Sattler, Veronica

by The Bargain

  "Elizabeth," he said in a tone that brooked no argument, "summon those footmen to remove your father to his chamber and then follow me to your small drawing room—now. You and I are going to have a little chat."

  * * * * *

  Mary's hands clenched the yellowed letter so hard, the parchment began to crumble. God in Heaven! she thought. How could I have been so blind?

  Her eyes focused on a passage that leaped up at her from the page.

  Do you not think, my darling, that this backhand I've developed for these secret missives is terribly clever? Since I no longer sign my name, it should be impossible for anyone to connect them with me in the event they are intercepted. I urge you to do the same when you write to me, for secrecy is imperative.

  The backhand the unsigned letter spoke of was identical to that of the forged notes that had falsely implicated Mary in an adulterous affair more than twenty-seven years ago! And many of the characters resembled the forehanded script of the earlier, signed letter. Margaret Westmont had been the one who engineered her disgrace and exile! She'd long ago suspected Margaret as the culprit but after arriving back here at the Hall and noticing Margaret's penmanship was in a forehand, she let the matter drop and reluctantly dismissed her suspicions—fool that she'd been!

  But even that old injury to her had not been the worst of Margaret's scheming. The rest of this letter, and several that came after it, were apparently written in response to her lover's pleas that she cease her scheming "to place one of my own direct line in the ducal seat. The dukedom ought to have been the firstborn's," the backhand went on to say, "and I intend to rectify the injustice of an accident of gender by placing the correct heirs in the Hall."

  A bitter smile found its way to Mary's lips. So much for disguising your identity through use of a backhand, Margaret, she thought. Any schoolchild could put two and two together and discern who wrote this by its dire contents!

  But suddenly the smile gave way to a look of horror as her eyes dropped to the page of the final letter. It was written in response to the news that Lord Andrew was dying. He had apparently penned a deathbed plea that his inamorata cease her quest to unseat the present duke's line, and she had answered:

  I reject your assessment that God punished us by killing Edward and our Caroline and dear little Linley in that carriage intended for Brett. And of course I join with you in grieving for them, but now we must consider the future, or their deaths will have been in vain.

  Installing D. is out of the question. He is far too weak. But his daughter, our young E., shows promise, and I intend to place our hopes in her—by making sure she weds the current heir! So you see, my darling, you need no longer fear over my plans for B. as something too monstrous to contemplate. The boy will live now, for we must join his line to ours. The only danger will come to those who might stand in the way of that union....

  Mary's hands began to tremble so badly, she dropped the letter and clenched them into fists to still the tremors. The D. in the letter was, of course, the drunken Lord David. Likewise, E. referred to Lady Elizabeth—and B.! B. was Brett—for whom the carriage that accidentally killed Margaret's daughter and grandson had been intended! The heinous bitch had tried to murder Brett when he was but an innocent child!

  Stifling the bile that rose to her throat when she was truly able to digest this, Mary glanced down at the letter one more time, and forced her benumbed brain to focus on its contents again. The words, "those who might stand in the way," flew up at her, and she froze for one terrible instant, then jumped to her feet.

  Ashleigh! The one who stood in the way now was Ashleigh, and Brett's wife was at this very moment alone with— "Oh, my God!" Mary choked, running for the door. I've got to get to the lake!

  * * * * *

  Ashleigh tied the periwinkle-blue silk ribbons of her bonnet securely under her chin. She was glad now she'd brought the bonnet along, for the sun's rays were strong, casting a blinding glare on the water, and she'd been squinting as she endeavored to watch Margaret's expert rowing.

  She marveled at the older woman's strength as she wielded the oars. They were halfway across the lake now, with the Hastings dock just coming into view, and it had taken Margaret almost no time at all to get them there.

  Suddenly the motion of the oars ceased, and Ashleigh glanced up from the periwinkle folds of her lap where she'd been smoothing a wrinkle in the silk fabric.

  Her eyes found Margaret's face, and for a moment, what she thought she saw made her shiver. The smile on Margaret's lips looked positively feral!

  But now Margaret was smiling pleasantly at her—wasn't she?—as she paused in her rowing.

  "I'm awfully sorry, my dear, but my hands, I fear, are terribly unconditioned for this sport these days. They pain me terribly right now, and I believe I've begun to blister."

  "Oh..." said Ashleigh, "oh, dear! Is there anything I can do? I—"

  "As a matter of fact you can, Ashleigh, child. It really isn't very difficult to get the gist of rowing. If I instruct you, I'm sure you can get us to the other side."

  "Well... I don't know... I—"

  "Of course you can, my dear! You're far younger than I— and stronger, I'm certain, despite your diminutive size! And you are wearing gloves!"

  Ashleigh glanced down at the delicate kid gloves she wore and had her doubts about their effectiveness, but forced herself to shove these aside. If Lady Margaret had been able to row them this far and was now troubled by blisters, who was she to be selfish and refuse to pitch in?

  "Very well, Lady Margaret—" she smiled "—I'll give it a try."

