Thoughtfully, he rose to his feet and, his peg leg thumping faintly across the maroon carpet on the floor, he made his way to his wife’s small desk. He riffled through it until he found pen and paper and then, seated again at the table where he and Ormsby had so recently played piquet, he began to write. When he was done, he had covered two pages with his large, looping scrawl. He reread what he had written, nodded to himself several times and then signed his name and the date with a flourish.
As he waited for the ink to dry, he returned to his wife’s desk and slid out the long drawer at the top in the middle. Setting aside the drawer, he reached deep into the cavity created by the removal of the drawer. He fumbled a bit, cursed under his breath, but his seeking fingers found precisely what he was after.
Smiling, a small bundle of papers in his hands, he replaced the drawer and, taking the papers he had retrieved, he returned once more to the table and the letter he had just written. He folded his letter around the papers he had taken from the desk and considered his next step.
His first thought was to return the packet of papers along with his letter to the original hiding place; after all, they had remained safely hidden for thirty years or more. But some instinct warned him that it might be wise to find another place. He hadn’t forgotten the look in Ormsby’s eyes when he had made the mistake, and he admitted it had been a mistake, of bringing attention to Jane’s desk. He also didn’t put it past Ormsby to break into the house and see if the desk did hold any secrets.
No, the desk wouldn’t do. He had to find someplace else to hide this little packet until he could ride to London and place it safely in the hands of his solicitor.
Looking around the room, his gaze fell upon the mahogany bookcase. Walking over to it, he opened one of the glass doors and stared at the array of leather-bound books. Perhaps? His fingers ran randomly over the green, gold and scarlet bindings, stopping when he came to a hefty book containing all of Thomas Chaucer’s works. He smiled. Perfect.
Removing the book, he picked up the small paring knife from the platter of food and carefully cut out a place just big enough to hold the packet. The packet, with his letter wrapped around it, fitted tightly in its new hiding place. Shutting the book, he examined his work and smiled in satisfaction. Outwardly there was no sign of the alteration he’d made. When closed, the book looked the same as any other book on his shelves. Wedging the book back into the case, he shut the door.
He stared at the bookcase for several minutes. Not the best, but it was unlikely that a thief, even a thief like Ormsby, would think to paw through the books. Satisfied with his night’s work, still smiling, he walked over to the sideboard and poured himself another brandy.
Sitting down on one of the blue-striped sofas, he sipped his brandy thinking about the evening. Would Ormsby really have strangled him right there in his own home? He didn’t believe so, but he was damned grateful Beckham had heard the table fall and had knocked on the door.
Denning had known that he was playing a dangerous game, but until this evening, he hadn’t feared Ormsby. Of course, he admitted wryly, it hadn’t been wise to threaten the man with exposure either or to imply that he would go back on the bargain they had made. What had he expected him to do? Clap him jovially on the back? He made a face, aware that he’d made a mistake tonight. What repercussions it might have, he couldn’t guess.
His eyes slid to the bookcase. He should have taken the packet to his solicitor when he first discovered it because should something happen to him, the last thing he wanted was for them to remain hidden for another thirty or more years. Or for Ormsby to find them and destroy all the evidence.
Finishing his brandy, Denning rose to his feet and, walking to the sideboard, poured another one. Standing there, he stared down into the amber depths as if looking for answers there. None came to him.
He was a selfish bastard, he concluded wearily as he walked to one of the sofas and sat down. If it had been left to him, he’d have beggared his family and thrown them penniless in the street—all because he’d always been chasing after the next hand, the next turn of the card. And Jane? What of her? He winced. His obsession with all games of chance had caused her great anguish and hardship. Thank God for Asher. Denning didn’t know precisely how his stepson had managed to lay his hands on the impressive sums of money Asher had lavished on his siblings and his grandmother over the years but he suspected he was better off not knowing. The boy had the devil’s own luck at cards, but no one, and he should know, was that lucky. By whatever means it had been done, Asher had saved them all, he admitted, not only Apple Hill and his siblings, but himself included. And I thank him, Denning thought in bitter shame, by feathering my own pocket….
