Isolde had been trying to summon up her vision again, and recollect Randall’s version of events. "You said a black stallion? Blaze?" she asked quietly, her mind racing.
She nodded. "Yes, he was black. And he was called Blaze. What a bargain he was," she reminisced. "A local landowner was in Queer Street and had to sell. Splendid beast, though Blarney was still his first choice of mount unless he was racing."
"And he and Howell would race?"
"Oh my, all the time. The only kind of flesh Howell liked better than a woman’s, or so everyone hereabouts used to say."
Isolde shuddered. "So Randall has never got over Francis’s death?"
"And his fiancee’s defection. Now there was a little minx of the first water. She never loved Randall. Didn’t even know that she had the wrong brother by all accounts."
Isolde stared at her mother-in-law. "Pardon?"
Her lips thinned. "She was after Michael the heir, of course. They were so physically similar that if you didn’t get a good look at them to see the age difference, and the eyes, you wouldn’t have been able to tell them apart.
"She, er, tampered with Randall in the stables one day. He came and told everyone he had met her, that there was an understanding between them.
"Everyone shook their head and remained silent. He was such a good loving little chap, we hadn’t the heart to tell him what she was really like. We knew he would find out in time, but at least he wouldn’t hate us for speaking ill of her, or opposing his will in any way."
"I see." Isolde settled herself more comfortably, as the whole sorry tale began to unfold for her at last.
"But tolerating Clarissa was like letting the serpent into the Garden of Eden. She was appalled that she had got the fifth and least son. But she was nothing if not clever. She used her intimacy in the family to try to get one of the eldest to succumb to her blandishments. Michael and Robert went to war. That left Francis or Mark. Poor bookish Francis was dazzled. He had no idea he was well and truly caught until he was netted. I found them together in the library."
Isolde blushed. "Oh my"
"Randall had given me his word he was not bedding her. Apparently my second son had no such scruples. I was appalled. They were little better than beasts in the field from what I could see. I warned them to desist, and to be honest with Randall the next time he was home from college, after his examinations. For Clarissa to tell him the engagement was off, and for Francis to admit he had been rutting with her like a ram from almost the moment they had met, and that there was of course no question of marriage for any of them."
"I understand. But it never came to pass."
She shook he head and sighed. "No, it never did. Francis died.When he was gone, I went through his things just to protect his good name. I found some correspondence between them which seemed to indicate that she really did love him. Not that it made much difference, considering how much they had betrayed and abused everyone’s trust. She made it easy, though, in the end. She ran off with someone else, and Randall never had to know the truth about his betrayal at the hands of the two people he had loved the most."
Isolde stared at her for a moment. "Were you not surprised by this? I mean, Clarissa had Francis, and Randall on the hook, both of them wealthy, well-connected men, yet she fled without so much as a word or hint to anyone? And no letters home to her parents in all these years, when you tell me on the one hand that she wasn't much of one for education, yet she wrote love letters to the man just down the road?"
Lady Hazelmere waved it away airily. "She enjoyed the power she had over men. She was blond and simpering, but with eyes as cold and calculating as a clerk in a counting house. There were rumours about her and a sandy-haired man from hereabouts seen trysting bare bottomed in the fields, but I never could find out more than that."
"Sandy-haired?" Isolde repeated. "Like Howell?"
"Yes, I suppose so," Lady Hazelmere said in an off-hand tone, then blinked and stared at her lovely daughter-in-law. "Howell! Egad! Of course. He was at the house here all the time, and his estate was only a step down the road from Clarissa’s. We trusted him! Well, I did! Randall was always jealous. He used to offer to do the decent thing, escort her back and forth from here to her home so he needn’t bother!"
"He did more than escort her, is my guess," Isolde said drily. "And was certainly not doing the decent thing."
"Damnation," Lady Hazelmere swore.
"Quite." Isolde’s mind boggled at the enormity of what she suspected.
But how to get proof? It was clear from the two vastly differing stories, that Randall had not killed his brother after all. But it was equally unclear whether Howell actually had, or if a genuine accident had robbed the young man of his life. She needed to know somehow, needed certainty.
"You think Howell killed her, don’t you?" her mother-in-law asked.
"Yes. And for the same reason, he also killed Francis. Because he wanted Clarissa for himself."
The older woman gasped. "Killed Francis?"
Isolde nodded grimly. "You said it yourself, they often went out riding."
"Yet it's so long ago. How can we be sure?"
"I don’t know. We can’t even be certain that she's dead. And if she is, that we won’t be opening up a whole can of worms, with Randall being blamed because she was his fiancee."
"We need to know the truth."
"Yes, yes we do," Isolde said with sigh.
