by Karen Ranney
He moved closer, placing his hand flat against her back, pulling her close until her cheek was against his chest. For the first time in what felt like a very long time, she was at peace, feeling safe and secure.
At last she fell asleep, her last thought a startling one—Moncrief was not only an exciting lover, he was a tender one, almost as if he felt more for her than desire.
Chapter 26
Catherine placed the apothecary jar back in the case, glancing at the label as she did so. The writing appeared vaguely familiar. She didn’t think she’d ever seen Moncrief’s penmanship before. Strangely, the script reminded her of Harry’s writing.
She’d changed Moncrief’s dressing and used the bullet powder, and now he was insisting upon getting up and dressing. Throwing her hands up in defeat, she summoned his valet and Peter as well.
“I’ll return in a few moments,” she said to Peter, unwilling to divulge her errand or that curiosity was propelling her to do something altogether foolish.
She descended the stairs and nodded to Wallace, who was looking stern and official in his new black suit. He bowed in return, the young man with the laughing eyes buried behind the majordomo’s flat gaze and tight mouth.
Everything had changed since Moncrief had been brought home wounded.
“He slept well,” she said, “and is insisting upon rising and dressing.”
Wallace’s face eased somewhat. “That’s good to hear, Your Grace.”
“I doubt I’ll be able to keep him in his room, Wallace. But he will not leave Balidonough.”
They shared a complicit glance. “As you wish, Your Grace. I’ll pass the word to the staff.”
“Thank them for their loyalty, Wallace.”
“I will, Your Grace,” he said, his words accompanied by another bow.
“Has Glynneth returned?”
He only shook his head.
Catherine left him then, entering the library, pausing at the door to allow her eyes to become accustomed to the sunlight streaming in through the windows. In Moncrief’s chamber, she had closed all the curtains and extinguished the candles, the better to allow him to rest.
She took the two steps down into the rotunda and sat at the desk that dominated the space.
Why had the driver of the wagon shot him?
Where was Glynneth?
There were too many questions to be answered, which was why she was here. Why did Moncrief’s writing seem so familiar to her?
She opened his top left drawer to find a selection of quills and two inkhorns tightly capped. One held a brown ink, the other black. The top right desk drawer held a selection of paper.
Moncrief’s correspondence from his solicitor was in the second drawer, and a variety of journals and ledgers were neatly aligned in the third. She would not invade his privacy by reading his letters, but she did open a few pages only to glance at his signature. His M was a swooping letter but neatly restrained. The other letters looked similar to the writing on the apothecary jar.
She closed the drawer and sat back against the leather chair. From here the entire expanse of the library was visible, all except a few nooks and crannies on the second level. Here, Moncrief could sit and look out over the inner courtyard of Balidonough, could see the rolling hills and woods that bordered his land, could trace the path of the river. He was king of this particular domain, a duke with princely arrogance.
Harry’s writing shouldn’t be similar to Moncrief’s. There, the thought that she was trying desperately hard to ignore. They were educated differently, came from two different backgrounds. One was a merchant’s son and the other the son of a duke. One was regrettably lacking in character while the other was the epitome of nobility and honor.
Dear God, what was she thinking?
One drawer was left, and she gazed at it for a moment before placing her hand on the pull. The fact that it was locked didn’t surprise her. She fumbled around inside the knee well for the latch, but there was none. Finally, she found a small keyhole that must be the locking mechanism. She had a choice—simply to ignore the matter and return to Moncrief’s side, or to find the key.
She turned in the chair and glanced at a small porcelain jar on the shelf. Her father had had a habit of keeping important items in odd containers. Had Moncrief hidden the key in plain sight?
If the drawer was locked, there was a reason for it. She should not invade his privacy in such a blatant way. But she looked inside the jar anyway, to find nothing. The curious little brass monkey statue posed with a removable hat was likewise as empty. A small carved chest opened to reveal a wonderful scent and something that looked like incense. Just as she despaired of locating the key, she found it in the bottom of a magnificent red Chinese urn sitting on its own pedestal in the corner.
She slipped the key into the lock and turned it slowly, telling herself that there was still time to repent of her curiosity. Besides, she might well be disappointed in what she found in this locked drawer.
An instant later, she realized she couldn’t do it. Catherine turned the key again, testing the drawer to ensure that it was still locked. Instead, it slid open at a touch, and she stared at the contents, horrified that she’d accidentally invaded his privacy. She slammed it shut, only to realize, a second later, what she’d seen.
Slowly, she pulled out the drawer again. The drawer was empty except for a collection of letters, tied together with a leather string. She knew the handwriting on these only too well. She’d written them herself.
In loneliness, in despair, in times of joy and uncertainty, she’d written Harry of her hopes and dreams, of her irritations, and her accomplishments. She’d avidly read the letters he’d written her in return, gradually coming to love the author of such poetic and lovely words.
What was Moncrief doing with them?
Her father whirled and marched toward the fireplace, only to turn and advance on her again. “Is he dead?”