Which brought him back to Ormsby. How dangerous was the marquis? Dangerous enough to plot murder?
Galloping through the night toward Ormsby Place, the marquis was doing exactly that: plotting murder. Once he had gained control of the naked fury that was whipping through him, he realized that the manservant’s interruption had been fortuitous. If not for that interruption, he’d have made the mistake of killing Denning then and there, which would have been pleasurable but exceedingly foolish—the moment the body was found, suspicion would have landed on him.
More than suspicion, he thought grimly, as he rode through the wide gates of Ormsby Place. Denning’s servants had known he was there and even if he had managed to escape undetected from the house and the body wasn’t discovered until morning, without question he would be the prime suspect for the murder. And since it was likely the body would have been found tonight when one of the servants came into the room during a final round of the house, snuffing candles and the like, Ormsby wouldn’t have wagered a farthing on his escaping the hangman’s noose.
The worst of his temper had abated by the time he threw the reins of his horse at the yawning stable boy who waited near the grand steps to the house. His thoughts cooler, although no less deadly, he stalked to his study.
Shutting the door behind him, he prowled around the shadowy room, one small candle on the mantel of the fireplace the only light. His gaze wandered to the Gainsborough landscape and a new flash of fury roared through him.
He had no proof, but he was certain that he had been violated by that blasted Asher Cordell. For that alone, he thought viciously, the man deserved to die. His hand closed into a white-knuckled fist. Those incompetent cretins! If they’d done their job, Asher would be dead and moldering in the grave.
He stopped his pacing, thinking hard. Asher was a problem. Denning was a problem. If he eliminated Denning, the drain on his purse would end immediately. But Denning’s death might not be the resolution he needed and might actually precipitate discovery of the very thing he wanted destroyed. However, if he killed Asher…His lips twitched in a feral snarl. Asher Cordell was the root of every misfortune that had befallen him of late. By God! He’d have liked Cordell’s neck in his hands tonight…. But Denning would suspect and he wasn’t about to hand Denning another weapon to use against him.
His jaw clenched. So which one did he kill? Denning? Or Asher? Or both?
Chapter 18
With their most immediate social obligations out of the way, Asher and Juliana were finally able to indulge themselves—which they did. There were lazy mornings spent abed and leisurely afternoon rides down green, dappled lanes. Warm summer evenings were spent wandering around the grounds adjacent to Fox Hollow discussing the plans for the expansion of the house and the changes to the gardens they had in mind—and passionate kisses and embraces in secluded nooks. And the nights? The nights were filled with sweet lovemaking and the joyous knowledge that each time they came together, they loved and were loved in return.
The outside world did not intrude until the first of August when a note from Mrs. Manley arrived. Juliana and Asher had been seated in the garden, enjoying a late morning cup of tea when Hannum appeared with the note. Isabel Sherbrook had unexpectedly given birth, a girl, and Mrs. Sherbrook was
in a fret to return home to dote upon her first grandchild. Understandably, Marcus was reluctant to desert his wife and newborn daughter, but already this morning, Mrs. Manley had dragooned John into agreeing to escort Mrs. Sherbrook home. They were invited to a farewell dinner for Mrs. Sherbrook tonight.
Having made himself aware of the contents, Asher smiled and handed the note to Juliana. “Mrs. Sherbrook’s grandchild has arrived. A girl.”
Juliana’s eyes lit up and she clapped her hands together. “Oh, how wonderful! She must be so excited.”
“Well, that’s not everything….” He sighed theatrically. “I knew it could not last,” he murmured. “It seems that my grandmother has decided we’ve had enough time alone together and requires our presence at Burnham tonight.”
Juliana snatched the note from his hand and read it. “You may sulk all you want, but I shall be quite happy to see Mrs. Sherbrook and wish her well before she leaves.” Her eyes dancing, she added, “And as for us being alone, with a house full of servants and Mrs. Rivers hovering about, I would not say that we have been alone precisely.”
