Passion Becomes Her

by Shirlee Busbee

  But Asher was very aware that his actions were causing the two most important people in his life great distress. And that had to stop, he thought grimly, replying to some question asked by his grandmother. Unfortunately, he knew too well that the only way it was going to stop was when Ormsby was dead.

  Balancing on a tightrope, Asher struggled to keep his murderous emotions well in hand, keeping that dark, violent side of himself buried deep and showing only the loving and affectionate husband and grandson. Until today, he assumed he was doing a good job of it, but it appeared not. Though they tried to hide it, it was obvious that both his wife and his grandmother were deeply worried about him. He sighed. There was only one way to end this torture and, looking from one woman to the other, he decided that the marquis had just run out of time.

  John arrived just as they were finishing the light meal. He was carrying a book in one hand. After greetings were exchanged, declining offers of refreshment, John handed the book to Asher and took a seat next to Mrs. Manley.

  John said, “I plan to leave for Brighton tomorrow and I was going through some more of father’s things this afternoon when I came across the book.” He swallowed. “It was in the valise he had with him when he was killed.” He forced a smile. “Since he left you his library, I thought it only fair to give it to you.”

  It was a hefty volume and, picking it up, Asher glanced at the spine. Reading the name, he stiffened. Saucerboo poem. Chaucer. Book. Poems.

  He set the book down and stared at it as if it was a snake. His stepfather’s dying words could only have been referring to this book. And something in this book—in one of the poems?—Denning thought was vital for him to know. But was it something Asher wanted to know? For a moment a morbid fear swept through him. Had Denning discovered the source of his money? What he had done to keep the family safe? What if inside this innocent-looking volume there lay proof of his other life? Proof that would destroy everything he had worked for?

  He glanced around the table and found that everyone was looking at him. He made his lips stretch into a semblance of a smile. “Ah, thank you, John. I shall add it to the library. Perhaps, I might even read it someday, although poetry would not be my first choice.”

  “What book is it, my dear?” asked Mrs. Manley, who was watching him closely.

  Wishing his grandmother was not quite so clever, reluctantly, he muttered, “Chaucer’s complete works.”

  His grandmother looked puzzled and then she gasped. Just as Asher had, she put it altogether. Excitedly, she said, “That was what he was trying to say before he died. Saucerboo poem.” When Juliana and John stared at her astonished, she explained, “Chaucer’s book of poems.”

  Juliana’s eyes widened. “Of course! And he was taking it to London with him.” Smiling at her husband, she said, “Perhaps he has underlined some words for you. Look through it.”

  “By Jove! She’s right,” exclaimed John, leaning forward excitedly.

  Asher knew there was no escaping his fate. His heart beating raggedly in his chest, gingerly, he placed the book in front of him and flipped it open. He hadn’t known what to expect but the small packet lying snugly in the hole cut into the middle of the book didn’t help his laboring heart any.

  “Oh, my word!” breathed his grandmother. “There is something inside it.”

  Asher sat frozen, staring at the small packet as if he faced death itself. How? he wondered dully. How had Denning gotten proof? He’d been so careful. So bloody careful, and it appeared all for naught.

  “Open it,” urged Juliana, who had come to sit beside him. “Let us see what it was he felt was so important to you.”

  With trembling fingers Asher plucked the packet from its hiding place. The first thing he found was Denning’s letter that was wrapped around the main part of the packet. He quickly scanned it, his heart almost literally stopping when he realized that what he held had nothing to do with his nefarious deeds. He had to read the letter twice before he understood the full import of it. Then a third time to make certain he hadn’t misunderstood what he read.

  Wordlessly he handed the letter to Juliana. “Read it aloud.”

  Hardly aware of Juliana’s soft voice reading Denning’s letter aloud, with dazed eyes he stared at the small packet, recognizing his mother’s fine script. Reverently, he unfolded the old papers, startled to find a heavy gold ring adorned with the Ormsby crest folded in the middle of the creased pages. Holding the ring in his hand, he scanned the papers, his chest feeling as if girded by steel bands as he realized the significance of the ring and the papers he held.

