by Candace Camp
So he felt sure that what he had experienced today was not love at first sight. No, it was more likely astonishment at seeing his long-ago dream suddenly come to life in his mother’s rose garden.
Still…whatever it was, he knew it was something that he had to explore. He had to know why this woman was here in his life ten years after his “vision” of her. He had to understand that strange, intense feeling that had gripped him.
Theo remembered his reluctance to leave London despite the restlessness that had plagued him, as well as the odd sense of waiting that he had experienced. Was Miss Henderson the reason he had been “waiting”? And how the devil had he known it?
Theo stood up, shaking his head slightly, and started back into the house. In the midst of all these speculations, there was one fact he knew for certain: there was no way he would be leaving London any time soon.
He trotted up the steps to the terrace, unaware that he was whistling a merry tune.
* * *
MEGAN WENT TO CALL on Andrew Barchester the following day, accompanied by her father and sister. She would have preferred to conduct the interview alone. Much as she loved her father, she was accustomed to doing her work by herself. Her father was all too likely to take control of the interview and send it shooting along some strange pathway. Nor did she really think that Deirdre was likely to be able to give them any pertinent information derived from the “feelings” Frank Mulcahey was sure Deirdre would receive on seeing this man, who was one of the last to see their brother alive. She would have liked to spare Deirdre the pain of hearing firsthand about Dennis’s death. Megan was accustomed to hearing and seeing gruesome things in the course of her work; Deirdre was not.
Her father, however, had been insistent on accompanying her. And Megan could not deny that it would appear more natural for him to be the one making inquiries of the man who had told him of his son’s death. Nor could she keep Deirdre from going along, as her sister seemed determined to do.
She would simply have to work around her family’s presence, she decided, and hope that Deirdre did not hear anything that would disturb her.
They climbed the steps to the front door, and Frank used the heavy brass knocker. Moments later a servant answered the door, and Frank requested to see Andrew Barchester, explaining who he was. The footman, looking rather dubious, replied that he would inquire if the master was home and started to climb the staircase at a majestic pace, leaving the three of them standing in the entryway.
“What a beautiful home,” Deirdre murmured, looking around her.
It was, indeed, quite lovely, and it was clear that no expense had been spared in creating the house. However, to Megan’s eyes, it did not compare in magnificence to the stately Broughton House. While expensively built, there was a certain overdone quality to Barchester’s house, and a newness that bespoke riches recently acquired. The elegant Queen Anne–style Broughton House, however, had a sort of lived-in air, a casual acceptance of its wealth that let one know that this house, this family, had been important long before any of its present occupants were born.
“Is Broughton House this elegant?” Deirdre asked.
Megan nodded. For some reason, which she had not herself examined, Megan had not told her father and sister much beyond the bare facts of her meeting with the duchess yesterday. She had not told them how engaging the twins had been, nor how easy it would be to like the Duchess of Broughton.
As for her meeting Theo Moreland, she had not even mentioned it. She knew that they would not understand the strange feeling that had assailed her when she’d met the man—indeed, she had not even understood it herself! Her father, she knew, would have lectured her about how dangerous it was to take a man like Moreland at face value. He would have pointed out that the man was deceptively charming, so she must keep her guard up at all times. She was fully aware of these arguments, as she had repeated them to herself all the way home. She did not want to have to listen to them from her father, as well.
She would deal with the unlikely tug of attraction she had felt for the man. She was certain that it had been a momentary aberration, a result of her surprise at meeting the man when she had not expected to, had not prepared herself for it. Tomorrow, when she returned to the house, she would have herself better in hand.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of footsteps on the stairs, and she turned to see the footman coming back to them.
“Mr. Barchester will receive you,” he said, looking faintly surprised, and led them up the stairs and into a spacious drawing room.
A man was standing by the windows, looking out, and he turned at their arrival and came toward them.