Asher grinned. “I suppose I should have said, as alone as it is possible without having to do everything for ourselves.” Lightly, he added, “Your Mrs. Rivers is to be commended—she has been most discreet. Except for breakfast and dinner we rarely see the woman.”
“Yes, and she has been enjoying herself immensely running the household and directing the servants while I have been…distracted,” Juliana said with a demure expression. “She is having such a fine time bustling about that I fear I may have a tyrant on my hands when I start overseeing things myself.”
“I doubt that. Your Mrs. Rivers is a nice old tabby and she is devoted to you. I can’t see her cutting up rough over anything you wanted to do. I like her.”
“I thought you might—especially since she thinks that you are little less than a god come to earth,” Juliana teased.
“Hmmm, I’ll just have to make certain,” Asher said with a grin, “that I do nothing to shatter her illusions, won’t I?”
The arrival of Mrs. Manley’s invitation was timely. Asher and Juliana had both known that they could not hide away forever and had already begun to take up the reins of a normal routine. Juliana was meeting with Mrs. Lawrence and Mrs. Hannum that very afternoon and with Mrs. Rivers’s help planned to draw up a list of everybody’s needs and to complete the organization of her household.
While Asher had been content for the time being to settle down to the life of a man of leisure, he knew he would soon grow bored leaving everything in the hands of servants, his bailiff and his man of business in London. He was not, he realized, a man with indolent inclinations. With Juliana busy seeing to household affairs this afternoon, he’d decided that it was time for him to actually start taking a hand in the future course of his holdings and arranged for a meeting with his bailiff, Wetherly.
In addition to some orchards, Asher owned several farms that were planted in pasture and grazed cattle and some sheep, and during the discussion with Wetherly it was apparent that there was no cohesive plan when it came to the type or the breeding of the cattle. Each farmer followed his own desires and having seen some of the herds, Asher thought they could be improved upon. He smiled remembering his theft of Ormsby’s best bull decades ago. Perhaps that had been the start of his interest in cattle? Who knew, but once the idea took hold, he couldn’t quite put it from him. When he mentioned the notion of an improved breeding program, Wetherly greeted it with flattering enthusiasm.
“Oh, I say, sir, that would be marvelous!” Wetherly shook his head. “I have long thought that the beef stock on your farms could be vastly improved upon.”
Asher frowned at him. “Well, why the devil didn’t you say anything?”
Wetherly looked uncomfortable. Clearing his throat, he muttered, “Um, I assumed you were happy with the income generated and saw no reason to change anything.” Warily, he added, “It will be costly to replace the stock currently on some of the farms with better bred animals.”
“In the beginning,” Asher said impatiently, “but eventually there will be a good return on the money spent now.” He sent Wetherly a long look. Carefully, he said, “I don’t employ you to merely see that things continue as they are, I employ you to help me insure that my farms and lands produce only the highest quality—whether it is livestock or food. I don’t intend to settle for mediocre. Is that understood?”
Wetherly nodded eagerly. “Indeed, sir, it is!”
After Wetherly vacated his office, Asher put his feet up on his desk and stared into space. The news that Mrs. Sherbrook was leaving Burnham without Asher being forced to meet her son, Marcus, lifted a nagging worry from the back of his mind. Knowing he wasn’t going to face the man whose wife he had kidnapped last year put his grandmother’s invitation in a whole different light. He might, he decided, actually enjoy himself. Especially, when Mrs. Sherbrook drove away.
He was, he admitted with a slow smile, happier than he had ever been in his life. Juliana had been the elemental part of his life that had been missing and with her at his side, everything else just fell into perfect place. He was looking forward to the coming years, Juliana sitting beside him, a quiver full of offspring gamboling at their feet. I shall grow very fat, he thought contentedly, and turn into one of those red-faced old men, always blustering about and telling tales of “why when I was a boy….”
