On a Wild Night

by Stephanie Laurens

He squeezed the curricle between an ancient landau occupied by a bedizened old harridan with a yapping pug and a cabriolet overflowing with giggling girls. Who took one look at him and giggled all the more.

  Amanda was all but jigging in her seat. Amelia had seen her waving madly; escorted by Lord Canthorp, she came strolling up.

  Amelia touched fingers with her sister, smiled at him, then introduced his lordship. While he and Canthorp exchanged a few drawling words, Amanda and Amelia exchanged meaningful glances.

  As a result, Canthorp received a pretty dismissal and was sent on his way. As soon as he was out of earshot, Amelia looked at Amanda. “What?”

  Amanda drew breath, opened her lips, paused, then carefully asked, “The day I left for Scotland, did you tell anyone where I’d gone?”

  Cornflower blue eyes reflecting her curiosity, Amelia nodded. “At Lady Cardigan’s luncheon, Lady Bain and Mrs. Carr asked where you were.”

  Amanda’s excitement faded. “No one else?”

  “Well, no one else asked, but we stopped in the park on the way to the luncheon and met the Ashfords. It came out in conversation with them.”

  “It did?” Amanda gripped Amelia’s hand. “Who was there—of the Ashfords, I mean?”

  “The usual four—Emily, Anne, their mama and Edward.”

  Martin closed his hand over Amanda’s, squeezing to silence her. “Amelia, think back. What exactly did you tell them?”

  Amelia smiled. “That’s easy. Mama and I discussed what we should say before we left home. We decided we should be deliberately vague. We agreed to say Amanda had gone north for a few days, nothing more.”

  They drove around the streets for an hour, debating the possibility that Edward—Edward!—was the villain they sought.

  “You cannot—simply cannot—argue that it isn’t possible,” Amanda declared.

  They’d parted from Amelia, both so subdued, so shocked, that Amelia had been openly concerned. Amanda had calmed her twin with a reassurance and a promise to tell all later, then they’d driven on, quickly leaving the noisy Avenue behind.

  “I’ll allow that it’s possible.” The deadened tone of Martin’s voice told her he was, in truth, more convinced than that, but . . .

  She glanced at him, at his stony expression. “If you’re thinking that exposing him will cause Luc, Lady Calverton and his sisters pain, don’t forget all the pain he’s already caused people no longer able to seek justice.”

  The frowning glance he threw her told her she’d hit a nerve; she hurried on, “And we can’t forget that, if he thinks he’s got away with it, he might do something like it again. You cannot expect me to believe that half the men in your family frequent the stews. And, you see, Edward has built a reputation as steadfastly righteous, stuffy and pompous but always rigidly correct—you haven’t been here to see it, but he has. Melly and I always thought it was his way of puffing himself up, especially because, although he’s handsome enough, he could never hold a candle to Luc. Or you.”

  Martin grimaced. After a moment, he said, “When we were younger, he was always in our shadow.”

  Amanda kept silent; if she was struggling to reconcile the possibility, then how much harder would it be for him?

  Two minutes later, she closed her hand over one of Martin’s, twined her fingers with his, felt him glance at her. “I just remembered something Lady Osbaldestone said. I’m not sure what she was alluding to, but it wasn’t just your situation. She said that in even the best of families, there’s often a bad apple in an otherwise sound crop. She said that in your case, no one believed you were a bad apple. She didn’t say it in so many words, but I gathered she considered it a family’s duty to weed out the bad apple.”

  She met his gaze. “I was just thinking—wasn’t that what your father thought he was doing? What he felt, for the family’s sake, he had to do? Only he picked the wrong apple.”

  He held her gaze for a moment, then his grew distant; he looked back at his horses. A minute passed, then he stirred, glanced around. “Luc will be God knows where at this hour.”

  “But he’ll meet us at Fulbridge House at four.”

  When Martin nodded, his expression grim, she quietly added, “And between then and now, we have Lady Hetherington’s al fresco luncheon and Lady Montague’s at-home.”

  He looked at her, then swore.

