Isabel decided she didn’t like Carter very much, especially when he finally said, “Enough, Wallis. If you aren’t boring Michael and Isabel, you are boring me.”
“You don’t like to hear anyone talk but yourself,” she countered.
“Quite right, my dear, quite right.” Carter turned to Isabel. “Let me give you a tour of the house. Michael, you don’t mind if I monopolize your wife?”
“I wouldn’t mind going with you,” Michael said.
“But then who would stay with Wallis,” Carter replied smoothly.
Michael’s gaze met Isabel’s. She couldn’t read what he was thinking. She wasn’t particularly anxious to accept Carter’s offer, but when Michael said, “Of course not,” she felt she had no choice.
“Shall we?” Carter said helping her up from her chair. Out in the hall, he took her arm at the elbow. “Let us go to the library. There is something I think you will find interesting.”
Isabel slowed her step, uncertain if she wanted to be alone with him. “Such as?”
“A portrait of Michael and me as boys.” He mentioned the one thing that could make her go with him.
She started walking, and Carter fell into step beside her. “The house was a gift to the second earl of Jemison for service to the Crown during the great fire,” he said.
“What did he do?” she asked.
“I don’t know. Never gave a thought to it before,” Carter admitted. He lit a candle for himself and one for her from a hall table and opened a door. “This is the library.”
Their candles cast an eerie light on the bookshelf-lined walls. Isabel noticed the books didn’t appear to have been taken from their places on the shelves very often. She’d learned ago not to trust a library where all the books were shelved by height and the spines were lined up evenly. Those were the libraries whose books were rarely read.
What did catch her eye was a portrait over the room’s desk. Immediately she recognized Michael. Carter was a young man and Michael a boy of about ten. He held the reins to a bay pony and looked up at his brother with so much admiration in his eyes it gave the portrait life.
The artist had also caught their similarities despite their age differences. Even as young as he was, Michael had the shape of his brother’s head and shoulders. They even held themselves in the exact same way, a mannerism Isabel recognized as true even today.
Isabel moved closer. She was fascinated to see the innocence in Michael’s face. This is what their son would look like if she stayed in the marriage.
“My brother is fortunate to have a woman like you love him,” Carter said.
Isabel started. She’d almost forgotten his presence. “What makes you say such a thing?” she asked, wanting to know.
“The way you defend him. You have a good head on your shoulders, Isabel. You married wisely.”
“Some would not agree with you.” She tried not to show emotion. It was hard, because contrary to every resolution she had made in the past twenty-four hours, Isabel knew she still loved Michael.
She was as trapped as her mother had been.
“Look at him,” Carter said. “Who would have thought he would become wealthy. He was never good at his studies.”
“Were you?”
“No,” he said decisively. “However, Michael was always lucky.”
“He worked for his money.”
“I’m not talking about the money.” His gaze met hers. “I’m talking about women. He always had charm.”
“You must have charm, too,” Isabel suggested, taking a step toward the door, which she was surprised to see had been closed. He must have shut it while she was so taken with the portrait. “After all, you have Wallis,” she reminded him.
“And her lovers.”
Isabel parted her lips in surprise. Carter smiled grimly. “You didn’t know about those. There have been a number over the years. This last one—” He rolled his eyes. “He was young enough to be her son. Lord Riggs. Chases anything in skirts. I told Wallis that. She is growing less and less discreet with age.”
“Lord Riggs?” Isabel repeated, uncertain if she’d heard him correctly.
“You know him?” He looked at her expectantly.
Isabel wondered if he was teasing. The coincidence was too great. “We’ve met.”
“If I meet him, it will be with my sword. Well, shall we return to the others. They’ll start to wonder where we are. Of course, I wouldn’t mind seeing if Wallis can get jealous, although I would not want to insult my brother.”
That statement got Isabel moving toward the door. Matters were complicated enough without this sort of nonsense. Michael’s family was strange. She now believed he had good reason to keep a distance from them.
However, a thought struck her as she reached the door. She faced her brother-in-law.
“Do you believe Michael when he says he didn’t murder Aletta Calendri?”
“No.”
“You are so certain?”
“Absolutely,” Carter responded.
“And why is that?”
“I was there.”
Fourteen
Isabel closed the door. “You were there?”
Carter nodded.
“You saw him—” She couldn’t use the word “murder.” It had suddenly taken on a very real connotation.
“No…but I was there afterward. Michael sent for me. I helped him home.”
“How did Michael send for you?”
Carter gave his head a little shake as if he were surprised she would question him. She thought of the wine he’d imbibed with dinner. He was probably clearing the fumes.
“He sent a servant,” Carter said.
“Who didn’t testify against him in court?”
Carter sliced the air abruptly as if warding her off. “They didn’t find him. The lad bolted, not wanting to be part of it all.”
“But what reason would Michael have to hurt her?” she wondered. She touched her wedding band. Funny, but through everything, she’d not removed it.
“Jealousy. Isn’t that the motivation for all murders?”
“Starting with Cain and Abel?”
Carter nodded. “Exactly so.”
