The Notorious Widow

by Allison Lane

  “So you kept quiet, even though two men died.”

  “If Squire Hawkins and Colonel Bangor saw nothing suspicious in his lordship’s death, who would believe me? I don’t interfere with the quality.”

  Blake froze. “Who were the victims?”

  “Old Lord Seabrook and Vicar Parrish,” he admitted.

  Fear. He should have listened to his instincts. Threatened to reveal his reprisals unless he left me alone. If that’s how Catherine had expressed her threat, it was no mystery why Jasper had attacked. Who would have understood Parrish’s dying words better than his wife? Even if she’d heard them secondhand, she might have understood – or so Jasper feared.

  Jasper’s attacks on inferiors put him in no danger. He’d already admitted many of the incidents. If Catherine charged him with deliberate intent, he would twist her words until she appeared hysterical. But the death of a lord was a different matter.

  He paced across the yard and back. As he’d reminded Catherine only that morning, a baron had precedence over a viscount’s heir. Jasper might wish otherwise, but he was not the highest-ranking gentleman in the area yet. He remained a commoner, subject to the same laws that governed tradesmen and farm workers. In practice, that did not matter, for few held heirs to the same standards. But this was murder.

  Could he use this incident to force the confession that would restore Catherine’s reputation? He didn’t know, but he finally had a place to start.

  “All right, let’s go over the tale from the beginning,” he said, returning to George’s side. Pulling out a pencil and a scrap of paper, he sighed. “What can you tell me about the men in the taproom that night? Let’s start with the lad who lost his fortune.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Catherine jumped when Rockhurst strode into the morning room. Her nerves were still on edge from their encounter in the rose garden.

  He had left her restless and unable to concentrate. Going to the nursery had been out of the question. Sarah would have noticed and demanded an explanation. Yet she couldn’t remain in the manor, either. In her confusion, she might throw herself into his arms if they met unexpectedly in a hallway. So she’d gone to the village.

  That visit had certainly cured her of any dreams about Rockhurst.

  Jasper’s poison had done its work even on the neediest parishioners. None of them wanted a kind word or helping hand. It was the first time the lower classes had shunned her, and it hurt. But even worse pain had followed.

  Brad Lansbury cut her dead outside the Green Gull, though she suspected that assaulting her would have been more satisfying. Whatever Rockhurst had said to Mrs. Lansbury had yet to bear fruit, for Brad clearly believed Jasper’s lies. Or maybe he remained angry over William’s attack. One eye was swollen shut.

  She was still reeling when she ran into Vicar Sanders.

  “How dare you strut into my village and expose my parishioners to your obscenities?” he demanded without even a greeting.

  “You are mistaken, sir.” She tried to remain civil, but his sudden concern for people he had ignored for two years swirled a red mist before her eyes.

  “Don’t contradict your betters, girl!”

  It was too much. “How can you call yourself a man of God, yet condemn me on the unsupported word of one man? If you had paid the slightest attention to the parishioners you claim to serve, you would know that they have been fighting slander and worse from that same source for years.”

  “Harlot!” he snapped, overriding her voice. “Take your lies and excuses elsewhere. Debauchery has no place here. I must already purify the vicarage to remove your evil influence. Get you gone from my parish. I’ll have you arrested if you dare set foot in my church again.”

  “Your church? Your village? Your parish?” Her fists clenched. “They belong to my brother. You might consider who controls this living before turning yourself into a spokesman for an arrogant fool.”

  “My duty to God transcends loyalty to a man nearly as corrupt as you.” He gestured to a knot of people who were staring in fascination. “I must protect these innocents from contamination by the greatest sinner to walk the earth since Sodom and Gomorrah fell."

  He continued his tirade, but she stopped listening. For whatever reason, Sanders had decided to make a public show of crucifying her. Perhaps Jasper had added new lies since the assembly. Or maybe Sanders had finally heard the ones Rockhurst refused to repeat. He might even relish the idea of driving off a person whose activities drew attention to his neglect. Not that his motives mattered. Her life here was finished. And the real losers were the parishioners. She had no illusions that Sanders would pay them any heed once she was gone.

