The butler agreed, and a few seconds later, Julian was knocking on the door to Wetherly’s study. He was hoping to see his father alone, and his hopes were rewarded when, upon being told to enter, he walked into the study and discovered the elegant room empty except for Stephen.
The Earl was sitting behind a narrow desk, a handsome pair of dueling pistols lying in the opened case in front of him. If he was surprised to see Julian, he gave no sign, merely remarking nastily, “Oh dear! Never tell me that Wetherly was so stupid as to invite you to the same house party that I am attending? One of us will have to leave, and since I am already here, I suspect that it will have to be you.” Insincerity dripping from every word, he added, “I do hope that it will not inconvenience you in any way.”
Julian flushed, his fists clenching at his sides. He and Stephen had been at each other’s throats ever since he could remember, and there were times that he actively hated his father, but swallowing back his temper, he said levelly, “Wetherly did not invite me—I came to see you on a matter of the utmost importance.”
“Oh? A new horse you wish to purchase? Or some new opera dancer that you want to set up in a tidy little house?”
Stephen was being deliberately provoking, since Julian never came to him for anything so trivial. Actually, he came to him for nothing these days, and hadn’t from the moment he had turned eighteen, when his mother had, miraculously as far as Julian was concerned, convinced his father to settle a sum of money on him. The amount had not been particularly generous, but it did enable him to live independently from his father, and since he and Stephen only fought whenever they were in each other’s company, they were seldom in each other’s company.
Swallowing back the hot words that rose in his throat, he stared grimly at his father and said bluntly, “I have just come from Royce Manchester’s house, where I met his bride.” He hesitated only a second before blurting out, “She claims that her name is Morgana, and I tell you she bears a striking resemblance to me!”
There had been a curious stillness about Stephen when Julian had first mentioned Royce’s name, but now he seemed to settle back comfortably against the leather chair in which he sat, a hand almost caressing the smooth wood of the pistol grip of one of the pistols in front of him. It was obvious that the truth was going to come out very soon, and since he didn’t plan on being around when the horrendous scandal broke, Stephen saw no reason to deny himself the pleasure of getting a little revenge, of devastating Julian. A malevolent gleam in the gray eyes as he stared at the tall young man before him, Stephen fairly purred, “Oh, is that so? Why should you be surprised? She is your sister, after all.”
“What? My sister?” Julian ejaculated involuntarily. Despite the blessed relief that flooded his body upon hearing Stephen claim her as his child, Julian persisted doggedly, “George Ponteby claims that you cannot be her father—that she is your brother’s child.”
Enjoying himself now, Stephen smiled with open malice. “But she is Andrew’s child ... his legitimate child.” At Julian’s look of utter horror, he continued pleasantly, “You see, after Hester died, your mother and I had to get rid of the brat if we wanted to enjoy the ... ah, elegancies of life. Unfortunately the one-eyed man”—he glanced kindly at Julian’s aghast features—“the gentleman hired to dispose of the child, seems to have double-crossed us.”
Reeling from the brutal impact of Stephen’s revelations, Julian stared dumbly at him, hardly able to conceive that his father was admitting to these ugly things. He shook his head dazedly, and clinging desperately to Stephen’s earlier statement, he asked helplessly, “But you said she is my sister—how can that be?”
There was a choked sound from the doorway, and both gentlemen looked in that direction in time to see Lucinda, her eyes blazing with fury, catapult into the room. “That’s enough! Don’t you dare say another word!” she hissed at Stephen as she came to stand by her son’s side.
“But don’t you think it’s time he learned the truth, my dear?” Stephen drawled, clearly relishing the moment.
His jaw granite-hard, the broad shoulders squared and ready for a blow, Julian answered tautly, “Yes. Explain yourself!”
