as he guided them back to the manor house. They reached the stables as the first raindrops fell. At the entrance to the stables, he lifted her down. Head bowed, she stood so close that the warmth of her body reached him.

  “Are you…feeling well?” he asked softly. Which, obviously was a pathetic question, but the right words eluded him.

  She took several deep breaths and let her head drop against his chest. Silent weeping shook her shoulders. He acted without thinking. Wrapping his arms around her, he pulled her in closer. She wept, still noiselessly, while he held her. An unfamiliar contentment stole over him. He excelled at hunting down criminals and took savage delight ensuring thugs and thieves got their due; it helped satisfy his thirst for vengeance. He couldn’t strike back at the one who had nearly destroyed him, but he could strike out at others who deserved to face the consequences of their wrong doings. Even the thrill of the hunt made him feel alive. Another part of him, a small, mostly unacknowledged part, prided himself on the knowledge that he protected the innocent from evil.

  But this offering of comfort was entirely new. And yet, it seemed familiar and necessary, as if he’d been missing a key gear to the mechanics of his life.

  She nestled in against him, all warmth and softness and that sweet fragrance. He rested his chin on top of her head and closed his eyes. It wouldn’t last, but he’d be a fool not to enjoy the long-absent moment of a woman in his arms or the uniquely powerful position in which he’d found himself—not the power to destroy or subdue, or even protect, but to comfort.

  Several rather satisfying moments he should not have enjoyed so much passed before she lifted her head. “Forgive me.”

  “Nothing to forgive.”

  She studied him. “You’re a complicated man.” Without explaining her cryptic comment, she stepped out of his arms, strode to the house, and disappeared inside.

  Grant spent the afternoon snooping around the house, half-heartedly searching for evidence of Fairley’s guilt.

  In the study, he found the desk left open and a stack of papers on top, which meant Fairley would probably be back in a moment. Grant quickly sifted through the papers. The bottom page caught his eye—a bill for
the purchase of twenty-five rifles, dated two days ago.

  Twenty-five rifles. Why would Fairley need so many rifles? It didn’t sound like a single assassination; it sounded like a battle.

  Dread sank into him. He was beginning to like Fairley. He seemed a decent man. If he hadn’t found such condemning evidence against him, Grant would have believed Jackson’s informant had lied.

  He rubbed his hands over his face. Jocelyn would be devastated. All of society would turn against her.

  He replaced the bill and left the study, cold down to his core. As he stepped through the doorway, he nearly collided with a surprisingly pretty maid.

  “Beggin’ yer pardon, sir.” With her gaze lowered, she sank into a curtsy.

  Grant mumbled to her and headed to the drawing room. As he crossed the great hall, he glanced back. With her dusting cloth in hand, the maid slipped into the study. Wasn’t she one of the parlor maids? Apparently, she had more duties than the parlor.

  Alone inside the drawing room, he pushed back his unaccountable disappointment in this latest evidence of Fairley’s involvement. He had a duty. And he still didn’t know when or where the conspirators planned to strike. Which brought him back to his task of getting invited to their meeting.

  Following voices, he stepped out onto the terrace and joined the group for a game of lawn bowls, listening in on conversations that might suggest a co-conspirator or at least give him further evidence of people’s characters. However, the more he interacted with the guests, the less he believed any one of them to be guilty. They had no clear motive. They were wealthy, powerful families with nothing apparent to gain from the death of the prime minister. None of them—not even Fairley—seemed the type to risk losing everything simply for the goal of putting Fairley in office. If they were involved, they’d have to have a compelling motive. Settling a grudge, perhaps?

  He’d found written evidence—several pieces, and there were overheard conversations as well. And Barnes believed the informant who named Fairley as the leader of the conspiracy. Surely a motive existed; he just had yet to find it. More importantly, he must learn of their plans.

  When the game ended, Grant went to his room to change. Clark arrived, grinning. “Ready to dress for dinner?”

  “I suppose,” Grant grumbled. “I’ve never changed so often in one day in my life.”

  “At least you don’t have to deal with all the laundry.”

  “Feeling overworked, are you?”

  Clark scoffed. “No, ’course not. A bit more carrying is all, but the work here is light enough. And lots of pretty girls.”

  “Clark, I’m amazed. Are you actually talking to girls?”

  Blushing, Clark stammered, “N-no. But some are right pretty.”

  “They’re all vipers, mark my word. Look your fill, but don’t be foolish enough to let them get their fangs into you.”

  “They’re not all like that,” Clark protested.

  Grant frowned. “Yes. They are.”

  Try as he might, he could not quite make his tone as convincing as usual. In good conscience he could no longer label Jocelyn Fairley a viper. She surprised him in many ways. But he chose not to dwell on that.

  He scribbled a hasty note to Barnes outlining his finding and well as his own thoughts in discreet language lest it be intercepted. After sealing it, he gave it to Clark. “See to it that this is sent by messenger immediately. Tell the messenger to wait for a reply.”

  Clark tucked the message away and initiated his system of genteel torment, known as assisting Grant as he dressed for dinner.

  Dressed and tied and tucked like a man of, well, not of fashion, exactly, but at least a respectable member of the haute ton, Grant left the safety of his room and ventured downstairs. As he passed the library, soft voices pricked his ears. Stealing forward, he unabashedly listened at the partially opened door.

  A male voice was speaking. “…what you did was brave and selfless. And no one blames you.”