  "Good girl," said Margaret. "Now, all we need do is exchange seats carefully...."

  * * * * *

  Brett raced out the front door of Cloverhill Manor just as the Earl of Ranleagh's carriage was pulling to a halt on the drive.

  "Christopher!" he cried. "Take me on down the far side of the drive, to the lake!" He pulled open the carriage door and entered quickly, to the astonishment of the earl and his companion, Lady Pamela. Ignoring their bewilderment, Brett stuck his head out and called to the driver, "Take this carriage on past the house and follow it to the left at the fork. And hurry!"

  To Christopher and Pamela he added, "I'll explain as we go, but I have every reason to believe Ashleigh's in danger! We've got to reach the lake—fast!"

  * * * * *

  Mary held on to Finn's shaggy neck as the barouche veered sharply around the final curve on the drive leading to the dowager's cottage. She'd spied the dog basking in the sun near the barouche as it waited outside the Hall, its driver prepared to take her to Cloverhill Manor, and she'd decided to take the wolfhound along. She feared Margaret might have Ashleigh well out onto the lake by now—if, indeed, she's even allowed her to live this long, she thought with a shudder—and Finn's ability as a swimmer might be needed.

  "Oh, I pray I'm right!" she whispered to the big dog. "I pray we're not too late!"

  * * * * *

  Ashleigh felt the small skiff wobble as she maneuvered to exchange seats with Margaret. She stooped to clutch the sides of the boat to steady herself. As she did so, there was a shadow of movement before her, and then she felt herself shoved, hard, and all at once, she was toppling into the cold waters of the lake!

  A shriek of triumph, and then a burst of mad laughter met her ears as she hit the water just as an impossible realization flooded her brain: Oh my God! Margaret pushed me in! But then she felt herself sinking and all coherent thought fled as her instincts took over, and she resurfaced and began to tread water, trying desperately to acclimatize herself under the sodden folds of her bonnet.

  "Ah!" Margaret's voice rang out. "So the poor fish can swim, can she? Well, 'twill do you no good, you little guttersnipe! I mean to finish you this time, and then the dukedom will fall to mine! Mine, do you hear?" And with a vicious shriek, she pulled one of the oars from its lock and raised it with two hands over her head, like a club.

  Ashleigh dove beneath the s
urface, narrowly avoiding the oar as it crashed onto the water's surface near her head, her mind ringing with a single, sickening thought: Margaret's trying to kill me! She wondered how long she could manage to dodge the lethally aimed weapon. The heavy, sodden folds of her gown were tangled about her legs, dragging her down, making swimming nearly impossible. Out of her blurred vision she saw the oar wielded aloft again.

  Then, suddenly, she heard a familiar bark, and spied Finn's shaggy head in the water, a few yards away.

  A shriek from Margaret told her her assailant had also spied the dog, who was fast approaching the boat. The oar crashed a second time, and this was met by Finn's sharp yelp of pain.

  "Oh, God, Finn—no!" Ashleigh gasped. She swam clumsily in the dog's direction and saw her beloved hound struggling in the water, a bloody gash on the side of his head where the tip of the oar had slashed him. And the oar was now being thrust at him, like a battering ram!

  But Finn was not finished yet. With a menacing growl, he lunged through the water, straight for the advancing oar. In the next instant Finn's giant jaws had hold of the oar's blade, and, giving it a sharp yank, he pulled Margaret with it into the lake.

  Margaret screamed as she hit the water, then began to thrash about in desperation when she felt herself sinking. "Help!" she choked. "Help me! I cannot swim!"

  Even as the awareness of what Margaret had been attempting throbbed in her brain, Ashleigh would have swum to help her, but her skirts were badly twisted about her legs now, and she could barely move. Water seemed to be everywhere—above her, around her, everywhere. She felt herself being sucked inexorably downward; the last thing that appeared to her fading consciousness was a blurry, dark-gray shadow, and then even that faded and there was nothing.

  EPILOGUE

  Brett watched his eighteen-month-old son toddle over to his older sister and hand her a bunch of violets he'd picked, minus their stems, of course. Marileigh, now almost four, smiled sweetly at the sibling she adored—and who adored her in return.

  "Why, thank you, John," she murmured. "And I shall help you pick a bouquet for Mama. She loves violets, too, you know."

  Brett's contented gaze fell on his wife. Ashleigh... how he loved her! She sat on the grass, several yards away, surrounded by a group of youngsters who were listening attentively to a story she told them. Her eyes raised, caught her husband's gaze and she smiled at him. Brett returned the smile with a look that promised more, once they were alone.

  But he really didn't mind sharing his wife with the children, both their own offspring and the eight they'd adopted in a process that began almost four years ago—a process that came out of a joint decision to follow the example of his mother, and take into their home orphans whom no one else wanted.

  His mind drifted back over the four years, savoring the happiness they'd shared. Theirs was a blissful marriage, their home a happy one, filled with children's laughter as well as their own.

  He allowed his thoughts to wander further as his eyes fell on the lake in the distance. The lake. Where it had all almost ended.

