Cherished

by Elizabeth Thornton

  Her thoughts were leaping around, trying to absorb what she was hearing. Shaking her head, on a strangled sob, she whispered, “I don’t believe you! There must be some mistake. I don’t know how you came by your knowledge, William, but…” She turned tortured eyes upon her brother-in-law. “Peter, tell me it isn’t true.”

  “It seems more than likely, Emily,” he answered gravely. “But you may rest assured that Leon stands in no danger of prosecution from his involvement in that sect. At the time, he was only a boy. We are well aware that during the Terror in France, men did things which, in their saner moments, they would abhor. In normal circumstances…that is, we would not have divulged Leon’s secret unless it was necessary. I’m still not certain that it has any bearing on the present.”

  Sir George snorted, throwing Peter off stride for a moment, and Addison took over. “We are not taking any chances—that is what Major Benson is trying to tell you. For Sara’s sake if not for your own, Emily, you must be on your guard against Devereux.”

  At first, Emily did not realize that the conversation had moved on. Her mind was still grappling with the awful blows she had taken to herself. Leon, once an assassin of La Compagnie! Barbara Royston murdered and Leon a hunted man and the prime suspect! Gradually, it was borne in upon her that her companions had introduced a new element.

  “Accidents? What accidents?” she repeated as if in a daze, and her brother-in-law embarked on a recitation which made her blood run cold. Step by step, he forced her mind back to a series of accidents that had occurred in England the year before.

  “Your uncle was alarmed to say the least,” he told her. “At the time, he was half convinced that the attacks on you and Sara were in the nature of a vendetta against himself.”

  “They were accidents,” she protested. “They could have happened to anyone.”

  Peter shook his head. “No, not accidents, Emily,” and he went on to describe the attack on Sara, when she had been narrowly missed by an assassin’s bullet while she was out driving with Leon.

  “It was a prank,” said Emily. “A firework thrown by some street urchin.”

  “It was a deliberate attempt at murder,” Peter stated baldly. “And not the first attempt on Sara, either. You took a fall riding Sara’s mare, did you not, Emily?”

  She swallowed convulsively and his tone gentled. “I could not believe it either when your uncle took me into his confidence.”

  “My uncle told you all this?”

  “He wanted me to be on my guard,” said Peter simply, then as an afterthought, “though I know that Devereux did not remotely enter his calculations.”

  For a long while, she sat there in stunned silence, half-formed thoughts chasing themselves inside her head. One thought finally took precedence. “But Leon was not in England when the accidents first began. If what you say is true, he can’t be held responsible.”

  She could read in their faces that her words could not persuade them. “Emily,” said William, “a man may send his agents to act for him.”

  “I shall never believe it!” she cried out.

  “My dear Lady Emily.” Sir George’s tone was placating. “All we are saying is that the evidence against Devereux is staggering to say the least. Consider, if you will…It’s possible the man is a trained assassin; he was surprised coming from his mistress’s rooms after the woman was murdered. Let us say for the sake of argument that there is some sinister purpose behind the attacks on you and Lady Sara. Isn’t it reasonable to suppose that Devereux is behind those, too?”

  “Oh, very reasonable,” she shot back, almost beside herself in the face of so much dispassionate logic. “You are fitting all the pieces together like a puzzle. I understand all that. Only one thing is missing.”

  “Which is?”

  She gazed at each gentleman in turn, appealing to them with anguished, tear-bright eyes. “What possible reason could Leon have for making away with either myself or my sister?”

  Addison and Peter both looked away, and Sir George cleared his throat before replying, “We don’t say that you are in any real jeopardy. In point of fact, we believe, that is, we hope that you may be the one person who is safe from the man’s designs.”

  “What are you saying?” she asked harshly, painfully, and even as she voiced the question, she knew the answer that would be given.

  Addison leaned forward in his chair and Emily’s head jerked at the slight movement. “Emily,” he said, “the man married you for your fortune. You told me so yourself. ‘Devereux will never give up my fortune,’ were your words to me. If anything happened to Sara, as things stand, her fortune would come to you. Need I say more?”

  She knew what he was getting at. In the event of either her death or Sara’s, the surviving sister inherited almost everything. In the unlikely event that they both died without issue, either Leon or Peter would fall heir to their combined fortunes.

  “But Leon is a rich man,” she protested. “Sara’s fortune can mean nothing to him.”

  “You can’t know that,” refuted Addison. “Besides, wealth is relative. A greedy man is like a glutton. He can never have too much.”

  To every argument that she put forward in Leon’s defense, her companions countered with an unwavering obstinacy, even when logic was on her side.

  “I don’t think that is very significant,” reasoned Sir George, referring to Emily’s claim that there had been no “accidents” for a year. “Who is to say how the mind of such a man works? All that may be said with any certainty is that Devereux is a dangerous person. I would be failing in my duty if I did not warn you in the strongest terms to put as much distance between yourself and Devereux as is humanly possible.”

  Her eyes went wide in her white face and she took a quick breath. “I don’t understand.”