“I’m certain he is not,” Glynneth said. “You would have heard, I think. Catherine still admires you.”
“No thanks to you,” he said, scowling at her. His normally round and cherubic face was flushed, and he wore such a look of rage that any member of his congregation would be shocked. Contrary to their belief, the vicar was not a man of genial temperament. Or at least, he’d never been so around her. Being his daughter had never been an easy task, but never more so than now.
“You can’t stay here.”
She held Robbie’s hand too tightly; her son squirmed to get away. She bent down to comfort him. “I have nowhere else to go, Father,” she said, straightening again.
“You should have thought of that earlier.”
“No, Father. I think Robbie and I will stay here,” she said.
“And what do I tell my congregation?”
“Tell them whatever you wish. Or should I tell my own tale? About how you tried to kill Catherine with laudanum? Or how you tried to kill both of them at Balidonough?”
For a moment father and daughter stared at each other. Then the vicar smiled, such a charming expression that anyone else might have been taken aback. But she knew him well, and knew that his smiles were often used to disarm. Therefore, Glynneth prepared herself for his next words.
“I did it for you.”
“You did it for me. Surely you don’t expect me to believe that?”
“Who is Catherine’s heir?”
She frowned at him. “She doesn’t have one. She’s the last of her family.”
“Not true, daughter. She was married to Harry, and Harry has a son.”
She felt a frisson of horror. “Robbie.”
“He is Harry’s son, is he not?”
She nodded. She’d never kept her lover’s identity a secret from him. In fact, she’d begged to marry him, but her father considered Harry a wastrel and a fool.
“If she dies, the courts would look kindly on the fact that Robbie is his only child. Everything could become Robbie’s.”
�
��I will not profit over the death of another, especially in the case of murder.”
“Are you certain? You would never have to work for other people again, Glynneth. Never take their orders. Robbie would be a gentleman.”
“What kind of man serves God and himself with such greed? Or do you pretend that you don’t want part of Robbie’s inheritance?”
“It’s a moot point, is it not?” he asked. “She’s married to Moncrief now.” He flicked a finger at one cuff, before straightening the lace. “He’s made her a gift of her inheritance.”
“How do you know that?”
“You’d be surprised what servants will say. Especially those who can read. A paper left here or there can be fodder for all sorts of gossip.”
“Especially if you’ve paid for it.”
He smiled. “A judicious investment, my dear.”
He was too pleased with himself. She finally understood. “If Catherine dies, her fortune reverts to her heirs.”
“Robbie,” the vicar said, smiling.
She studied him, wondering which, of the two of them, was the more loathsome creature—him, for being a man of God and yet so immersed in greed that it made him want to kill another person, or herself, that she had not told Moncrief or Catherine her suspicions about her father.
Evidently, he’d interpreted her silence as an assent. “Perhaps I’ll call upon them, ensure myself of Moncrief’s well-being or help him along the path to heaven itself. If he predeceases her, Catherine, finding herself a widow again, would naturally become despondent. Think of all that incredible wealth, Glynneth.”
“Which you would have to administer for your grandson’s sake,” she said, fully understanding the depth of his greed.
At his silence, she felt a sickening lurch of fear. “What are you going to do?”
“Something,” he said. “Anything. God does not pay as well as you might imagine, Glynneth.”
Catherine sat at Moncrief’s desk, her hands folded together in front of her. When the door opened, she turned, unsurprised to see him standing there.
“You’re not supposed to leave your room.”
“By whose dictates?”
She sighed. “I would be foolish to expect you to obey anyone’s orders, Moncrief. How did you do so in the regiment?”
“I occasionally chafed against the restrictions.”
She only shook her head.
“What is it?” he asked her, frowning. “You look pale, Catherine. Are you ill?”
“No, Moncrief, I’m not ill.”
He came forward and stood beside her until she was forced to turn her head and look up at him. He was dressed so perfectly that it almost hurt to look at him. He was a portrait made alive, a duke in all his superiority and power. His dark blue breeches were topped with a matching coat, and a heavily embroidered waistcoat. He wore white stockings, and black shoes with gold buckles. Even his buttons were gold, heavily incised with his family’s crest.
His arm was carefully supported in a triangle of white silk that looked to be a cravat pressed into service as a sling.
“You’re certain you’re not ill?”
“Very certain,” she said, standing. She moved aside so that he could sit behind the desk.
She wandered to the edge of the rotunda, mounted the steps and stood staring at the shelves aligned in perfect order, filled with thousands upon thousands of volumes. More than a lifetime of learning was stored there.
His hand was suddenly on her shoulders, and she flinched from the touch. He turned her in his arms and studied her face as she raised her eyes.
“Tell me. What is it?”
Catherine only shook her head, so stunned by the revelation that had come to her that she still couldn’t speak of it.
“Truly, there’s nothing wrong,” she said. In fact, she wasn’t altogether certain she lied. She wasn’t angry. Nor did she feel betrayed. She was simply confused.