  “I know.” A feminine voice, thick with tears, replied. “It was just so horrible. Such a tiny, perfect baby, looking for all the world as if he were sleeping, except for the cord wrapped around his neck and the bluish color of his skin. He was so silent. So still. I keep seeing that image over and over.”

  Grant peeked in. Jocelyn Fairley stood next to her father, using a handkerchief to wipe her face.

  Fairley took her into his arms and held her tenderly. He kissed the top of her head. “My brave girl. I’m so proud of you, princess. Your grandmother would be, too, if she were here.”

  In her father’s embrace, Jocelyn broke down and sobbed. Murmuring words of comfort and love, Fairley held her, his face pained in compassion he so clearly felt for his daughter.

  How could a man so tender with his daughter be so evil as to conspire to assassinate his own country’s prime minister? It didn’t make sense. Nothing about this case made sense.

  Grant crept away like the guilty intruder he was and went to the drawing room to await the others. An unaccountable desire to be the one comforting Jocelyn struck him with such force that his steps faltered. That was her father’s job. Grant’s job was to find the plotters and protect the prime minister. Mooning over a female did not fit into his plans. Not now, not ever.

  At dinner, Jocelyn Fairley sat in her usual spot, her smile in place and her posture ramrod straight, speaking easily with the guests and asking them thoughtful questions. But the light had gone out of her eyes. From across the table, she offered him a sad smile filled with kindness and something soft that he couldn’t quite identify, but it created a melting sensation inside him. He made a point to keep his attention off her for the remainder of the meal.

  Once dessert had been served and consumed, Jocelyn stood and led the ladies out. He watched her as she walked, her delicious, voluptuous curves, reminded him that he’d held her only a few hours ago.

  The men’s conversation failed to capture Grant’s attention. Nothing of interest came up, and Grant’s thoughts continued to circle back to the host’s daughter. He couldn’t convince himself that she harbored any of the usual feminine evil.

  It wasn’t just that she was pretty; he’d certainly seen plenty of pretty girls. It wasn’t only her lush, full figure; lots of women had that as well, although most girls in the upper classes were too thin to be truly appealing. Could it be her annoying perpetual cheer? Today’s events had dimmed that, and oddly enough, he missed her smile, the glow in her face, and the light in her eyes. At least she was capable of a full range of emotions besides continual happiness. But that thought gave him no pleasure. At the moment, he’d do almost anything to see one of her smiles.

  She was sincere and resourceful and brave and kind. He admired her devotion to her father, her concern for the downtrodden, and her strength as she faced danger and tragedy.

  But surely, if he spent enough time in her company, she’d reveal something that would restore his unshakable knowledge that women were chock full of wicked schemes, and intelligent men should avoid them.

  Even as he formed the words, he knew he was lying to himself. The fact was, he only had proof that one particular woman was full of wicked schemes. In his bitterness, he’d lashed out at all females to punish them for the actions of one.

  Perhaps he’d been wrong.

  He almost swore out loud. The plot. How could he get invited to the plotters’ meetings? What of the conversation he had heard two nights past when he’d attacked Jocelyn again and he’d told her of his investigation? And what of the conversation Jocelyn had overheard? Someone here knew something.

  A chorus of voices reached a crescendo. “Dance? Oh, yes, let’s dance.”

  Grant groaned out loud. No. Anything but dance.

  Jocelyn appeared at his side. “You don’t enjoy dancing, I presume?”

  “No,” he said flatly.

  “You did learn how, didn’t you?”

  “A long time ago.”

  She eyed him with a solemn gaze shadowed b
y her heartache over today’s loss. “Do you not wish to dance because you don’t remember how, or do you not enjoy it?”

  “Both.”

  She nodded slowly. “Just as well. You probably ought not engage in anything quite so vigorous as dancing so soon after injuring your head. As it happens, I’m not in the mood for dancing, either. But I’m willing to play the pianoforte so the guests can do so. Would you turn the pages of my music for me?”

  He nodded and followed her to the pianoforte. She settled on the bench, carefully arranging her skirts, and patted the seat next to her before leafing through books and sheets of music. After a moment’s hesitation, he sat next to her on the narrow seat that forced them so close together that her body heat warmed his thigh. Her feminine, subtle scent invited him to lean closer and take a deeper breath. He resisted. Still, his focus drifted to the fine hairs that grazed her cheek.

  Fairley headed up the line with Lady Everett whom he’d been favoring throughout the house party. He turned a fond gaze on Miss Fairley. “A Cotillion, I think, princess.”

  She opened a thin book of sheet music, and placed her graceful fingers on the keys, running a grand arpeggio. Her small hands, so unmarred and scrubbed free of stain, gave no indication that they had given so much to help a tenant.

  As she played, the guests performed complex formations that tickled the back of Grant’s memory, the same steps he’d so blithely danced with her, before he knew her true identity, her true desire. Her mocking, spiteful words tore through his head and conjured searing pain in his face, a foretelling of what he would yet suffer as a prisoner...

  “Turn the page, please,” Jocelyn said softly.

  Her words brought him back to the drawing room. A light breeze blew in through a nearby open window, cooling perspiration on his brow and down the sides of face. As he released his breath, he turned the page with a shaking hand. He was safe in England. War and prison and all their horrors fell behind him. Breathing in through his nose and deliberately relaxing his hands, he watched the music notes, trying to follow Jocelyn’s progress. The tightness in his chest eased. As she reached the bottom of the next page, he turned without her prompting.