Stephen’s eyes were full of hatred as he stared at Julian’s white face and spat, “You want the truth? Very well, your father was my brother, Andrew, and your mother tried to pawn you off as mine!” He glanced coldly at Lucinda and said viciously, “But I’ve always known—right from the beginning!” Almost conversationally he added, “It’s why I had the one-eyed man arrange Andrew’s murder—that and a strong desire to inherit the title while I was young enough to enjoy it and before Andrew fathered any legitimate children on Hester. But unfortunately I delayed a trifle too long and Morgana was born. So you see, the heir is the bastard, and the bastard is the heiress! Amusing, yes?”
“You had him murdered!” Lucinda burst out furiously. “Why, I’ll kill you for that!”
Only Julian’s quick action prevented her from attacking Stephen, and grasping her wrists, he growled, “Stop it! Is what he is saying the truth?”
She was too angry to lie, and twisting wildly in his strong grip, she snapped, “Yes, it’s true! But it doesn’t matter—no one can prove anything!” She threw Stephen a look of loathing. “He’s certainly not going to admit to being a cuckold!”
“Mother!” Julian said desperately. “What about Morgana? Is that true? Did you know about it?”
A sullen expression crossed her face. “Yes, I knew, but I told you—it doesn’t make any difference, nothing can be proven!”
Lucinda had always underestimated the streak of honor that ran deep within Julian, and a look of total horror on his face, he backed slowly away from her, staring at her as if he had never seen her before. “My God!” he burst out passionately. “What kind of people are you? How could you have lived all these years with your consciences, knowing what you had done?”
Revulsion twisting his young features, he flung out of the room, wanting to put as much distance as possible between himself and these monstrous creatures.
A spiteful smile on his lips, Stephen stared at Lucinda and murmured, “Oh, my! I do think that your precious son is rather disillusioned with you! He never suspected before what a conniving, immoral bitch you are, did he? Such an honorable young man, your son. I have always wondered how he grew up to be so very ethical and virtuous—he certainly never learned it from you!” Openly sneering, he added, “Pity he is so high-minded—you might otherwise have been able to ride out the storm of gossip and speculation that is about to explode upon us.” He laughed bitterly. “I have no doubt that he will run immediately to Morgana and nobly bestow the family fortune on her.”
Lucinda glared at him, her hazel eyes glittering with fury. “Shut up! You’ve babbled more than enough as it is! And keep your vicious tongue off Julian! I’ll soothe his ruffled sensibilities later, but right now I want to hear more about how you arranged Andrew’s death.”
“Oh, that!” Stephen commented with a little laugh. “It was easy enough to do. Once I received Andrew’s letter informing me of his impending marriage, I knew that I hadn’t any time to waste, and since we moved around so often in those days, staying one step ahead of our creditors, if you will remember, you didn’t think it strange when I suggested we leave Italy immediately and relocate in Belgium. Before we even left, I wrote to a place that I had heard whispered would see to it that the one-eyed man got a message, and I made arrangements to meet with him in Dover. Remember just after our arrival at that wretched little coastal town of De Panne, I decided to make a trip into France?” Lucinda nodded, her eyes narrowed and fixed intently on his face. “Well, from France it was simple enough to cross the channel, meet with the one-eyed man, and make all the arrangements for Andrew’s murder.” Idly Stephen picked up one of the pistols, admiring its excellent craftsmanship. “It was ticklish and I was traveling nearly day and night, but everything went as it was supposed to, and when we received word of dear Andrew’s
death shortly thereafter, I returned to England a grief-stricken brother with no one the wiser. Clever, wasn’t it?”
An expression of mingled pain and rage in her gaze, Lucinda said numbly, “You killed him to inherit the title?”
Stephen smiled coldly. “That and because I didn’t appreciate having his bastard foisted off on me!”
Consumed by fury, Lucinda leaned over the desk and struck him viciously with the open palm of her hand. “I loved him!” she spat fiercely.
“I know,” Stephen said icily, something very ugly leaping to his eyes when she struck him. Softly he snarled, “It’s one of the reasons why I had him killed.”