  He shivered, recalling that terrible day when he'd almost not been in time—when he'd barely reached his unconscious wife in the water and then managed to swim with her to the shore, just as Christopher had done with the failing Finn.

  Christopher's driver had been able to pull Margaret ashore as well, but the evil madwoman—for such was the only way he could allow himself to think of her—had already drowned. And a blessing it had been, he mused—not for the first time these past years. For Margaret would surely have been forced to face justice before the bar, had she lived, and even he would have been hard-pressed to see her hang. And hang she would have, for the murders of her own child and grandchild years ago, not to mention Edward, Brett's father.

  His mind passed quickly over the remaining events of that day in June, nearly four years ago... the shocked staff and arriving guests at Cloverhill Manor, the hysterical weeping of Elizabeth who cried over and over, "I didn't know... I didn't know...."

  And then there had been his mother, her face white with concern, as she flew into the upstairs chamber where they'd taken the dazed, but otherwise unharmed, Ashleigh and bandaged the cut on Finn's head. Mary had arrived at the lake too late to stop Margaret, but she'd found Tom Blecker and young Jonathan heavily drugged from the tea they'd been served, and hastily sent Finn into the water to "Fetch Ashleigh!" By the time she managed to hurry to the Manor in the barouche, Mary was nearly hysterical with fear—until she at last assured herself that Ashleigh was unharmed, and then, with Lady Jane Hastings's help, Mary had explained what she'd learned from the letters, and the ghastly puzzle of Margaret Westmont's crimes had been pieced together for them all.

  Brett's grandfather's sister, it seemed, had never gotten over the fact that she, the firstborn twin, had been denied the dukedom by virtue of having been born female. And her twisted mind had spewed and plotted evil from the time she'd been old enough, apparently, to think she could install one of her own in place of John Westmont's line.

  Lady Jane was now a contented dowager, happy to play fond auntie to Elizabeth's twins—for Elizabeth had been taken under Mary's wing following the tragedy and had at last found contentment herself by wedding an Italian duke. But Jane Hastings had astounded them during the inquest by swearing that, before he died, her husband had confessed everything to her, including the fact that Margaret had deliberately gotten herself with child by him, seducing him with the intent of bearing an heir she could somehow insinuate into her brother's dukedom.

  But when Jane would have gone to the authorities to tell what she knew, Margaret, whom she had foolishly confronted with the truth, had threatened to end Jane's life if she dared to speak to anyone of it again. But Jane had prudently saved Andrew's letters and not told Margaret she had them. Then, finally, after all her years of silence, Jane had dared to bring them to light in the face of some encouragement—encouragement in the form of the kindnesses of a small slip of a girl named Ashleigh.

  Ashleigh... Brett's mind savored the syllables of her name as his turquoise eyes again found her laughing face amidst the children's in the grass. How he loved her—today, it seemed, more than ever.

  Next week they'd be welcoming Megan and Patrick back to England, and their two small sons as well. It was the first trip abroad for the St. Clares since they'd left to live in America, although he and Ashleigh had sailed to Virginia to visit them a little over two years ago. Brett grinned to himself. Young John had even been conceived there!

  Brett's expression was grim as thoughts of the St. Clares forced him into the unpleasant past again. After the constables arrived to investigate the circumstances surrounding Margaret's death, a thorough search of Ravensford Hall turned up a diary written in the now infamous backhand. Hidden in a secret compartment in a desk Margaret used in the dowager's cottage, it not only confirmed the substance of the letters to Lord Andrew, but revealed that it had also been Lady Margaret who'd set the fire that killed the parents of Ashleigh and Patrick. She'd learned of Mary's clandestine visits to Kent through an informant who'd had loose free-trading connections with the St. Clares, and fearing Mary's abduction of Brett—who was then essential to her crazed plans—she'd coolly plotted to kill Mary!

  Suddenly a voice from the present shut out the disturbing memories.

  "Father, Father!" Marileigh called as she came running up to him. At her side was Brett, a ten-year-old rescued from the slums of London where he'd been forced by poverty to work as a chimney sweep. The lad was bright—sharp as a tack, Brett thought—and his handsome young face glowed with health— a far cry from the emaciated, haunted look it had held three years ago, when they'd found him.

  "Father," Marileigh continued, "Brett made a bargain with me that I could ride his pony if I managed to keep my dress clean when I played with Finn and Lady Dimples, and I have," she indicated, holding out the skirts of her sprigged muslin frock, "and now he says he's not so sure he's going to keep to hi
s end of it!"

  Brett bestowed a fatherly frown on young Brett, then glanced over the two children's heads at the advancing figure of his wife before returning his attention to the boy.

  "Brett, did you strike such a bargain?" he questioned.

  Brett squirmed uncomfortably, then stared at his toes. "I did, sir," he murmured.

  "Well, then, you know you'll have to honor it," Brett told him. "And take heart, lad, for it might turn out to be a very good thing." Brett's eyes met Ashleigh's as she stood behind the children. "You just might, when you've made a bargain, receive far more from it than you ever dreamed of.... You might just find a miracle."