‘No!’ She pressed her fingers to his lips, her eyes bright with tears as she felt his pain—the pain he had carried too long alone. ‘No, my darling. How could you think that? How could you believe it was your fault? It was Bernard Harrington who shamed her. It was his vile act that drove her to take her own life. Whatever you had done that day, you could not have saved her if she was determined to die.’
‘Yet I did nothing to help her,’ he said, that haunting sadness in his eyes. ‘I left her alone and she took her own life…. I think because I had shown my horror and revulsion too plainly. I fought that duel to ease my conscience, Rosalyn—and an innocent man died.’
‘Hardly innocent,’ she said. ‘Roderick enticed her into that coach. He must share his brother’s blame.’
‘Did he deserve to die?’ Damian looked into her eyes and found his answer there. ‘No, my darling, he did not.’ He smiled wryly. ‘Can you see now why I have felt so frightened of losing you? Why I do not deserve the happiness you have given me?’
‘I see that you were badly hurt when your father called you a murderer and drove you into exile,’ she said robustly. ‘Roderick brought what happened on himself, Damian. Charlotte told me what happened that day. After his shot missed, you would have let him live. You were walking away when he fired at your back. You killed in self-defence. If there is blame, it is entirely his own.’
‘I killed in anger,’ he replied, determined that she should have the truth from him. ‘The laws of duelling cleared me of murder—but my own conscience will not. I should have thrashed him for what he did, or put a ball in his shoulder—but I took my time and fired deliberately. I meant him to die, because of what he had done to that child—and she was a child, Rosalyn. Roderick deserved his punishment—though later I would have done anything to change what had occurred. I wantonly took a man’s life, and it has haunted me all these years.’
‘You wrong yourself,’ Rosalyn cried. ‘You are too hard on yourself.’
She saw what it was: his father had called him a murderer and alone, exiled from everyone he knew, he had come to believe it—but it was not so. Fate had played a cruel trick on him and he had suffered enough.
‘Have you not paid for your mistake long since?’ she asked. ‘Damian, my dearest love. Is it not time to forgive yourself? To put the past behind you and think only of the future—of us?’
‘Perhaps…but to do that, I must go back,’ he said. ‘I must face up to it—to whatever accounting may be demanded of me. Please try to understand, Rosalyn.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I see it now.’ There was no denying him. Unless he followed his conscience, he would never be free of this guilt. ‘Yes, you must go back, and I shall come with you. And now you must rest.’
‘Then ring the bell for the footman and let us go to bed,’ Damian said. ‘This damned leg of mine is giving me hell!’
‘But why should we go back to England?’ Jared asked, looking at her angrily as they sat talking in the parlour the next morning. He jumped up, walking away from her, before turning to look at her once more. ‘Damian promised we were going to Spain—and you promised we would breed horses.’
‘We can still do that in England,’ Rosalyn said. ‘I am sorry you are disappointed, Jared. I am too—but Damian has to do this, for his own sake.’ She could see he was still unconvinced, perhaps because he feared his freedom would be curtailed as it had been before. ‘It may only be for a short time…’
‘Damian broke his word,’ Jared said. ‘I’m going to find him—to have this out with him.’ He walked off, his back stiff with pride.
‘Jared…’ Rosalyn was about to go after him when she heard a commotion in the hall. As she hesitated, a maid came in. She was carrying a huge basket of wonderful, exotic blooms: huge lilies, roses, camellias and several strange, new flowers Rosalyn had never seen before. ‘This came for you, madame—and there are visitors asking to see you.’
‘Thank you, Isabel,’ Rosalyn said. ‘You may leave the flowers. Please show the visitors in.’
She saw a card attached to the flowers and bent to pick it up. The flowers had come from the comte and she was still frowning over the message his card bore, when she became aware that two people had entered the room. Glancing up, she was shocked to see her brother and Beatrice standing there, looking hesitant and uncertain of their welcome.
‘Beatrice!’ she cried, getting to her feet gladly. Then she hesitated, looking at her brother uncertainly. ‘Freddie…I do not understand, why have you come?’