Isabel searched her mind to remember the stories she’d read years ago during the murder trial and was frustrated she didn’t know more details. “What of Lord Elswick’s son? Michael believes he may have done it. Henry and Aletta were lovers. Henry wanted to keep her.”
She watched Carter’s expression in the candlelight closely, searching for any sign that his memory could be wrong. Almost as if in response to her scrutiny, he drew back slightly into the shadows.
“I don’t know,” he said stonily. “Aletta was a victim of her own indiscretions. She played many men against each other.”
“So there could have been many men who could have killed her?”
Carter’s expression turned shuddered. “Possibly.”
“Probably,” Isabel corrected him. “Isn’t that what the judge decided? There was almost no evidence against Michael that couldn’t have been leveled against others?”
“A gentlemen in the building saw him.”
Isabel shook her head. “If that was true, the judge would have convicted him.”
Her brother-in-law was obviously not accustomed to being challenged. “My brother is fortunate to have such a passionate advocate for his defense.” He sounded angry.
“I’m only stating what is true,” Isabel answered. “And if you know differently, why did you not testify at his trial?”
“He’s my brother.” Carter nodded at the portrait on the wall. “I am the head of the family. I must think of our name.”
“But, according to Sarah, your name was dragged through the trial as it was.”
“You have a very sharp memory, Isabel.” He wasn’t paying her a compliment.
“I was a governess, my lord,” she informed him. “I’ve had my wits honed by ten-year-old boys and the most wayward girl imagined. I l
isten to everything.”
Carter’s eyebrows rose with understanding. “I did not know you’d been in service.”
“You don’t approve?”
“I didn’t say that,” he answered, coming toward her and reaching for the door handle, a signal their interview was at an end…but Isabel had one more question.
She blocked his way. “Has it ever bothered you over the years that there was no justice for that woman’s death? That her ghost must cry for vengeance?”
“Do you want me to turn over your husband?”
They stood close to each other, their faces in the circle of the candle’s glow. “I just wanted to know if you had a conscience, my lord.” God knew Michael did.
Carter frowned. “I do what I must for the good of my family.”
Was that not why the marquis protected his son? And also his reason for ignoring her? She was inconsequential. A by-blow of nature taking its course. Nothing more, nothing less.
The ruthlessness behind such an attitude went against everything Isabel believed. The marquis and Carter seemed to believe they had the divine right to order the world as suited their whims.
“You must not be pleased that Michael returned,” she said.
Carter dropped his voice very, very low. “Poor, poor Isabel, in love with a man who has taken one woman’s life. Do you fear for yours?”
His quiet taunt caught her off guard. What kind of a person said such things about his own blood?
“Not at all,” she replied, her spirit returning. She pulled open the door and ran into her husband in the dark hallway. Wallis stood beside him.
Michael’s arms came around her. He felt good and solid. “I wondered where you had gone off to,” he said.
Carter came out with the candle. “I showed Isabel the family portrait. Seeing you with your pony almost brought her to tears…or was that laughter?” he suggested lightly, as if they had been having a good time.
“Laughter, I’m sure,” Michael answered. He looked down at Isabel. “Are you ready to leave? It’s been a long day.”
“Yes, it has,” she quickly agreed, wanting to get away from Carter’s unsettling presence.
Michael led her to the front hall. The butler waited with Isabel’s gloves and shawl. They didn’t linger over saying good night. Unsettled by her conversation with Carter, Isabel was anxious to be away. She was convinced that Wallis deserved a lover, even one such as Richard.
They murmured their good-byes, then her husband took her arm and steered her outside. The moon hid behind clouds that threatened rain for the next day. The hack waited for them across the street, its lamps lit.
The driver held the door open for them. His fuzzy hair sticking out from under his hat caught Isabel’s attention. She didn’t remember noticing it earlier, but then, she’d been very upset.
However, Michael stopped. “Where is the driver who was here before?”
“He’s my brother. Sent a message for me to come and take over. He probably wanted to check on his wife. She hasn’t been well lately. Stomach problem.”
“Do you know where we are going?”
The driver gave Michael’s address. Satisfied, Michael removed his hat and took his seat next to Isabel. The driver closed the door. He didn’t wait for Michael’s signal but started the horses.
Isabel sat back against the hard leather seat, realizing that in spite of everything, she felt safe with Michael. It was Carter who disturbed her.
“What happened in the library?” Michael asked. He rested his ungloved hands on his thighs. His was a big hand, with long, tapered fingers—a swordsman’s hands. She remembered that Aletta had been strangled.
“Charles talked to me about the murder,” she said.
There was a beat of silence.
“Are you surprised?” she asked.
Michael leaned back into his corner of the cab. “No. In fact, that is more in line with the distance he kept when I returned to London. I didn’t understand his sudden friendship. Apparently, he wanted to blacken my name further with you.”
“So much for close family.”
“Yes,” he echoed. “What did he say?”
It didn’t even cross Isabel’s mind not to be honest with him. It wasn’t in her nature. “He said he was with you that night.”