“Mr. Mulcahey,” he said, reaching out to shake Frank’s hand. “I am Andrew Barchester. I am so pleased to meet Dennis’s father.”
Mr. Barchester was a pleasant-looking man in his mid-thirties, with a high, wide forehead and even features. His eyes were a pale gray, and his hair was blond, and he was handsome in a nondescript sort of way.
“Mr. Barchester,” Megan’s father replied, and introduced Megan and Deirdre to him.
Barchester smiled at Megan and murmured a greeting, but when he turned to Deirdre, Megan noticed that his hand lingered on hers a trifle longer and his eyes took on an appreciative gleam. It seemed that Deirdre’s fragile beauty was once again having its usual effect.
“What brings you to London, Mr. Mulcahey?” Barchester asked, showing them to a blue sofa and chair, and taking his own seat across from them.
“We’re here to find out whatever we can about my son’s murder, Mr. Barchester,” Frank replied.
They had had much discussion the night before over exactly what they should tell Barchester. Frank, not one to trust any Englishman completely, had been concerned that the man might balk at their intent of bringing a fellow Englishman to justice, and it was always Megan’s policy in researching her stories to tell everyone as little as she had to in order to get them to talk. That way, she felt, there was less chance of their stories being influenced by her considerations. Deirdre, however, had been of the opinion that if Barchester did not realize the extent and gravity of their interest, he might very well smooth over details or even conceal some matters in order not to cause them distress. It was, she added with a significant look at her sister and father, something with which she had had a good deal of experience. Megan and her father had had to agree with the logic of Deirdre’s argument, and they had agreed to be candid with Barchester.
Now Barchester stared at Frank Mulcahey for a long moment. “I will be happy to tell you everything I know, of course.” He paused. “But I’m not sure I know exactly what you mean—are you hoping to do something about it? I mean, um…”
“I’m not going to take vengeance myself, if that’s what ye mean,” Mulcahey assured him. “Sure, and I’d like nothing better, you understand. But I’ve promised the girls I’ll not harm the scoundrel. Still, we mean to bring Moreland to justice.”
“Mr. Mulcahey…believe me, if there were any possibility of that, we would have done it ten years ago, when Dennis was killed.” He frowned. “But it happened in the wilds. I’m not sure even what country we were in—Peru, perhaps. We had followed the Amazon River all the way up into the mountains. Where we were was uninhabited. And even when we returned to civilization, it was a foreign country, and we could not prove—I mean, we could not even speak the language, and it would have been just our word against his. Lord Raine’s family is very old and wealthy. His father is a duke. And they are related to scores of influential people in one way or another. The government would have put such pressure on the local police that I am sure they would have let him go. And what government could we have gone to, anyway? We went back down the Amazon into Brazil before we reached a city of any size.”
“Mr. Barchester, we are implying no wrong on your part, I assure you,” Megan put in quickly. “Pray do not think we feel anything but gratitude to you for letting us know what happened to my brother.�
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“Aye. It’s no slight to you, lad,” Frank agreed. “It is just that we need to know. We need to do everything we possibly can for Dennis.”
Megan stiffened, afraid that her father would launch into the story of Deirdre’s visitation from Dennis. That, she was sure, would result in Barchester’s being certain that they were quite insane. However, her father said nothing further and she relaxed.
“Thank you,” Barchester said. “I am glad you feel that way. But it was not concern for myself that prompted me to speak. I was merely trying to explain how unlikely it is that you will receive any satisfaction out of this inquiry. We are in England. The crime did not even occur here. And it has been ten years since it happened. Besides, there is still the matter of lack of proof. It is one man’s word against another’s. And when one of those men is the eldest son of a duke…well, I can envision no way that you can receive satisfaction.”
“He doesn’t have to be tried in court,” Frank replied. “It’s impossible, I know. It will be enough for me if we can make people aware of what he has done.”
“Newspapers have a powerful impact, Mr. Barchester,” Megan told him. “I know. I work for one.”