‘You did not get my letter?’ Beatrice gave a little cry of distress. ‘I sent it some days ago. It was to tell you that we should be calling today. I hope you do not mind that we have come, Rosalyn? My letter would have explained everything.’
‘Of course I do not mind. It is a surprise—but I am pleased to see you, Beatrice. Of course I am,’ Rosalyn said. She stood up and Beatrice came rushing to embrace her. She was so emotional that Rosalyn was surprised. ‘Is something wrong, my dear? You are not ill?’
‘No, not all,’ Beatrice said, tears trickling down her cheeks. ‘It is just that I have been so upset over this quarrel between you and Freddie. It was so unkind of him to deliberately cut you that night in Paris. I promise you, I have given him no peace over it.’
Rosalyn glanced at her brother. He looked ashamed of himself and was finding it hard to meet her gaze.
‘Freddie?’
‘It’s deuced awkward you haven’t had the letter,’ he said. ‘I suppose you still imagine I killed Harrington?’
‘No,’ Rosalyn said. ‘It seemed to me once that you might have done it, Freddie—but I never believed you capable of such a thing, not truly.’
‘You accused me of it!’ he cried, indignantly. ‘I can tell you, Ros, I was furious. Bea says I should apologise to you for…being so short with you, but I think you have something to apologise for, too.’
‘If I accused you of murder, I do so unreservedly,’ Rosalyn said, looking into his eyes. ‘However, you accused Damian of the same crime. It was you who said you did not wish to be associated with the wife of a murderer. You who told me you had no wish to see me again.’
‘Oh, Rosalyn!’ cried Beatrice, gazing at her in distress. ‘It was wicked of Freddie to speak to you like that—and I told him so, even before—’ She broke off and looked straight at her husband. ‘Tell her, Freddie. Tell your sister what has happened. We know the truth now, Rosalyn. We know who killed Bernard…’
‘How can you?’ Rosalyn stared at her, an icy chill moving slowly down her spine. ‘Unless…did she tell you herself?’
‘You know!’ Beatrice was astonished. Her eyes opened wide with distress. ‘How can you know if you did not read my letter? We only discovered the truth after she died.’
‘Mrs Jenkins is dead? Oh, I am so sorry,’ Rosalyn said. ‘Was it her illness? She seemed so much better before I left, that I quite thought she would soon be well again.’
‘She…she took her own life,’ Beatrice said, and began to cry into her handkerchief. ‘It has been so awful. When we heard of her death, we had to leave Paris, to go home—and then to discover what she had done!’ She ended on a sob.
Rosalyn went to her, putting an arm about her shoulders, leading her to the sofa. She pressed the sobbing girl to sit down. Beatrice turned to her, burying her face against her shoulder. Rosalyn comforted her, looking to Freddie for further clarification.
Freddie cleared his throat. ‘Mrs Jenkins took something, laudanum, I think…foolish woman. If she had confided in us, I dare say we could have sorted things out between us. It need not have come to law. A man like that deserved all he got. She left a letter telling us the whole story.’
Rosalyn nodded. ‘Yes, I imagine it played on her conscience. She discovered that it was Bernard who raped Helen Renshaw, didn’t she? Roderick enticed Helen into his coach, but it was his brother who shamed her so deeply that she was driven to suicide. Damian did not know the whole story at that time.
He went after Roderick and killed him in a duel…but it ought to have been Bernard Harrington who died that day, not his younger brother. The truth has haunted Damian for years. His father somehow discovered it, but it seems not to have been generally known.’
‘It appears you know the whole story,’ Freddie said, somewhat disgruntled at finding she had guessed the whole.
‘I should have realised it at the time. Indeed, I did wonder. I know what must have happened. Mrs Jenkins heard me accuse Bernard Harrington of being his brother’s true murderer,’ Rosalyn said. ‘When he attacked me in the garden, she was standing at the window on the landing and she heard everything.’
‘Yes, that’s about the size of it,’ Freddie said, ‘but not quite everything. You see, Bernard had been putting something in her powders to make her ill. He was hoping to inherit some of her money…and was prepared to hasten her death to get his hands on it.’