Something snapped inside Lucinda, and in a blind rage, she lunged across the narrow desk for the pistol in his hand. Stephen had been so intent on his own enjoyment of the situation that her wild attack caught him by surprise, and in desperate clumsiness, he tried to ward off her attack and rise from his chair at the same time. Ordinarily Lucinda would not have stood a chance in a physical confrontation with Stephen, but black rage gave her a powerful advantage and she fairly ripped the weapon from his grasp before he even comprehended her intent. Dancing nimbly away from him, her breasts heaving under the delicate silk of her fashionable gown, Lucinda pointed the pistol at him and calmly pulled the trigger.
Her ears ringing from the explosive sound of the pistol firing, through the cloud of blue-gray smoke that drifted between them, Lucinda stared with satisfaction at the widening expanse of blood that suddenly bloomed on the pristine whiteness of Stephen’s shirt. A set, pleased smile on her mouth, she watched the look of astonishment that spread across his face.
“You shot me!” he exclaimed stupidly, his movements awkward and uncoordinated as he tried to stand upright. He half staggered, half fell onto the desk, sending several objects flying to the floor, including the twin to the pistol that Lucinda held in her hand.
“I know,” Lucinda said pleasantly. “And I enjoyed it, you bastard!” Bending her face next to his as he lay partially on the desk, she hissed, “Just as you enjoyed telling me about Andrew, but the last laugh is mine, dear husband. Your beloved Hester didn’t die naturally—the one-eyed man, yes, the same filthy creature you hired to kill Andrew, obtained arsenic for me, and I faithfully fed it to your sweet, sweet Hester!” She gave a half-mad laugh. “Ironic, isn’t it?”
His gaze fixed in horror upon her, Stephen slid slowly to the floor behind the desk. Savagely he clung to life, one thought in his mind as feverishly he struggled to grab the second pistol lying a scant distance away on the floor in front of him. He could feel his life draining out of him and the effort exhausted him, but a second later, he sighed as his groping fingers closed around the grip of the pistol.
Mere seconds had passed since he had slid behind the desk, and unaware that he had reached the second pistol, Lucinda came quickly around the corner of the desk to make certain that he was dead. A dreadful caricature of a smile curving his bloodless lips, Stephen rolled over and, taking swift, deadly aim, shot her in the heart.
Death for Lucinda was instantaneous, and without a sound, she slumped to the floor. In malevolent satisfaction, his eyes already beginning to glaze over in death, Stephen stared at her corpse and died gasping, “Who has the last laugh now, sweet bitch?”
CHAPTER 31
About the time that Julian had fled from Stephen and Lucinda at Wetherly’s house, Morgana was creeping out the servants’ entrance at Lime Tree Cottage. Hidden in the small woven basket she carried over her arm was the reticule containing the dagger, and after slipping through one of the small archways in the stone wall that surrounded the house, she began to wander idly in the direction of the gatekeeper’s cottage. Wearing a plain frock of pale blue muslin, a chip-straw hat upon her head, and the basket on her arm; she hoped fervently that anyone who saw her would make the assumption that she was merely out for a stroll, picking flowers to amuse herself.
Deliberately she kept her mind blank of the earlier events, concentrating grimly on the coming confrontation with the one-eyed man. After she had finished with him would be soon enough to consider all the diverse and painful ramifications of this afternoon’s revelations. But despite her best intentions, a wayward, hurtful thought about Royce’s motives for marrying her slipped through the guard she had placed on her emotions, and she was aware of a dull ache in her heart.
Approaching the gatekeeper’s cottage a few minutes later, she pasted a merry smile on her face, and walking sedately up to John Bullard, who happened to be standing outside the cottage, she cried gaily, “Good afternoon! A pleasant day for a stroll, don’t you think?”
John looked slightly startled to see the mistress of the house wandering about by herself this far from the main grounds, and his blue eyes widened. “Yes, madam, it is!”
Nodding politely and acting as if it were perfectly normal for her to be strolling out onto the public road that wound around the edges of the yew-enclosed estate, she said airily, “It’s such a lovely day, I think I’ll walk a bit further.”