  They attended both events. Although Martin cloaked his impatience in effortless charm, his temper had never been so close to his surface; Amanda could feel it, a thrumming tension just beneath his skin. It grated on her nerves. When, ten minutes after they’d arrived at Lady Montague’s, Martin grumbled in her ear, “Can we go now?” she obligingly developed a headache, and excused them both.

  Martin helped her into his curricle, then whipped up his horses for Park Lane.

  “Edward?” Reggie stared. “The blackguard! Yes, I can just imagine it, the way he proses on and on—”

  “Wait!” Martin cut him off.

  Together with Reggie, Amanda looked at Martin, standing before the library windows, staring at the courtyard filled with greenery.

  “We shouldn’t condemn him without proof. As yet, we have none.”

  She conceded, “All we know is that it might be him.”

  Martin sighed. “In all cases—Sarah, Buxton and Reggie—Edward had both knowledge and opportunity, something we’ve yet to establish for anyone else. However, until we have unequivocal proof, I suggest we temper our stand.”

  From the chaise on which he was reclining, Reggie grimaced at Amanda, perched in her favorite spot on the daybed. She leaned forward and whispered, “Could it have been Edward you saw?”

  “Yes, damn it!” Reggie whispered back. “I said it looked like Dexter because I’d just seen him, and it was him who was asking—I was facing him then and there. I know it wasn’t Luc because his hair is pitch in the night, but if Dexter hadn’t been there to compare with, I’d have said the blackguard looked just like Edward.” Reggie glanced at Martin’s back. “Not that that will wash as proof, unfortunately.”

  Luc arrived as the clocks struck four. He took one look at Martin’s face, and asked, “What?”

  Martin told him, repeating Amelia’s unprompted words.

  When Martin fell silent, Amanda spoke, pointing out the discrepancy in Edward’s known behaviors. “The image he consistently paints of himself is a fabrication. He’s not a kind and caring brother, not truly, and he’s not an upstanding, righteously moral gentleman, either.”

  Slumped in an armchair, Luc stared at her; his face was pale, but his expression wasn’t disbelieving. After a moment, he looked at Martin, then heaved a heavy sigh. “I still remember Sarah.” He closed his eyes briefly, then opened them and fixed his gaze on Martin’s face. “And yes, I can believe it of Edward.”

  It was the last thing Martin had expected to hear—his shock, his quick frown said as much. “How . . . ?” He came closer. “Are you sure?”

  “Sure he did it? No. Sure he could have done it—yes.” Luc glanced at Amanda and Reggie, then looked at Martin again. “I know him—the real Edward—a lot better than any of you. What Amanda said is right—the image Edward projects to the ton is quite different to the man he really is. And no, it isn’t something that’s happened recently.”

  Luc looked down, straightened his sleeve. “I used to wonder if it was just jealousy, a reaction to the fact that you and I were always . . . just more—better, stronger, whatever. Edward could never measure up, even if no one used that particular yardstick but him. But when he was seven, I caught him torturing the household cat. I rescued her, took her away—I didn’t tell Papa, but I tried to explain to Edward that what he’d done was wrong. He didn’t understand, not then, not later.”

  He glanced at Martin. “You probably never heard, but Edward was frequently in trouble at school—for bullying. Since he came on the town, I’ve had little real contact with him; he knows I don’t approve, so takes care I don’t hear. Nevertheless, his attitude
for years has been that we—the wealthy, the titled, the chosen few—matter, while all those of lesser degree are merely here for our convenience.” After a moment, he added, “The servants hate him. If it wasn’t for Mama and the girls, they wouldn’t bear with him.

  “So could he have forced Sarah, killed Buxton, said nothing when you, who he always resented, were accused? Could he have shot Reggie thinking he was you? Yes.” Luc looked at Martin. “If he let you take the blame for him once, I doubt he’d hesitate to make that permanent.”

  Martin held Luc’s gaze, then stepped around and dropped onto the daybed. He shook his head, and slumped back, staring at the ceiling. After a time, he glanced at Luc. “We still need evidence.”

  “Short of wringing a confession from Edward—and you won’t—I can’t see where you’ll get it. He’s clever, calculating and there’s not an ounce of warmth to what runs in his veins. Appealing to his sense of honor would be a waste of time—he doesn’t recognize the concept.”