Barchester’s jaw dropped. “You? You’re a—”
“I’m a reporter. I have written stories that revealed terrible working conditions in factories, political corruption, the plight of slum-dwellers. I didn’t have to go to court. Exposing their practices to the general public set demands for reform in motion.”
“I—I see.” Barchester still looked faintly shocked—more, Megan suspected, at the revelation of her job than at their plan to expose a member of the British aristocracy.
“I will dig into it, just as I do with any other story, and when I have found enough evidence, I can write a story. My newspaper will publish it, and I suspect there will be British papers that are eager to put out the story, as well. Nothing sells like scandal among the wealthy—I would imagine it is even truer when that person is not only wealthy but also titled.”
“No doubt you are right.” He hesitated for another moment, then said, “Well…um…let’s see…where shall I start?”
“Why don’t you begin by explaining to us how you and Mr. Moreland—I mean, Lord Raine—joined up with Dennis and his group?”
“Of course.” Barchester nodded. “I had not known Lord Raine before we went to Brazil together. Though we were of an age, we did not exactly move in the same circles. My grandfather made his money in trade, you see.”
Megan nodded. She had started out on the Society Desk, where she had learned enough to be aware that old money did not regard the nouveau riche with respect. She could well imagine that in England the lines were much more distinctly drawn, and that money, new or old, could not cast one into the rarified class of the aristocracy.
“I was in my early twenties at the time. I had gone to university, as my grandfather had insisted. He wanted very much for me to be a ‘gentleman.’ So I did not go into the family business, as my father had. I was, quite frankly, a trifle bored with my life, so when my grandfather suggested that I go on the Cavendish expedition, I was more than happy to oblige the old chap. It sounded like quite an adventure.” He shook his head. “Unfortunately, it turned out to be far more of one than I would have liked.”
“The Cavendish expedition?” Megan inquired, jotting the name down in her notebook.
“Yes. Old Lord Cavendish was quite interested in the cultures of other times and places. He turned his ancestral home in London into a museum. It was a huge old place, built shortly after the Great Fire, and it was no longer in a fashionable area. The family had built a new home in Mayfair. So he decided to house his collection of artifacts there, as well as whatever other ones he could get his hands on. He was particularly avid about the ancient cultures of South and Central America—Incas, Aztecs and all that—so that was the specialty of the museum. It wasn’t much, really, just a wealthy old man’s hobby, but he wanted to make it into something known all over the country, if not the world. So he hired a curator, and he started sending out expeditions to the Americas to find and bring back information and artifacts for the museum.”
“I see. So Lord Cavendish financed your expedition?”
“Yes.” Barchester nodded. “The curator went along—well, frankly, he was the only employee of the museum at the time. His name was Julian Coffey. I knew him rather well. We had gone to school together and had been casual friends. My grandfather was also interested in artifacts, and he has corresponded and spoken with Lord Cavendish from time to time, and Grandfather had made one or two gifts to the museum, as well. Grandfather suggested to me that I might like to go. It sounded like an adventure, and as I knew Julian…”
“How was Theo Moreland involved?”
“Raine’s father, the Duke of Broughton, was a friend of old Cavendish’s, too. They were both collectors, you see—though the duke’s field was the ancient Greeks and Romans. But I guess he told Lord Raine about the expedition, and he wanted to join. He had caught the exploration fever a couple of years before that after he finished university. Wound up in the Levant, then Egypt, and finally trekked into the Sahara. He liked the adventure, I suppose. He’s been on a number of trips since, so I understand.”
“What was he like?” Megan asked.
Barchester shrugged. “Actually, quite a regular sort of chap. Julian and I were rather surprised when we met him. We had expected him to be a lightweight, full of himself and thinking everyone else ought to do for him. But he was always the first to pitch in, never asked for special treatment. We hadn’t been on the ship a day before we were calling him Theo. It was…well, we all thought it was going to be the trip of a lifetime.”