  Light-headed, he set the ring gently in the middle of the table.

  Mrs. Manley cried out, recognizing it immediately. “The Ormsby ring! It was stolen from Vincent Beverley the night he died.” She looked from Asher to the ring. “But how? How did it end up in Denning’s possession?” She looked horrified. “Never say that Denning killed him?”

  Asher shook his head. “No. Ormsby killed him. Mother saw him do it. She took the ring to prove it.”

  “Your mother had the ring all this time?” Mrs. Manley asked, astonished.

  “Yes. She hid it and these papers in that little desk of hers. Going through the desk after it had been brought down from the attic, Denning found everything.” Wearily, he added, “And that’s what he used to blackmail Ormsby. Mother’s letter relates what she saw that night…the night Ormsby killed his brother.”

  “Good God!” John swore softly. “No wonder father was so certain he’d never lose anytime he played with Ormsby. It was all a sham to extort money from Ormsby.” He looked at Asher, his face tightening. “And it gives Ormsby a powerful reason to want him dead.”

  “It does indeed,” Asher said lightly. “But it doesn’t prove he killed your father. Only that he had a compelling reason to kill him.”

  “We must turn this over to the constable at once!” John declared fiercely. “Ormsby must be brought before the law and be made to pay for what he has done.”

  Asher scratched his jaw. “Ah, yes, there is that, but it appears that murder isn’t the only crime to be laid at Ormsby’s door.”

  John frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “Mother’s letter explains everything. But this,” Asher said as he slid a piece of paper toward John, “proves that an usurper has paraded before us as the Marquis of Ormsby all these years.”

  Everyone looked at him as if he had gone insane. Asher smiled grimly. “Beverley obtained a special license in London and those, my dear ones, are the marriage lines between Jane Manley and Vincent Beverley, dated July 12, 1775, performed in a small hamlet in Surrey. They were married almost exactly nine months before my birth in April, which means that Ormsby isn’t Ormsby. I am.”

  Chapter 20

  There was a thunderstruck silence as the other three stared at him with mouths agape. Mrs. Manley recovered first. Torn between shock and gratification, she murmured, “Those scheming little wretches! I should have known something was afoot when Jane begged to visit her friend Elizabeth in Surrey. Previously, she’d never cared much for the young lady, but that summer nothing would do but she visit Elizabeth. I never suspected, not even for a moment, that there was something between she and Vincent.” Shaking her head, she said, “They hid it very well. In fact, I thought they disliked each other. There was never any hint that they had more than a passing acquaintance with each other. Even that last week after she came home from visiting Elizabeth—even then she hid everything from me.”

  “But why?” asked Juliana. “I would have thought you would have been pleased for her to marry the heir to a marquis.”

  “I would have been, but Vincent’s father would have never countenanced the match. His heir married to the granddaughter of a lowly baronet? A lowly baronet whose title was defunct? That aside, he’d have been aghast at Vincent marrying a young lady with little fortune or even great beauty to recommend her. He’d never have allowed that to happen. Oh, no, he had his sights set much
higher. I remember there was quite a bit of gossip at the time that he was angling for a union with the daughter of the Duke of Hazeltine. From all accounts, Lady Anne was a beautiful young lady with a large fortune, but was also known to be haughty and possessed of a viper’s tongue.” She looked thoughtful. “That’s probably what pushed them into acting—they were afraid the marquis would act without Vincent’s consent and he’d find himself shackled to a woman he didn’t love.”

  Asher nodded, holding up one of the pages where Jane had written out the whole story. “That’s what mother wrote. They felt they had no choice but to marry in secret.” He glanced sympathetically at his grandmother. “She regretted not telling you, but they were too fearful that if anyone learned that they had fallen in love and planned to marry, Vincent’s father would get wind of it and put a stop to it.”

  “And he would have!” Mrs. Manley said viciously. “He was a horrid, horrid, horrid man.”