But there was one very large, very black and ominous cloud on his golden horizon. Ormsby.
His cheerful mood vanished and with a sigh Asher considered Ormsby. He’d known that sooner or later he would have to deal with the marquis and he was uneasily aware that he had allowed Juliana and his marriage to distract him from the problem Ormsby represented. It wasn’t only that Ormsby and Denning had some sort of unholy alliance, but the fact that Ormsby had gone so far as to hire a pair of London bullies to kill him changed the entire dynamics of the situation. I’ve been hiding my head in the sand these past few weeks, he admitted grimly.
While it was true that Juliana had taken up most of his thoughts, from time to time the situation with Ormsby and how he was to resolve it had drifted through his mind but for the first time ever, Asher wasn’t quite certain of his next step. He wasn’t afraid of risks: God knew he’d taken more than his share over the years. But things had changed. With the Ormsby dilemma bubbling like a noxious tar pit at the edge of his garden, he wouldn’t be the anonymous stranger slipping in here and there, doing what had to be done and then disappearing, leaving no trace behind.
He grimaced. If Ormsby lived anywhere else in the British Isles, except practically right at his front door, he’d have known what to do, known what steps he needed to take, and he wouldn’t have been left with this unsettling feeling that his hands were tied. Ormsby was too close to home, too close to everyone he loved. Whatever ultimately happened between himself and Ormsby, it must not be allowed to impact the very people he had always fought to protect. He scowled. He was no longer only his grandmother’s grandson, his siblings’ half brother, he was Juliana’s husband. He could not live with himself if any act of his brought disaster upon her.
His face tightened. But he had to do something about Ormsby. He could no more allow Ormsby to roam about freely than he could allow a viper in his bed. If only, he thought savagely, the bloody man wasn’t right at my doorstep.
Content in his life, in love with his wife, Asher would have put away any further plans to tweak Ormsby’s ego by the theft of the Ormsby diamonds, long and dearly held though the notion of stealing the diamonds was. But the marquis’s hiring of the two thugs to murder him had changed everything and Asher’s plans no longer merely considered how to tie a knot in Ormsby’s tail…. I’m going to have to kill the bastard, he concluded dispassionately. And in a way that will not bring ruin and shame to my family. A duel? he wondered. Though duels were against the law, they were fought all the time, but killing a peer of the realm would most likely insure that he
would be transported or would live a life on the run on the continent…or hang. None of which appealed to him.
His mouth twisted. It was going to have to be plain old-fashioned murder, he admitted tiredly. And soon.
A few miles away at Rosevale, Denning was also thinking about Ormsby, but his thoughts didn’t include murder. Since Ormsby had stormed out of the room over a week ago, Denning had heard nothing from or of him. Of course, he’d been quite content that this was so; it gave him a chance to consider his options.
Denning had convinced himself that the tussle between himself and Ormsby had been perfectly normal. It had been, he told himself repeatedly, merely the sort of thing that often happened between high-spirited gentlemen; when fueled by drink, tempers flared. It had been pure folly, he told himself, to think a man of Ormsby’s stature would have murdered him. And he didn’t blame the man—he had threatened him.
Which brought Denning to the reason for the discourse in the first place. Seated in his study that Tuesday evening, he stared at the mahogany bookcase, his eyes settling on the book that held his letter and the packet taken from Jane’s desk. It wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility that Ormsby would hire someone to break into the house and search for the evidence. Or even do so himself. Once the packet fell into Ormsby’s hands, Denning knew the marquis would destroy it, and with the proof gone…My little arrangement would end, he thought glumly.
The right thing, the honorable thing, he knew, would be to place the packet in Asher’s possession and let him deal with it, but the notion of giving up his control over Ormsby was a powerful argument against that idea. He grimaced. It was sad but true that he liked having the marquis dancing to the tune of his piping. He liked knowing that he could tap into the vast Ormsby fortune at will…as long as he didn’t get too greedy.
Passion Becomes Her Page 28