  William explained it to her. “If Devereux has any sense, he should be well on his way to the border by now. He knows very well that if he is caught, he will stand trial for murder. But in the event that he is hiding out, waiting his chance to complete unfinished business, we propose to get you and Sara safely away.”

  “Away? Away—where?”

  “To England, of course,” he replied.

  When Emily returned to her chamber she was shaking like a leaf. To Peter’s anxious offer to fetch Sara to her, she returned a curt refusal. She wished to be alone. Besides, Sara was still in her bed, and had yet to be apprised of the night’s doings. Emily did not think she could bear a repetition of the scene in Peter’s book room.

  She paced the floor like a caged animal, her thoughts racing first in one direction then in another, settling on nothing for more than a second or two at a time. By degrees, she got herself in hand and made a deliberate attempt to sort everything through in a rational manner.

  Leon a member of La Compagnie! She believed it. A host of half-remembered conversations and impressions convinced her of it. She had always known that there was something in her husband’s past, something that happened during the Terror, which Leon wished to keep from her. She had known that his parents had perished during the Revolution. In her ignorance, she had assumed that it was this tragedy and all the events surrounding it that were too painful, too awful, to be broached. Never, in a hundred years, would she have imagined this.

  Leon was once an assassin of La Compagnie, the group which was responsible for her father’s murder. Incomprehensibly, the knowledge did not horrify her so much as move her to pity. Leon should have told her, and that he could not bring himself to the point was very much to her discredit, not to his.

  Did he think that she would despise him? Was she really so unfeeling a person that her husband feared to reveal the truth about his past? She caught back a moan, remembering the annihilating words that had spilled from her lips whenever La Compagnie had become the subject of conversation. She had made no bones about the fact that she considered La Compagnie and all its proponents agents of the Devil. But that was before she knew her own husband was once one of the
ir number. She could not imagine what straits must have forced a young boy to follow such a course, but she knew that his circumstances must have been desperate. And he had not told her for the best reason in the world. He knew her too well. She was always so quick to think the worst of him.

  It took all her willpower to move from that unpalatable truth to the events of that night. Barbara Royston was murdered and the evidence against Leon was overwhelming. Not only had he been discovered coming from her rooms, but he had resisted arrest. An innocent man did not run away, William had told her.

  She refused to believe that Leon was a murderer…yet there was no getting round the fact that he had stolen from her bed to go to another woman. That image slipped inside her heart like a sliver of broken glass. Fiercely suppressing the surge of pain, she concentrated on the woman who had been murdered.

  She had pitied Barbara Royston, but that was because she was so evidently a cast-off mistress. Emily was beginning to wonder if she had been deliberately misled. If the affair was over, why had Leon visited his mistress in the dead of night? It seemed more than likely that William was right when he said that Mrs. Royston posed some kind of threat to Leon. Perhaps they had quarreled. Perhaps Barbara Royston’s death was an accident. But even as the thought occurred to her, she knew that she was clutching at straws. If there was a quarrel, then Mrs. Royston had been murdered in the heat of passion.

  Without volition, her mind jumped to William’s words, “The man married you for your fortune.” On the admission of her own guardian, Leon had used her fortune to make himself a wealthy man. It was never her he had wanted. From the time they were children, Leon had favored Sara. Their marriage was not of his choosing. Nor could she forget how callously he had turned from Sara once the marriage was accomplished. Could it be true? Was it only the Brockford fortune Leon coveted? In that event, he would not have cared which sister he married.

  She tried to be fair. Leon wasn’t the first man nor would he be the last to wish to marry where there was a fortune. As for keeping a mistress—it was a sordid business, true, but there was nothing unusual in that. It was the way of their world. That did not make Leon a murderer. There would be a reasonable explanation for every damning piece of evidence against him, if only she could think of it. There must be.

  In spite of her protests, however, her mind was beginning to waver, was beginning to accept the awful reality of it all. Were the “accidents” exactly as Peter avowed—deliberate attacks on Sara? And if Leon had married Sara, would the attacks have been made against herself?

  “No!” She moaned the word into her clenched fist. But a small voice inside her head refused to be silenced. What if it were all true? it whispered.

  Once she allowed that possibility into her mind, once she forced herself to face the worst, a curious calm descended upon her. If Leon was guilty, then the last thing she wanted was for him to be found. He would be tried for murder and…Oh, God, that must never happen! For his own sake, Leon must leave Canada and never return.

  How glad she was now that she had not told him that she carried his child. Leon would never let her go if he suspected the truth. And he must let her go if only for the present. She did not doubt that Sir George would take extraordinary measures to protect Sara and herself, measures which could prove disastrous to Leon. The rights and wrongs of it made no impression on her. She only knew that she would want to die if anything happened to Leon.

  If it were all true. The words pulsed inside her head, over and over, forcing her to consider the unthinkable. If it were all true, if Leon was guilty of all the charges against him, he would not give up easily. Sir George might think that Leon was long gone. She knew her husband better than that. Leon was tenacious. He had waited five years before coming to claim her as his wife. A man who waited five years to secure a fortune was not about to let it slip through his fingers without a fight.