At the back of her mind was the thought that even though Randall had not actually killed his brother after all, it was still perfectly possible that he had murdered Clarissa in a jealous rage.
But no, she knew her husband. She had never seen him really angry with anyone except himself. Even when the children would try the patience of a saint, he would laugh and reprimand them in a firm but calm tone. He was a master of his passions, in bed and out.
Even during their wildest lovemaking he had never hurt her or suggested anything that could be construed as dangerous. Never tried to hit, spank, strangle or tie up the way some men did, according to the many women at the clinic she had seen with all sorts of bruises. The nasty things Georgina had said, which she was sure were her own personal experience.
Even when Randall had tried to harm his brother, he had not gone in and thumped him into dust the way most men would have. He had simply cut the girth strap. It could have caused simple injury, not necessarily death.
She knew Randall had been undefeated at boxing at Eton. Philip had told her he had defended himself only, when the need had arisen. He had never been the aggressor.
Even when Howell had been screaming at him in his bedroom the night they had first made love, and tried to assault him, Randall had not fought back. His true strength lay in his mind and character, not his huge body.
No, he would not have murdered Clarissa in cold blood. Not now, not then.
But Howell would have. A young, impetuous Howell, slave to his passions? He would have. And done a whole lot more besides if the prospect of becoming the Earl of Hazelmere were suddenly not just a dream, but one step away from actuality.
"Damn," Isolde said, pacing up and down. "What do we do? Who can we tell?"
"The Bransons are the law hereabouts, and can undertake any investigations required. Both are good men. On the Rakehell fringe, so they are.Rakehells. Such a dashing name, though it made me shudder at first. Good solid men I would want to have in my corner any day. We need to find out the truth, discover what happened to Clarissa Dawson."
"Aye. I’ll go to Mi- m-my friend Philip Marshall, and perhaps also to Thomas Eltham, the Duke of Ellesmere, and tell them everything. But first we need to tell Randall what really happened to Francis."
The older woman blinked. "What really happened? I don’t understand. Randall knows."
She shook her head. "Believe me, he doesn’t know. But he needs to hear it. Now."
Chapter Eighteen
Lady Hazelmere frowned in confusion at Isolde's insistence that she repeat all
she had said about Francis' death to Randall.
But she did as she was requested, and Randall went from squirming, to as still as a stone as his mother recounted every detail of that fateful day.
"So Howell came back on Blarney, and alerted the household," she recounted, drawing close to the end of her narrative. "Your father went out to fetch the poor boy home. He also put wonderful Blaze out of his misery. Alas, things were never the same since. You never came back here, and our happy home became a house of sorrow. You flubbed your exams, and were a nervous wreck. You took to drinking and swiving, and you’ve been on an unsteady path ever since. The only thing that’s saved you has been your love of the rest of us, and your painting."
Randall rubbed his jaw thoughtfully, as though he had been punched.
"When Michael died, I saw all the light go out of you, and when your father died, I saw you at the depths of despair. But you’ve done your duty, and never complained. Your father may never have imagined you in the role, or groomed you up meticulously to be the Earl, but he would have been so proud of you, my dear Randall."
"Do you really think so, Mother?" he whispered.
"You’re your own man in a lot of ways, strong, and you no doubt would have quarrelled if he had ever known you would be the heir. But you’ve set your mark on the Earldom in only a few short months. You’ve fought in Parliament for your principles. No one could be more proud of you than he and I. For I am sure wherever he is, he sees you, sees you and loves you, as did all your brothers."
"I wish I could believe that," Randall rasped, the tears streaming down his face now.
"I don’t know why you’ve never believed you were worthy of love. Just because Clarissa threw you over? There were plenty of other more worthy women who would have laid down their lives for you, and anything else you asked for!" her mother exclaimed impatiently.
"Mother!"
"No, Randall, it's high time we all told the truth around here. So to put it plainly, you were an innocent virgin, and Clarissa led you around by your cock, keeping you all hot and bothered. But the truth is, all that time she was futtering Francis."
Randall gasped, but didn't even try to deny it.
"I know. I saw them together. They were supposed to tell you when you got home after your graduation. I told him if he didn’t, he was a coward and no son of mine."
"Oh Lord. You knew?" Randall said, looking aghast.
She blinked in surprise. "Practically everyone knew. The affair had been going on at least since you had got engaged at sixteen. You were at Oxford, lost in your studies. Tender and trusting. Your father was furious, but we agreed to keep it from you until you got your First. We couldn’t let you make the biggest mistake of your life in marrying a girl like that, or throwing it all away over such a worthless jilt.
"When Francis died, there seemed little point in telling you they had been in love. Well, as far as a flighty little bit of skirt like her could be in love. There were her letters swearing undying devotion to Francis, but she never even came to the wake or the funeral, just vanished with her new lover."