A worried expression on his face, Bullard watched until her slender form disappeared around a bend in the road, and then he hurried to the door of the cottage. His two brothers looked up as he poked his head inside and muttered, “Something queer is going on—the mistress just breezed past me bold as brass, walking down the road. Maybe it is all right, but I’m going up to the house and let the master know. One of you had better come outside and keep your eyes open.” With that, he took off at a sprint for the main house.
Morgana had known it was risky letting anyone see her leave the estate, but there simply had been no other choice—Royce had chosen Lime Tree Cottage precisely because there was only one way in, and that was guarded by the Bullard brothers. She suspected that one of the brothers would inform Royce of her actions, and the instant she had passed out of John’s sight, her leisurely manner left her; lifting her skirts, she began to run along the side of the narrow road. The bridge came into view almost immediately, and with a sudden thump of her heart, she spied a fashionable phaeton with a pair of handsome gray horses hitched to it, stopped just this side of the bridge.
Instinctively her step slowed as she came closer and noticed that the phaeton was empty and that the horses were tied to a tree that grew near the edge of the road. One hand resting comfortingly on the reticule, which concealed the dagger, she glanced around for any sign of the driver. The rig and horses seemed to have been abandoned, and wondering if she had somehow misread the one-eyed man’s note, she called out softly, “Hello? Is anyone here?”
There was no reply, and increasingly puzzled and apprehensive, she looked up and down the empty expanse of road and then glanced uncertainly at the wooded areas that abounded on either side of the road. The sound of a twig snapping to her left made her jump, and walking cautiously in that direction, she asked sharply, “Who is it? Who’s there?”
Again there was no reply, and becoming just a trifle angry, convinced that the one-eyed man was playing games with her, she lifted her chin and stepped briskly from the road to march into the wooded undergrowth, saying exasperatedly, “I know that you are there! Come out and have done with this bit of nonsense!” She had hardly walked more than four yards from the road when she heard a furtive rustle behind her and started to whirl in that direction. But she was too late—the stunning blow caught her fully on the back of the head, brutally knocking her unconscious. With a small moan, she crumpled to the ground, her hat flying off and the reticule spilling from the basket.
Stepping over Morgana’s unconscious form, the one-eyed man smiled with satisfaction at his handiwork and efficiently set about tying and gagging her. When he was done, he gathered up her hat, the basket, and reticule, and returning to the phaeton, he tossed them in and reached for a large rug from the floor. He looked carefully up and down the road as Morgana had done earlier. The road remained empty, and there was no sound of any approaching vehicle. Returning swiftly to Morgana, he lifted her in his arm
s and quickly carried her to the phaeton. Placing her on the floor, he threw the rug over her body, making certain that it hid her and the other items he had tossed in previously.
It took but a second to untie the horses, and springing up into the seat of the vehicle, he wheeled the animals about and set off down the road at a steady pace—no reason to arouse suspicion by racing away. Once they had left the vicinity of Lime Tree Cottage would be soon enough to increase his speed. If people passed him, they would think that there was nothing amiss—all they would see would be a well-dressed gentleman seated atop his fancy phaeton, expertly handling a pair of high-stepping grays. He smiled. Who would ever guess that beneath the rug at his feet lay the bound and gagged body of Royce Manchester’s bride? His smile grew and he congratulated himself for having been so very clever about this entire situation! And as the miles sped by, his belief in his own infallibility grew.
If he had known, perhaps, of the conversation taking place a scant five minutes after he had so blithely driven away from that bridge, he would not have felt quite so sanguine. But then, he had no way of knowing of John Bullard’s serious disposition toward his duties, or of Julian’s traumatic confrontation with Stephen and Lucinda, nor ever dreamed that Julian would whistle a fortune down the wind for the sake of honor. He also had never really paid any attention to George Ponteby’s formidable memory or known of the deep-rooted honor of little Mr. Spurling, Royce’s valet, but when all those ingredients came together ...
It was John Bullard who informed Royce that Morgana was not, as he believed, upstairs in her bedroom. If John had harbored any worries that he was overreacting to Morgana’s unorthodox little stroll, these were immediately put to rest.
Whisper To Me of Love Page 49