  She had stopped in the woods on the way home, staring at a spotted mushroom for hours as her mind grappled with her dilemma. She needed to leave. The people she had served for so long no longer wanted her aid. Sanders had barred her from entering the parish church, and asking William to intercede would only make matters worse. Replacing Sanders would give Jasper a new opportunity to revile them all. And his next target would be Harold’s parishioners. He might already have begun, judging from today’s reaction. So she must leave them in the hands of a vicar as priggish as William but a thousand times colder.

  Yet Rockhurst was also right. She had no place to go and no way to support herself. While Harold had had distant ties to several respectable families, he had known none of them. His parents were dead, as was his only sister. Finding a decent position required a character reference from her vicar – an impossibility – and would force her to leave Sarah behind. Parishes only helped the needy from their own districts, and even the workhouses only took in locals – not that she would consider that, for Sarah would wind up in a mill, or worse. Which left her the choice of becoming a courtesan or leaving the country.

  She’d finally returned to the house, her thoughts jumbled – and not just by Jasper’s schemes. Every time she tried to focus, memories of Rockhurst’s embrace distracted her. The heat. The excitement. The overwhelming pleasure.

  Now here he was again, this time in the flesh. His amber eyes glowed like ancient gold as he shut the door firmly behind him. For a breathtaking moment, she thought he would sweep her into his arms.

  “I found out why Jasper fears you,” he said, taking the chair next to hers without waiting for an invitation to sit. “And this time there should be enough evidence to force a confession.”

  “What?” Both hands clutched her chest as her head reeled – with disappointment that he seemed unaffected by their kiss, with shock that anyone thought Jasper could fear a vicar’s widow, with reluctance to admit that she’d decided to leave. She drew several quick breaths.

  “Harry Fields discovered the incident. There is no way Jasper can pass this one off as high spirits. It was deliberate malice, with witnesses. I’ve just spoken with one of them, and there are two others, both gentry.”

  “Then why did they say nothing earlier?” She forced her hands into her lap in an attempt to relax. He was trying so hard to believe success was possible that he must have overlooked something obvious. But she could not afford dreams.

  He frowned. “The others heard only part of his plans, so they missed the connection at first. By then, other people’s assumptions had closed the matter, so they did not question the verdict. Or maybe they found it more comfortable to ignore their suspicions, since nothing could have been changed.”

  “Then why would they reconsider now?” Her fists crumpled her skirt.

  “You are determined to be gloomy,” he complained, “though I can hardly blame you after last night. Perhaps I am overstating the evidence, for I’ve heard only one man’s story, but Jasper’s guilt seems clear.”

  “What happened?” She suddenly realized that he was oddly reticent today.

  His expression changed to one of sorrow. “One of his revenges went awry. In trying to injure a team of horses, he caused an accident that killed two men. The witnesses overheard his threats against
the driver. The man who discovered the wreckage said the passenger claimed that a horseman had caused the crash, but no one believed him because he was delirious.”

  “Dear Lord! Not Harold!” Spots swirled before her eyes.

  His hand covered hers. “Forgive me for reviving your grief, Catherine, but this is too serious to ignore.”

  She choked down sobs, fighting to maintain her composure. She had not been braced for such news. Several minutes passed before she could speak. “What happened?”

  As he described the card game at the White Hart and her father’s confrontation with Jasper, tears again threatened, for she could imagine the scene so clearly. Her father had never remained silent when others misbehaved.

  “How like Father,” she murmured when he finished. “He believed title holders had graver responsibilities than ordinary men, and he criticized anyone who harmed another. I can almost hear his lecture. If a man wishes to risk his fortune, that is his business, but no gentleman remains in a game that might harm innocents. You should have protected West’s family instead of taking advantage of his drinking to line your own pockets. You ignored your responsibility to those who lack your high station.”