  “I don’t understand,” John complained. “If they were married, why didn’t they tell anyone?”

  “Because,” Mrs. Manley muttered, “Vincent may have been brave enough to secretly marry my daughter, but he was terrified of facing his father with what he had done.” She looked at Asher. “Am I right?”

  Asher sighed and, across the table, handed her several pages covered with Jane’s handwriting. “Yes. They were married almost three weeks before Vincent was murdered and, afraid to live openly together, they met clandestinely several times.” He half smiled. “Obviously, I am the result of one of those meetings.”

  “But how did she get the ring? She saw the murder? Why didn’t she say something at the time? Why keep quiet about it?” Juliana demanded, sitting beside Mrs. Manley.

  “Because she was afraid,” said Mrs. Manley, looking up from the pages she held in her hands. At Juliana’s blank expression, she sighed. “You would have had to have known the second Marquis. He was a big, violent man with a legendary temper. Few people crossed him, finding it easier…and safer simply to let him have his way. Which only made the problem worse by increasing his belief that he could and should always have his way. Bertram was little better. And poor Vincent was bullied by both of them.”

  When Juliana still didn’t look convinced, Asher found himself defending his parents, saying, “Remember that they were young and frightened by what they had done. Mother was only eighteen. Vincent had just turned twenty-one in July. In fact he married mother only two weeks after he reached his majority. They carefully planned the whole sequence of events, but what comes through in her letter is that while they were determined to be married, they were also absolutely terrified of his father.”

  “And they were wise to be so,” Mrs. Manley stated unhappily. I was there the night Vincent’s father nearly beat a footman to death because he was displeased with the service, before the other gentlemen pulled him off and prevented him from killing the unfortunate man. There were other incidents…. He took a whip to one of his stable boys and left the boy scarred for life. Vincent may have reached his majority but he was still under the iron fist of his father.” Her face grew hard. “Once his father learned of the marriage he might have put a good face on it, but if he couldn’t have found a way around it, I wouldn’t have wagered Jane living to see her first child born or to celebrate the first anniversary of her marriage.”

  “Oh, he wouldn’t have!” Juliana protested.

  “Wouldn’t he have?” Asher asked with a lifted brow. He pointed to Jane’s letter. “With her own eyes Mother saw Bertram kill his older brother. From what Grandmother has said, violent things happened to people that cross the Beverleys. Do you think the father would have caviled at murdering an inconvenient daughter-in-law?”

  “But if the marriage was still a secret, why was Vincent killed?” demanded John.

  Asher looked away, his mother’s words seared across his brain. She had written so vividly of that fateful night that it was almost as if he was there, seeing it himself through Jane’s eyes as he relayed the story to the others….

  They met at the old gatehouse, not far from the main gateway that led to Ormsby Place just as daylight was fading. His young face determined, Vincent said, “I know you think we should just tell him, but knowing my father, I believe it would be better if I prepared him first. I shall tell him tonight that I mean to marry you—but not that we have already married. I want to give him time to get used to the idea.”

  “Oh, Vincent, why not just tell him? We are married! I may already be with child. We cannot delay. You must tell him we are married!” Jane urged.

  Bleakly, he stared down into her beloved face. “You don’t know him. He flies into vicious rages….” He swallowed. “Just telling him that I want to marry you is going to gain me a beating.” Helplessly he tried to explain. “If I tell him that we are already married, he may very well kill me—or you. I know him intimately—you do not. Believe me, beloved, this is the best way.”

  “You don’t have to face him alone,” Jane argued. “Let me come with you. We can confront him together.” And when Vincent paled and shook his head vehemently, she added, “Very well then, we don’t have to face him. My mother will stand by us. We can send him a note telling him of our marriage. And if he strips everything from you—it doesn’t matter—my mother will provide for us.” Seeing his resistance, she pushed on urgently. “He will not live forever, my love, and he can only hold you in penury during his lifetime. You are his heir, Vincent. Someday the title and everything that goes with it will be yours.”