“I need to talk to the wagon driver. Do you want to be here?”
“Of course.”
Catherine knew him well enough by now to know that when he was fixed on a point, he wouldn’t budge from it. She wouldn’t be so foolish to ask him to rest or even to delay his interrogation.
Peter entered the room a few minutes later and looked from Moncrief to her. Had he sensed the tension in the air? Unspoken words hung between the two of them. Moncrief, however, was wise enough not to question her further.
What could she possibly say?
My dearest Catherine,
You will probably not receive this until spring. The river is frozen and the snow is thick upon the ground. I used to believe that the winters in Scotland where harsh, but this barren landscape is empty except for snowdrifts, and trees laden with icy branches.
Perhaps it is because we are soldiers and missing our loved ones, but nothing about Quebec appears hospitable. We do not venture far from the city in our patrols, since there are French who would like to boast of our capture or worse.
She could almost feel his loneliness through his words, but by the time she had received his letter, he was already dead.
Or was he?
“The man, McClaren, admits to shooting you, Your Grace. Shall I call the sheriff?”
“I am the sheriff,” Moncrief said.
“Throw him in the dungeon.” Catherine turned and faced Peter.
“Such a bloodthirsty woman,” Moncrief said, smiling.
“I have no compassion for the man who nearly ended your life.” When she glanced at him, he winked at her, a gesture that was so out of keeping with Moncrief’s demeanor that she was startled.
The man was brought into the room, his wrists bound in front of him with a rope. One ugly gash sliced through his cheek, and his left eye was swelling. Evidently, some of Moncrief’s staff felt the same way she did.
McClaren was older, but not infirm. His arms were thick, as was his chest, and he stood in front of them with a belligerent look on his face as if he dared any of them to strike him again.
“Release him.” Moncrief’s command had all of them glancing at him.
He sat behind the desk and surveyed the prisoner, evidently oblivious to their looks of disbelief.
“What have you to say for yourself?”
The man who faced him remained silent.
His hat had been stripped from him, revealing long, graying hair. Yet for all his maturity, the look in his eyes was young and angry.
“You shot me?”
“I did, and I’d do it again. You were on my land, and I’ve no liking for poachers.”
Moncrief let that pass and asked another question. “Do you know Glynneth Rowan?”
The man remained silent. Peter shoved him in the arm, making him stumble forward.
“I’ll not say whether I know her or not. And you can strike me all day, and my story’ll not change.”
“She commands great loyalty from you, then,” Moncrief said, nodding. “What I want to know is why you shot me? The real story, and not the tale you dreamed up about a poacher.”
The other man remained mute.
“Was it because I was coming too close to learning her secret?”
Catherine glanced at him.
McClaren still didn’t speak, but the look in his eyes was now wary.
“How long have you cared for her child?”
“Since he was born,” the man said.
Catherine sat abruptly on the chair beside the desk.
“How did you know?”
Moncrief didn’t answer her, only addressed another comment to the man. “My quarrel is not with a child. Nor with Glynneth.”
“Then why did you follow her? I saw you.”
Moncrief glanced at Catherine. “Because I believe she knows who injured my wife.”
McClaren’s gaze slid to Catherine. She returned his look steadily, torn between anger at him and at Moncrief.
“He’s like a son to me,” McClaren finally said, looking at Moncrief once mor
e. “Or a grandson. Either way, he’s just a little boy. Barely more than a baby. She told me that people might come, asking. It was my decision to shoot you. And I’m a better marksman than you think. If I’d wanted to kill you, you would be dead.”
Moncrief only nodded.
“I’m going to let you go,” he said. “Because you brought me home.”
“I wouldn’t have,” McClaren said. “It was Glynneth’s idea. She didn’t want you dying.”
Moncrief smiled. “For that I thank her. And you.”
When Peter and Wallace escorted the man from the room, Catherine turned to Moncrief. “How did you know that Glynneth had a child?”
“A guess,” he said. “She never missed one of her days off, so it was an important destination. What’s more important than a child? Cook said that she always asked her to provide a treat before she left, something she packed in a small basket. In addition, the maids who cleaned her room said that she was always knitting something, a pair of socks, a small sweater.”
“But she never said a word,” she said, shaking her head. “Never.”
He didn’t answer her, but studied her almost speculatively, almost as if they were strangers, certainly not two people who had lain in each other’s arms for hours.
“You may learn some difficult things in the next few days, Catherine. Are you prepared for that?”
She was uncertain how to answer that, since she already suspected the most difficult truth of all.
“Do you mean that Glynneth meant me harm?”
He nodded.
She would not have believed it a few days ago. But then, she would not have believed that Moncrief was the man who’d written her all those beautiful letters, or been the author of words that had touched her heart.
“She was a widow,” Catherine said. “Like me. I suppose it’s why I hired her.”
“What about her references?”
“She worked for a family in Inverness, and one outside the city. They’d both written a glowing recommendation for her.”