  “If you are right, then he packed several insults into a short speech – ungentlemanly behavior, taking advantage of a stripling, greed, failure to uphold his duties.” He shook his head. “And Jasper was already half seas over.”

  “I wondered why Harold was with Father that night. He’d said nothing about visiting Exeter or the Manor, and his horse was at the White Hart when he d-died.” She cursed the stutter, but shock still gripped her. “He must have accompanied Father to warn him of his danger.”

  “Do not jump to conclusions,” he murmured, squeezing her hand, which remained under his. “We still have no real evidence. So far, I’ve heard only one man’s tale of that night. Perhaps I should have waited to tell you, but I felt you should know. Did anyone repeat Harold’s description of the accident?”

  “Not that I recall – but I was in shock.”

  “You did not speak to the man who found the wreckage?”

  “Mr. Berens?” She shook her head. “He was at the funerals, of course, but he said nothing about Harold being conscious.” She shuddered, imagining the pain he must have suffered. By the time she’d learned of the accident, he’d been dead. Everyone had assured her that he had felt nothing.

  “So you know his name. Do you also have his direction?”

  The question pulled her attention back to the morning room and the hand clasping hers. “He died a month after Harold.”

  Rockhurst released a frustrated sigh. “How?”

  “Carelessness.” She shrugged, folding her hands to evade his touch. “He set a candle too close to his bed. The curtains caught fire, burning the house to the ground.” She shook off a shiver. Jasper’s involvement explained several of the oddities about Harold’s death, though it raised other questions. “Who were the witnesses at the inn?”

  “Squire Hawkins, Colonel Bangor, and one of the inn’s grooms. Several others witnessed the card game, but if Jasper had threatened your father to his face, they would have said something at the time. None of them left soon enough to overhear his plans.”

  “But they might share Father’s conviction that Jasper cheated Nigel West.”

  “I said nothing about cheating.”

  She shook her head. “Father would never have publicly berated Jasper if he thought the game was honest. He would have waited until they were alone to avoid embarrassing him.” Rising, she paced to the window and back. “I wonder if Nigel suspected cheating. He told his family that his father had lost everything – the man had died barely a week earlier. Jasper may have suggested the lie, threatening to do worse if he challenged him over the game.”

  “Or West might not have known the truth. He was so drunk he could barely stagger out to his horse that night, and he left the inn before your father accosted Jasper.”

  “I doubt many people know about that card game,” she murmured, her mind following a different tack. “Father’s death dominated gossip for weeks. I don’t recall hearing a word about Nigel’s losses, though that is no evidence,” she added. She had been prostrate for days and then too concerned about Sarah and their sudden poverty to care about other problems.

  “Where is Nigel now?” Rockhurst sounded interested.

  “He moved to Plymouth, taking his mother and sisters with him. The last we heard, he was working as a clerk to a solicitor there.”

  “I must speak with him.”

  “Don’t.” She met his startled gaze. “Leave him out of this. Even if he suspected cheating, he can offer no proof, and his own actions belie the charge. He is rebuilding his life. One sister is keeping company with the solicitor’s son. Revealing that he gamed away the family fortune could affect his job and terminate his sister’s courtship.”

  “Don’t exaggerate,” he scoffed, stepping closer.

  “I am not. What if the solicitor decides such poor judgment is intolerable in an employee and reflects on his entire family? There is no way to prove Jasper cheated and no way to recover the funds.”

  “Surely his family knows the truth by now.”

  “I doubt it. The Wests left within the week and spoke with few people before they fled. They were not really part of local society, you understand. The father had inherited the old Wilkins place from an uncle only a few years earlier.”

  “Are you saying that I should ignore Jasper’s attack on your father because asking questions about that night might hurt West?”

  “No. I am saying that whether Jasper cheated is irrelevant. The Wests are gone. Asking about the card game will start rumors that could easily spread to Plymouth. Why inflict new pain on a man who is already a victim? Concentrate on the accident.”