‘He was poisoning her?’ Rosalyn stared at him in shock. ‘And she knew it. Of course, she knew he had been tampering with her powders after the doctor took them away…so when she heard the truth about her younger brother…’
‘Who was the only person she ever really loved,’ Beatrice said and sat up to dry her eyes on a lace kerchief. ‘She took one of your father’s pistols, Rosalyn, and she went after him. She killed him…intentionally. It was not an accident. She meant him to die. Her letter made that perfectly clear.’
‘Oh, the poor woman,’ Rosalyn cried. She had sensed that something was wrong that afternoon, after Bernard had assaulted her, when she’d knocked at Mrs Jenkins’s door. It had crossed her mind that Mrs Jenkins might have witnessed the incident—but how could she have guessed what would happen later? ‘How distraught she must have been to do such a terrible thing.’
‘She said in her letter that she had nothing left to live for now that I was married,’ Beatrice said. ‘She has left everything to me—except a diamond brooch for you and also a letter confessing her crime, which she says you may do with as you wish. It was to bring you the letter and brooch that we came here today.’
‘And to apologise,’ Freddie said. ‘Damn it, Ros! If you knew all along who had killed Harrington, why did you not say?’
‘Because I could not be certain,’ she replied. ‘Besides, it did not matter so very much…or so I thought at the time. No one could prove anything one way or the other. We were leaving England for good and…I did not want to make more trouble for anyone. Besides—’
‘Rosalyn loved me enough not to care what people might think of her,’ Damian spoke from the doorway. ‘It was only my foolish conscience that made me imagine a little scandal might matter to her. I know now that I was wrong. My wife is made of finer material than the rest of us, Freddie.’
Freddie’s neck had gone bright red. He made an embarrassed noise in his throat, his gaze directed at somewhere beyond Damian’s head as he apologised.
‘I have been a damned idiot,’ he said. ‘I was furious because Rosalyn seemed to accuse me…and I did think it might have been you. If I had met Harrington when Bea first told me what he had tried to do to her, I might have thrashed him. I might even have killed him, if I could manage it, though it would have been with my bare hands, not a pistol. I have an aversion to guns. Nasty things, have a habit of making loud noises.’
‘Oh, Freddie…’ Beatrice got up and went over to him. She reached up to kiss his cheek, then looked at Damian. ‘I hope you will forgive him, Lord Marlowe, because I do miss Rosalyn so very much. I could not bear it if we were never to be friends again.’
‘Then I should be a brute to bear a grudge, should I not, Beatrice?’ he said and smiled at her. ‘Rosalyn, of course, has already forgiven you both, and I could do no less.’ He limped across to where his wife was sitting, lowering himself a little awkwardly to lodge beside her.
‘Should you be up?’ Rosalyn asked, looking at him in concern. ‘Your leg is obviously still painful.’
‘A mere scratch,’ he murmured, a wicked glint in his eyes. Her heart caught as she saw his smile. Damian had come back to her, all the dark clouds were gone. ‘And quite my own fault. As any other woman would have pointed out long before this.’
‘Had an accident, did you?’ Freddie asked.
‘Yes, you could say that,’ Damian murmured with a glance at Rosalyn. He had noticed the huge basket of flowers. His mouth twisted in a wry smile. ‘From an admirer?’
‘An ex-admirer,’ she replied. ‘To apologise…’
‘Ah…I see.’ He nodded. ‘I thought as much.’
‘Damian?’ Rosalyn looked at him, but the haunted look of the past few days had gone. She could see he was amused by the comte’s gift. Relief flooded through her: this was the man she loved, wanted to spend her life with. ‘I think I shall keep them.’
‘Yes, indeed. Why not?’ He looked at Freddie, who was still hovering. ‘Won’t you sit down, Freddie? Care for some tea—or perhaps you might like to try a rather nice burgundy I have discovered? I bought several cases. You may take a couple back with you if you wish.’ He stood up. ‘Shall we leave the ladies to talk for a while…settle a few matters between us in my study?’
‘Settle…’ Freddie looked slightly alarmed, then recalled the papers he had left with his sister. ‘Oh, business, I suppose? I gave Ros some papers, but I dare say she hasn’t bothered to sign them. Never could get her to take an interest in things like that.’
Rosalyn watched as Damian limped off with her brother, then turned to Beatrice, who had come to sit beside her on the sofa once more.