Randall shook his head and sighed.
"I’m sorry I never said anything now, kept it from you, but since Clarissa was gone, where was the harm in trying to preserve happy memories of your brother? He loved you even if his head was turned. You have to believe that. We all loved you. There’s so much in you to love, if only you would believe it. Believe in yourself."
Isolde’s vision of the stable, the black and red swirling, was so powerful she almost choked. She pushed it to one side as she grabbed a swaying Randall before he hit the floor, and shoved him backwards into his chair.
"Oh, God, thank God," he wept against her bosom.
"It's all right, my love."
But it wasn't. Randall was shuddering and making a noise reminiscent of an animal inmpain.
Lady Hazelmere grew so alarmed at his reaction to what she had just told him that she rang for Hopkins to send for Blake or Eswara.
"No, Mother, really, I’m fine. It’s just been a huge shock," he wheezed.
"Come, love, I think you need to lie down."
Isolde took her husband’s massive weight around her shoulders and with a reassuring nod to her mother-in-law, led him back to their chamber, undressed him and put him to bed.
She stroked his dishevelled hair back from his brow and dried his tears with a dozen handkerchiefs.
When she thought he was asleep at last, she began to rise from the bed, but his hand shot out like lightning to stay her.
"No, please, don’t leave me."
"I never shall, darling Randall," she vowed.
"I know it now. I’ve feared it even more than going to Hell for my crimes. That one day you would look at me with disgust and contempt."
"But you’ve never done anything wrong except love. Unwisely and too well, but it was all love."
"No, it wasn’t. It was infatuation, lust, jealousy, perhaps, but not love."
"But you did love your family. You always have, always will. You love the children."
"I love you. More than I can ever begin to say. You’ve given me so much already. This means everything."
"And I’d like to give you more," she said softly.
He put his hand on her belly, thinking she meant the child she carried within her. "You have. So much. My whole life now. And more with each and every passing day."
Isolde thought of Michael, and all she had learned of Randall’s father’s death. She would stake her life on the fact that Howell had been involved in discrediting the confused older man too. And was sure that he had been involved with Clarissa’s death. But she needed proof...
Randall’s hands upon her wakened her from her reverie.
"You should rest, dear," she sighed, trying to evade his questing fingers.
"I need you now, love you so much."
He caressed her so tenderly her bones began to melt. She undressed herself now and lay on her side. He glided into her and she gasped at the sudden tempestuous urgency she could feel roiling through her. He kissed her like a starving man, but forced himself to be slow and gentle.
Take what you need. I’m all yours, heart and soul, my body too.
Her eyes flew wide, but his mouth never left hers. Randall, what—
It’s love. You told me that the day we made love in the field. The rainbow that lights our way. The blending of our two souls. No more boundaries between us, darling. I want to be in the light. Open yourself to me. All of you.
Yes, oh yes....
Randall rolled her under him and paused, staring. He closed his eyes and saw her new visions clearly, all of them, a dark-haired man with the pale blue eyes of a wolf, Howell, and the burning stables, the swirling blackness surrounding them...
But the stables are standing. And that’s my brother Michael. How did you...
She moved under him and pulled him tightly into her rippling flesh. His orgasm burst through them like a shooting star, searing everything in its fiery wake.
I love you, Isolde.
I know, darling. I love you. Will do anything for you.
I know that.
Forgive me, Randall.
Forgive...?
He collapsed on top of her like the dead, all passion spent, the tumultuous emotions of the day overcoming him at last.
Isolde rolled him over gently and slipped from the bed. She dressed hastily and took out the valise full of papers from her father’s desk which she had concealed in her wardrobe. She ordered the carriage around, and hurriedly headed for Bath.
Chapter Nineteen
Isolde’s meeting with her brother-in-law Michael did not take long. She explained all she had learned from his mother, and said, "I need your help. I know my suspicions sound unfounded, but I've seen first-hand what Howell is capable of. He'll stop at nothing to get the Earldom. If you won’t come out of hiding to claim your rightful place so as to draw off Howell and his dogs, then please, gather the Rakehells together
and help me find the truth."
Michael nodded. "I shall do the latter. Not because I’m afraid of Howell, but because I don’t want Randall to give up his position as Earl. Not when he’s come so far, and accomplished so much. But I give you my word, if there's anything to find, we shall find it. I shall simply tell the Rakehells to leave my name out of it."
"These papers are a start, in any case," she said, holding up a small sheaf of the evidence she had shown him. "And even if we don’t find what we’re looking for, better to have your father know as an ill man, than as a thief or a fool."
The Rakehell Regency Romance Series Boxed Set 4 (The Rakehell Regency Romance Series Boxed Sets) Page 45