“I don’t remember.” His fist clenched in frustration. “That sounds ridiculous. I should remember, but I don’t. Nor am I taking you for a fool. I don’t, Isabel. I’ve already made one mistake in not trusting you. I won’t make another.” He hesitated a moment, then said, “I want another chance at us.”
And she did, too. Against all logic, she loved her husband. The initial pain of his betrayal had been dulled by other concerns.
She would not commit at once. Her pride wouldn’t let her. She was glad she’d never confessed her love. And, she’d be wiser this time around. But, oh, how she wanted the closeness they’d had before they came to London. She just feared being played the fool again.
So, she didn’t comment on his declaration. She focused instead on the murder. “So you don’t remember Carter being present at all?”
“He told me he saw me home. All I know is I woke up the next morning with the worst case of cup-shot I’d ever had and magistrate’s men pounding on my door.”
“He said someone saw you at Aletta’s apartment.”
“A neighbor. The judge wouldn’t accept his testimony because he never actually saw me. It was dark in the hall, and all he really noticed was the silhouette of a man. Of course, he was willing to testify it was I, but since he was half-blind, the judge didn’t allow it.” He made a sound of disgust. “Exasperating, isn’t it? I have tried to relive those missing hours of my life, and I can’t. I’ve searched my mind, and it isn’t there.”
“Do you ever think you could have done it?” she asked softly.
His response was immediate. “Dear God, at one time I feared I had.” The pain in his voice ripped through her. She reached over and took his hand.
“Then what made you return to clear your name?” she asked.
He searched her face, and she sensed now he was wondering whether to trust her.
“Do you believe in dreams?” he asked.
“As in foretelling events?”
“Yes…or in allowing you to see what you hadn’t before?”
Isabel shrugged. “Sometimes I think I’ve done something I’ve dreamed only to realize it was probably a real or similar event I am recalling. I’m not particularly superstitious.”
“The Shawnee are,” he told her. “I was never either, and yet, when you are around people who believe dreams have great power, you start to wonder.”
“Did you have a dream?”
“Yes…but it was one I’d had before, or thought I’d had. Right after the murder, I dreamed it often. But once I’d left England, it stopped. Then, about six months ago, it occurred again. Only this time it seemed more real, and now I’m beginning to wonder if it truly is a dream at all. Lately, memories have been coming back to me. I had such a strong sense that I needed to get to you when you were in the library with Carter. I felt you were in some danger.”
“Your brother has an odd sense of humor,” she said, and absolutely no family loyalty, “but I didn’t feel I could come to harm.” Although, she had felt uneasy. “Tell me your dream.”
Michael leaned close as if not wanting to be overheard. “I see myself in Aletta’s apartment. I’m lying down, but it’s not in a bed. She is in another room arguing with a man. I hear his voice, but I can’t make out who he is.”
“What are they arguing over?”
“I don’t know. There is a moment of blackness, and when I next see Aletta she is dead, and I know who killed her. I can’t see the man’s face, but I know him.”
“Does the dream end there?”
“No,” he said. “I leave. I walk home, but I move unsteadily as if I’m drunk. And, it is night and I am afraid.”
“What happens next?�
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“I wake then. My fear wakes me. I know she is dead, and it all seems so real to me. I can recall every emotion I felt that night.”
“How did you feel that night?”
“Senselessly drunk.”
“And what emotions do you feel in the dream?”
He made an exasperated sound. “Irritated at having my sleep disturbed when I hear the argument. Sick to my stomach when I realize Aletta is dead. And, finally, panic.”
She sat back, amazed by how vivid his dream was. “What makes you believe you didn’t kill her?”
“I didn’t kill her,” he said firmly. “I know myself better now than I did then. I’ve fought in battles. I’ve taken lives. I’ve done things I’m not proud of, but I’ve never hurt an innocent.” He faced her. “I remember other things, too. Isabel, Aletta loved me. That’s why Henry and I argued. She’d turned down his offer because she wanted me.”
“Did you love her?” The words she had promised herself she’d never ask were out of her mouth before she could blink.
“No,” Michael said. “I was too selfish and usually too foxed to think of anyone but myself.” He paused, then said, “Did I detect a note of jealousy in your voice? Could it be that you still care for me?”
Could he hear how loud her heart beat? “I don’t know what I want yet,” she confessed.
“I do,” he answered.
The hack had pulled to a stop but neither of them had registered they weren’t moving until the door on Isabel’s side was thrown open and she was rudely hauled out of the coach. She started to scream. A gloved hand was slapped over her mouth. They weren’t anyplace close to Mayfair. All was black night save for the moon and the feeble light from their coach. Her assailant smelled like fish.
The hack driver jumped down from his perch, a horse pistol in his hand, and growled, “Pull her in the bushes and finish her off.” He raised his voice. “Do you have him, Tom, or do you need my help?”
The answer was the ominous sound of a body dropping to the ground.
At the realization that Michael might be dead, Isabel went mad with rage. She kicked and twisted, reaching back with her nails ready to claw the man who held her. “Help me,” he said to the hack driver, but his accomplice had his own problems.
Temptation of a Proper Governess Page 17