‘It is lovely to see you again,’ Beatrice said and kissed her cheek. ‘I was so cross with Freddie that night at the theatre, Rosalyn. We quarrelled over it and he went off in a temper the next day.’
‘He came to see me—and he was in a terrible mood. I did not realise he had quarrelled with you.’
‘Was he awful to you?’
‘He was thoughtless, as he sometimes is,’ Rosalyn replied carefully. ‘I dare say you have not noticed, but…’
‘Oh, I am well aware of Freddie’s faults,’ Beatrice said, a spark in her eyes. ‘Do not imagine he can do no wrong in my eyes. He is used to having his own way. I think he has been spoiled, Rosalyn, but he must learn that he cannot always do just as he pleases. He must take more note of other people’s feelings.’
Rosalyn smiled inwardly. There were hidden depths to her sister-in-law! She did not think Freddie would be getting quite so much of his own way in the future.
‘I am sorry you quarrelled over me,’ Rosalyn said. ‘But I am glad that you persuaded him to visit us. It is much preferable that we should all be on friendly terms.’
‘He did not need so very much persuading once he had read my aunt’s letter,’ Beatrice said. ‘That was very sad. If I had only guessed what was in her mind, I might have been able to do something…to prevent her taking her own life. I know she could be unpleasant when she chose, but I believe she had led a very unhappy life.’
‘Yes, I think perhaps she had—and I dare say she had come to regret what she had done,’ Rosalyn said. ‘She was hurt and angry when she took Papa’s pistol. Bernard said some cruel things that afternoon, things that must have driven her past the point of bearing. What she did was wrong, of course, but understandable in the circumstances.’
‘I do not think it was so very wrong,’ Beatrice said, a flush in her cheeks. ‘He was a horrible man, Rosalyn. He frightened me and I am glad I shall not have to meet him ever again.’
Rosalyn kept her silence, as she had since it had first occurred to her that the most likely person to have killed Bernard Harrington was his own sister. It had been such a terrible thought that she had told herself she must be wrong.
‘Well,’ she said now. ‘It has all been most unpleasant, but I think we should try to forget it and look to the future. Tell me, Beatrice—what did you think of Paris?’
Rosalyn was sitting, brushing her hair in front of her dressing table that night when Damian c
ame in. She put down the brush and stood up, turning to greet him as he came towards her.
‘Are you tired?’ he asked. ‘It has been quite a day for you, my love. And you ought to be resting.’
‘I am perfectly well,’ she said, opening her arms to him. ‘I know I fainted yesterday, but…’
‘Twice,’ he reminded her. ‘You must take care in your condition, Rosalyn. I do not want to risk your health, or that of our child.’
‘Do not scold me,’ she said, lifting her face for his kiss. ‘It was very warm yesterday and I was feeling the heat. It has been much cooler today. Besides, I have been sitting with Beatrice most of the day.’
Damian kissed her, then released her, retreating to the bed to perch on the edge and watch as she finished brushing her hair. She was so beautiful, so serene. He could still not quite believe he had been lucky enough to find her…to marry her. Fortune had smiled on him at last. He must not let his memories destroy their happiness. It was time to let the past go.
‘It was a surprise finding Freddie and Bea here,’ he said. ‘You had not realised they were coming, had you? I sent up some letters for you last evening—did you not read them?’
‘I did not feel like it,’ she said, ‘and then I forgot.’
‘It is not surprising, considering what happened later.’ Damian frowned.
‘It was quite an eventful evening,’ she replied, laughing at him. ‘First Rajib’s announcement that he and Nessa were returning to India—and then you stumbling in with blood all over you.’
‘I should not have disturbed you, had I known you were there.’
‘But I am glad you did, my love.’ She looked at him anxiously. ‘Is your leg truly better?’
‘Much. It is merely a scratch, Rosalyn.’ Damian said, looking at her thoughtfully. ‘I have been thinking. Do you want to be with your own people? Now that Mrs Jenkins has confessed to murdering her brother, we could go home without fear of scandal. We might not be universally welcomed, but I dare say we should soon make a few friends—enough so that you would not feel ostracised.’
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