  She did not know exactly how her moneys had been settled on the occasion of her marriage. What she did know was that from the very first, Leon was responsible for the ordering of her affairs. She understood only vaguely the intricacies of English law, but there was never any question in her mind that if it came to a legal separation, her fortune must return to her.

  Suddenly conscious of where her thoughts were leading her, she caught back a horrified sob. It wasn’t true! She knew it wasn’t true. It wasn’t just her fortune. Leon really cared for her.

  That thought was impossible to sustain for more than a minute or two. Her mind came full circle. Leon had never spared her a thought until they were forced to wed and even then he had hardly been an eager lover.

  For some few minutes, she moved aimlessly around her chamber, opening and shutting drawers, touching objects without being aware of what she was doing. It was a long time before she could concentrate on the only course that was open to her.

  Sir George proposed that she and Sara should return to England. It was childish, she knew, but it seemed to her in that moment that all the wisdom of the world resided in Uncle Rolfe. He had never failed her. He would know what was to be done to put things to rights, just as he had always done when she and Sara were children.

  “Oh, Uncle Rolfe!” She covered her face with both hands as the tears forced their way through her tightly clenched lids. Before long, it was her husband’s name that she was sobbing into her cupped hands.

  “It’s a damnable business!” Sir George imbibed slowly, scarcely aware that the Madeira his host had provided was his own particular favorite. “I trust it will never come to a trial.” He shuddered violently, then gave his two companions a very straight look. “It is one thing to palm Lady Emily off with that tissue of lies about a card game at the Jolly Roger, but let me tell you, gentlemen, a jury is a different matter.”

  Peter’s brows rose. “I would rather have allowed the truth to stand,” he said.

  Sir George’s annoyance showed. “What? That you, an officer and a gentleman, deserted your post to go dangling after tavern wenches?”

  “I beg your pardon, Sir George, but I was not on duty.”

  “Yes! Yes! But you know what I am getting at.”

  William Addison took it upon himself to smooth things over. “Come, come, Sir George. Surely we are all men of the world here? Major Benson is not the only officer who amuses himself with women of that class.”

  “No,” answered Sir George testily, “but he is the only officer who happens to be married to Rivard’s niece. God, that’s all I need! Rivard breathing down my neck! And now, of all times, when the Americans are on the point of declaring war!”

  “I shouldn’t think Rivard will raise an eyebrow,” responded William, then hastened to add when he observed Sir George’s heightened color, “In any event, I shall vouch for Major Benson. No one need ever know the truth.”

  Peter set down his glass sharply. His voice was very low, very controlled. “I want no one to commit perjury to save my skin.”

  “Brave words!” expostulated Sir George. “But have you considered the awkwardness of your position—and I am not referring to the embarrassment to Lady Sara? No, by your own admission, you were at the inn a good half hour before Mr. Addison. Good God, man, think what this might mean. You yourself might come under suspicion.”

  “Which is precisely why I wanted the truth to stand,” was the terse reply. “Molly will vouch for me.”

  It looked as though Sir George might dispute his companion’s avowal. After an interval, however, he said in a milder tone, “Well, well, tell me again exactly how it happened.”

  The decanter was passed round before Peter took up the conversation. “I was coming from Molly’s room in the attics. I had just reached the turn in the stairs when the door to Mrs. Royston’s parlor opened.”

  Sir George grunted. He could imagine the scene. Benson would not wish to be caught in a compromising position. He would have pulled back into the shadows.

  “And as I told you,” interjected William, “I was coming up the stairs
.”

  “You, at least, were invited to the notorious card game?”

  “I was.”

  “Go on.”

  “It was lucky for me that I saw Major Benson’s shadow against the wall, else I might not be alive to tell the tale. I didn’t know who he was, you see, so I reached in my pocket for my pistol.”

  “And that’s when Devereux appeared?”

  “It was,” answered Peter. “Then everything happened so quickly. William hailed him, and the next thing I knew, he had a pistol in his hand and had whipped back inside Mrs. Royston’s room and had secured the bolt.”

  “If we had been quicker, we might have had him,” said William. “For a moment or two, we were too shocked to move.”

  “And by the time we had burst through the door, Leon had gone out the window.”

  “What I don’t understand,” said Sir George, “is what prompted you to go after the man? What roused your suspicions?”

  It was Major Benson who answered the question. “He had a pistol in his hand.”

  “But so did Mr. Addison,” retorted Sir George. “Perhaps Devereux was simply exercising caution. What made you think otherwise?”

  “I think I can answer that, sir,” interposed William. “You must remember that I was ascending the stairs. When the door to Mrs. Royston’s rooms opened, I had a clear view of the interior, a worm’s-eye view, you might say. I saw her on the floor.”

  “Ah, now we are getting somewhere.” Sir George brought his glass to his lips and took a small slip. “Go on.”

  “By the time we had burst through the door, Devereux had gone out the window. I got one shot off at him, but I don’t think I hit him.”

  “What do you think, Major Benson?” asked Sir George. “Did Mr. Addison hit the fellow?”

  “I didn’t see, sir. I was on the floor, hoping to revive Mrs. Royston.”