  “Very well. I will keep West out of it if possible. But I vowed to force Rankin into admitting he lied about you. If exposing all the circumstances of that night is the only way to succeed, I will do so.”

  “It is not worth the price.”

  “It is.” He stared into her eyes. “What of Sarah? Jasper will not allow this scandal to die. He can’t. Think about your words that day in the orchard. He believes you know what happened to your father, so destroying your credit is his only protection.”

  The shock drove her back to the window. Why had she not suspected this earlier?

  I know what you are … you have destroyed too many people…

  Her own words. She had been referring to Amy Carruthers and Jenkins, but his guilty conscience had thought she meant Harold and her father. So he had struck back, making sure that no one would ever believe her.

  “I will speak to Hawkins and the colonel as soon as possible,” said Rockhurst, pulling her away from her thoughts.

  “You will learn nothing from Colonel Bangor. He fell on his head last month and has been unable to think clearly ever since. Besides, if he had entertained the slightest suspicion, he would have said something at the time. He would never pass up a chance to expose Jasper, for he has long hated him.”

  “Why?”

  She shook her head. “That I don’t know. But he would never remain silent after two deaths. His own explanation is ghosts.”

  “George mentioned ghosts.”

  “Which George?”

  “The White Hart’s groom. He claims that road is haunted.” He led her back to her seat, turning his chair to watch her more closely.

  She covered nervousness with a light laugh. “It is nonsense, of course, but the story persists. The ghost is supposedly a Frenchman who long ago washed up on the coast. A squire’s daughter nursed him back to health. Naturally, the two fell in love.”

  “Naturally,” he agreed.

  She relaxed for the first time since morning. “The squire was upset, for he wanted his daughter to form a grand alliance – she was a great beauty. Also kind, generous, loving—”

  “Talented, a paragon of every virtue, guaranteed t
o melt the hardest heart and sweep—”

  “Stop that,” she demanded, laughing.

  “Why? Are you now claiming she was an antidote?”

  “Whose story is this?” she demanded as her treacherous heart turned over. His eyes sparkled. Humor smoothed the lines from his forehead, revealing how anxious he had been since his arrival. His investigation weighed heavily on his spirits.

  “Yours, of course. Pray, continue. I’m all ears.”

  No, he’s all hard body and flashing eyes. She stifled the reminder. “As I was saying, the girl was worthy of a grand alliance. The stranger claimed to be noble, but his clothes were those of a pauper, so the squire dismissed him as a fraud – the man was French, after all.”

  “And we were undoubtedly at war with France.”

  “Aren’t we always?”

  His eyes twinkled, as he again claimed her hand. “If there is any basis for the story, he was probably a spy.”

  “No doubt.” She wrenched her hand away, firmly reminding herself that touching him could only lead to trouble. “The squire had already begun marriage negotiations with a powerful lord, so as soon as the Frenchman could walk, he turned the man out.”

  “Thus forcing the lovers to elope. But the evil squire tracked them down and—”

  “Quit interrupting!” she ordered, then cursed under her breath when she realized her face had twisted into a pout. Donning a sober expression, she finished the tale in a rush. “They planned to elope, but the girl’s maid betrayed them to the squire. When the Frenchman approached the meeting place, the squire and his trusty footmen cut him down, then buried him and his horse where they fell. There is a cairn beside the road that supposedly marks the spot. The next day he learned that the Frenchman had been a duke of great wealth and power. The daughter cursed her father to eternal oblivion before flinging herself off a cliff. The duke still haunts that road, seeking her and attacking anyone who disbelieves his tale.”

  “Tragic, and possibly even true.”

  She shrugged. “I doubt it. There is no evidence the squire ever existed – believers attribute that to the daughter’s curse. I suspect the story arose from the rock formations along the road. They cast odd shadows in moonlight and harbor patches of mist even on clear nights. More than one horse has panicked there. And there used to be a formation that resembled a rearing horse when glimpsed through mist from the right angle. It collapsed about ten years ago, but it might have once included a rider.”