  The bitterness behind Luc’s words, the set of his long lips, spoke eloquently of his feelings—he’d tried and knew he’d failed to reform his brother. Amanda watched him, wondering if he would accept the need to bring Edward to justice.

  His next words answered that.

  Luc glanced at Martin, his dark blue gaze sharpening. “We need to think of this as a challenge, coz—we rarely failed, not when we put our minds to something.”

  Martin looked at him, met his gaze, then his lips twisted wrily. “You’re right—a challenge, then: how to prove Edward’s guilt. There must be a way—there is a way. So what is it?”

  Luc looked at Reggie. “How did he get up north?”

  “It sounds like he went via Nottingham.”

  They tossed questions back and forth, defining how Edward must have acted, trying to see where evidence—something they could prove—might lie. Amanda and Reggie joined in; Jules brought in platters and decanters. They drank and ate, and racked their brains.

  After an hour, Martin sat back. “This is getting us nowhere. Even if we prove he was up there, it’s another thing to prove he pulled the trigger. And even if we did, there’s nothing to connect that with Sarah and Buxton.”

  Luc grimaced, but his eyes were hard. “It’s Sarah I’d like to see him pay for. That’s where it all started.” He sighed. “If only she’d said something—chattered to her nurse . . . ?”

  Martin shook his head. “Mrs. Crockett was adamant, and she wouldn’t have forgotten—”

  “Wait!” Amanda grabbed Martin’s arm. “That’s it!”

  “What? Sarah left no clue—”

  “No. But only the four of us and Mrs. Crockett know that.”

  Luc’s eyes narrowed. “We fabricate something—”

  “Not exactly.” Amanda waved for silence. “Listen. This is what—as far as anyone beyond this room knows—is going on.” She drew breath, her mind whizzing from point to point as the details fell into place. “Martin has offered for my hand, and that means he has to resolve the old scandal. So for the first time, he’s revisted the scene and asked questions of the people involved. The murderer knows Martin’s been back home, so all that fits.

  “One of the people he’d naturally have spoken with is Mrs. Crockett. While she didn’t know anything, after we’d left, she rummaged through the trunk where Sarah’s father had put Sarah’s belongings. She hadn’t previously looked because she’d assumed Martin was guilty.”

  Amanda glanced at Martin. “I know that’s not the case, but it’s better for my story if she thought all these years it was you. That explains why she didn’t until now look in Sarah’s diary. You were hauled away, essentially convicted of the crime—no proof was needed years ago. Now . . . after we left, Mrs. Crockett remembered the diary, but wasn’t sure it still existed. But when she looked in the trunk, she found it, and in it, of course, Sarah doesn’t name but describes enough to identify the man who forced her, the one who’s babe she was carrying.”

  She glanced at her audience. “All men think young girls write everything in their diaries, don’t they?”

  Luc shrugged. “If one was dealing with innocents, it would be a concern.”

  Amanda nodded. “Just so. Mrs. Crockett sent word to Martin, asking what you wanted her to do with the diary. You wrote back to send it to London.” She looked at Martin, Luc, Reggie. “The diary will be delivered here, on a certain day at a certain hour, because it’ll come down with the coach, so when it arrives will be fixed. And we’ll be here, waiting for it to be delivered, to open it and read what’s written there—”

  “And Edward will move heaven and earth to stop that happening.” Luc sat forward, his expression intent. “It might work.”

  “And,” Martin said, “the scheme will work even if it isn’t Edward.” When the other three looked at him, he went on, “Other than circumstantial evidence, we have no proof it is Edward. We’d be foolish to assume it’s definitely him.” He glanced at Amanda. “Which is why your plan is so sound—it’ll work no matter which of the five on our list is the one. Whoever he is, he’ll try to stop us reading the diary.”

  “But we haven’t got a diary,” Reggie said.

  “Any book will do.” Martin glanced at the shelves all around them.

  “No, it won’t,” Amanda countered. “It should at least look the part. I’ve an old schoolroom diary with ribbons and roses on the front. It hasn’t got my name on the cover—I’ll write Sarah on it. That will look convincing.”