  But Vincent remained firm. “No. It is bad enough that we married in secret and have been sneaking around like we’ve done something wrong in order to see each other. It cannot go on. As you yourself said—you could be with child. We must let the world know that we are man and wife—even if our union infuriates my father. This is something I must do if I am ever to call myself a man.” He smiled crookedly at her. “What sort of man will not face danger for the woman he loves?”

  It was only after he left that Jane realized he had left behind his crop. He was only minutes ahead of her and thinking to catch him, she took a shortcut through the woods. Swiftly, she guided her horse through the forest until she was just ten feet from the main road. In the falling twilight, hearing loud, angry voices ahead of her, she halted her horse and peered forward. Though she was concealed in the forest, she could see Vincent and Bertram on the road in front of her. She had missed the first part of the argument, but it was clear that Vincent had told Bertram that he planned to marry her.

  “You’re mad if you think that father will allow you to disgrace our name and allow you to marry that little nobody,” Bertram snarled.

  “She is not a little nobody,” Vincent said coldly. “And father cannot stop me. I mean to have her as my wife.”

  “By God! I always knew you were a fool! You can marry as high as you choose and you chose her? If you want her that badly, set her up as your mistress, but don’t marry the chit.”

  “May I remind you,” Vincent said icily, “that you are talking about the woman I love?”

  “Oh, save me from mawkish sentiment!” Bertram snapped. “For God’s sake think what you are doing! She has nothing to offer—no fortune, no great titled family….” Bertram laughed. “Of course, if she was a great beauty, Father might be willing to overlook her lack of fortune and pedigree, but while she’s a pretty little thing, she’ll never be the toast of London.” Arrogantly, he boasted, “When I marry, I don’t intend for my wife to be some country mouse. Whether she has fortune or title, my wife’s beauty will be celebrated throughout all of England!”

  “Congratulations,” Vincent drawled, and goaded by Bertram’s dismissal of Jane, he added, “Yours may be the toast of London but mine will be the Marchioness of Ormsby!”

  Bertram cursed and launched himself off his horse at Vincent. Both men fell to the ground. Quick as a cat, Bertram twisted Vincent face down in the dirt and straddled him, his hands clamping on either side of Vincen
t’s head. Shocked by the suddenness and viciousness of Bertram’s assault, Jane stared, frozen. But almost instantly fury replaced her shock and her heels dug into her horse’s flank. Even as her horse started forward, Vincent gave an odd cry, followed by a sudden, ominous silence. Instinctively, her hands tightened on the reins, halting her horse. Less than six feet away, in horror she watched as Bertram stood up over Vincent’s unmoving form. Bertram stared down at Vincent’s body for a moment, then brushed himself off and, after a quick, furtive look up and down the road, never sparing a glance to the wooded area where Jane remained still as a stone, he mounted his horse and rode off.

  His voice thick, Asher finished, “She went to him once Bertram was gone, but he was dead. Bertram broke his neck.” He glanced over at the pages his grandmother had laid down on the table while he was speaking. “I think she must have been half mad with grief and terror and even she admits she doesn’t know what she was thinking at the time. She had just seen her husband murdered before her very eyes. But one thing was very clear to her: no one would believe her if she named Bertram as Vincent’s killer and so she did the only thing she could at the time, she took Vincent’s ring and wrote down everything she saw and heard that night.” He smiled crookedly, unaware of how much he looked like his dead father in that moment. “She suspected she was pregnant, and if she had any lucid thoughts at all that night, it was that she had to protect her unborn baby. She writes that one day her son would avenge his father.” A bittersweet expression flickered across his face. “From the beginning she was certain I would be a boy.” Soberly, he added, “She planned for the day she could tell me the truth and I could take my rightful place, but she was determined to say nothing until I was a grown man. The last thing she wanted was for her child to become a pawn of the Beverleys. She admits she lived in terror that they would find out who I really was and that my grandfather and then later my uncle would swoop down and tear me away from her.” His eyes cold, he ended, “Which would most likely be followed by the news of my unexpected demise.”