The man’s blandly handsome face saddened for a moment. “It was, I suppose…just not in the sense that we thought it would be.” He seemed to shake off his moment of reverie and went on more briskly. “The head of our expedition was a chap name Thurlew. Howard Thurlew. He’d done a good bit of exploring and had worked for Lord Cavendish before—dug up some Aztec ruins some place in Mexico, and it was he who had proposed this trip to the old fellow. He wanted to follow the Amazon deep into the interior and perhaps find some Inca ruins. That was what Lord Cavendish was interested in, of course. I think Thurlew was in it more for the exploration—and Theo, too. Julian was a naturalist, and he was eager to see the wildlife and draw it and so on.”
“How did you meet Dennis?” Frank asked.
“Well, Thurlew fell right after we reached Brazil. Poor chap broke his leg—quite badly. It was obvious that he could not travel for weeks, even months. Even once his leg was healed, he wouldn’t have been up to such rugged travel. So there we were, with our equipment, all set to go into the interior, and we had no guide. None of us could have dealt with the native guides and so on. We had no experience, didn’t know the language. But we hated to just give up and turn around and go home—nor could we wait for several months for Thurlew to be up to the journey, as it would have thrown us into the rainy season. Then, as luck would have it, we ran into your son, sir. He and his friend Eberhart, as it turned out, were all that was left of their party. The others had either gotten ill or simply become disenchanted with the idea. Captain Eberhart seemed a knowledgeable sort, and he had already hired some native guides. So we decided to throw our lot in with Dennis and Eberhart.”
“A doomed venture from the very start, wasn’t it?” Frank said, shaking his head.
“I suppose one could say that,” the other man conceded. “But it isn’t all that unusual for some members of any expedition to drop out along the way. Far too many people set out expecting some fantastic adventure, with no realization of the hardships involved, or the dangers. Diseases, accidents—and all miles from civilization, of course.”
“Where did you go?” Megan asked.
“We set out up the Amazon, as we had originally intended. It was a fantastic journey—utterly amazing.” Barchester’s eyes glowed as he remembered
the trip. “The things we saw—the parrots, the vines, the trees, even the snakes were just…Well, it is impossible to adequately describe it. One has to see it, feel it, to really understand what it was like. Not pleasant a great deal of the time, of course. The heat was abysmal, and the humidity was almost unbearable. And, of course, there was danger. Anacondas. Jaguars. There was always the possibility that we might come upon unfriendly natives. Even a cut could become horribly infected, and we were miles from a doctor. But it was thrilling, nevertheless. We traveled upriver as far as we could go, and then we took out across land. Then Captain Eberhart died.”
Deirdre let out a soft sound of distress, and Barchester turned toward her. His face softened. “I apologize, Miss Mulcahey. This is not a proper subject to be discussing in front of you.”
“No, please, go on. I want to hear it—that is, I need to hear it. We must find out everything we can so that we can expose Dennis’s killer.”
She looked at him with her large, soft eyes, and Megan could practically see the man melting right in front of them.
“Miss Mulcahey,” he said, his voice full of emotion. “I assure you that I will do everything I can to help you.”
“It is very kind of you,” Deirdre murmured.
Megan cleared her throat and pulled the conversation back to the subject. “What happened to Captain Eberhart?”
“It was one of those tropical fevers that felled him. As we traveled on, he became more and more ill. We stopped and made a semipermanent camp, then stayed there for a few days, hoping he would recover. But he did not. When he died, we were in something of a quandary, not sure whether we should turn back or go on, but finally we decided to continue. It seemed such a waste to turn back, as far as we had gone, and by that time, we had gotten to where we could communicate to some extent with the native workers. So we pressed on. Some of the natives abandoned us. They were a superstitious lot, and they viewed Eberhart’s death as a sign that we should not go farther. We couldn’t understand everything they said, but there was a lot of talk about Inca treasure and the ancient gods’ displeasure and that sort of thing.”