  Luc frowned. “If it was me, I’d try to get the diary back from Mrs. Crockett. I’d turn up at her cottage and say Martin sent me to fetch it.”

  “You won’t have time,” Martin told him. “We’re going to settle this quickly.” He glanced at them all. “The diary will arrive tomorrow evening—the coach from the north arrives at St. Pancras at five o’clock. To make it more realistic, and to make sure the diary arrives here and no attempt is made to waylay it en route, I’ll send Jules up north to fetch it. In reality, we’ll wrap the diary, give it to Jules, and one of my grooms will drive him to Barnet at dawn tomorrow. He’ll be there to catch the coach when it stops on its way south later in the day.”

  “But what about Jules?” Amanda turned to Martin. “We know the murderer’s dangerous. We don’t want Jules harmed.”

  “You needn’t worry about Jules—he can take care of himself.” When Amanda didn’t look convinced, Martin’s grin turned wry. “Jules is an ex-Corsican bandit, an assassin, among other things. He was once sent to kill me.”

  Luc considered Martin. “He obviously wasn’t much good at his job.”

  Martin raised his brows. “Actually, he was very good—I’m just better.”

  The cousins exchanged cousinly glances, then turned back to the business at hand.

  “However, just to make sure, and lend further verisimilitude to our tale, I’ll send two grooms to meet the coach at St. Pancras and escort Jules and the precious diary back here.”

  Luc nodded. “Yes. That will do it. Setting guards about the diary is a masterstroke—you wouldn’t bother unless you were convinced the evidence it contains is crucial.”

  “As it would be in more ways than one. It would prove I was falsely accused, clear me of the old scandal, restore my standing within the family, pave the way for me to marry Amanda—connecting me with the Cynsters—and ensure I’m the darling of the ton for the foreseeable future.” Martin glanced at Luc. “If it is Edward and he craves social standing and also resents me as you say, then the combination of all that good to come my way, all hingeing on the information in the diary, will make it utterly impossible for him not to react.”

  * * *

  The next day dawned, and everything was in place. Amanda had unearthed her old diary, written “Sarah’s” on the cover; wrapped in brown paper, it was now in Jules’s possession. Together with one of Martin’s grooms, he’d left for Barnet at dawn.

  All of them had their alloted tasks. Reggie remained at Fulbridge House
in charge of the command post. The others reported to him throughout the day, confirming their tasks completed, checking that all was on track.

  After intense discussion, they’d agreed on how to get their story to all five gentlemen still on their list. They needed to be sure that all five received the message—the warning of impending exposure—before five o’clock that afternoon. It took the combined arguments of Amanda, Luc and Reggie to convince Martin that it was impossible to keep the matter private.

  “However,” Amanda had pointed out, “the best way to make sure the story is repeated enough to be believed, quickly, is to tell it to selected people ‘in confidence.’ “

  Luc had studied Martin’s stony countenance, then sighed. “You can’t have it both ways—it’s either going to be quick and public, or drawn out and potentially more dangerous if we try for secrecy.”

  Martin had finally capitulated and they’d settled on their approach. Even though it had been by then very late, Luc had left to do the rounds of the clubs to seed the story into the right circles. After that, he would stop by the ball his mother, sisters and brother were attending, but let Edward sense no more than that there was something in the wind. Something to do with Martin.

  This morning, Luc would visit Limmers; later, he’d swan through the clubs, idly coming upon the other four on their list, checking they’d heard without asking. They would assuredly ask him for the latest news, which, of course, he’d give.

  As for Edward, they’d agreed he should hear the news from a source he’d never suspect—his sisters, Emily and Anne. Amanda was delegated to tell them the tale; with Amelia beside her, primed to lend assistance, she set out with Louise in the carriage that morning for their usual drive in the park.

  Meeting the Ashfords, deciding to join the girls strolling on the lawns, was normal practice. As usual, Edward remained close but did not walk with them. Amelia and Amanda artfully turned the conversation to Amanda’s upcoming wedding. Emily and Anne peppered her with questions, innocently enthusiastic about what would be their first haut ton wedding.