by Olivia Drake
Oh, God. He was the one who had perpetuated the quarrel. It was hard to believe that he’d once felt justified in using Juliet for vengeance. He’d taken the gift of her love and pulverized it beneath the heel of hatred.
Remorse engulfed him. Snatching up his glass from a table, he took a gulp of brandy. The liquor burned untasted down his throat.
Grimacing, he set down the glass with a sharp click.
Drinking the afternoon away wouldn’t erase his sin. Or protect his wife.
Drawn by an urge stronger than logic, he moved to the open doorway. Stepping quietly inside, he looked to her bed. Empty.
His heart lurched, then calmed as he saw Juliet sitting before the gilt desk in the corner. Brow furrowed, she wrote on a sheet of stationery. Sunlight illuminated the purity of her profile and set fire to the red highlights in her upswept hair. She looked slender and soft, the image of a perfect wife. His wife.
He recalled her angry words: I despise what you’ve done to me. Our marriage can never be what I thought it was.
Memory hammered at Kent. He hungered for a return of their too brief interlude of happiness. Oh, God, what if he failed to protect her?
Deliberately making his footfalls louder, he stepped into the room. “Shouldn’t you be resting?”
She tilted a cool face to him. “I wasn’t sleepy.”
“Do you feel all right?”
“I’m fine. The nausea comes only in the morning.”
Returning her attention to the letter, she continued writing. Only the ticking of the mantel clock and the faint scratching of her pen marred the silence. A few days ago, she would have abandoned her work and come running for his kiss.
No more.
Unable to bear the encroaching darkness of despair, he said, “Who are you writing to?”
“My mother.”
Shoving his hands into his pockets, he paced to the desk. “Didn’t she ask you not to contact her?”
“Yes, but matters between my father and me could hardly be any worse than they are now.”
The chill in her voice discouraged further dialogue, yet a self-punishing impulse made him go on. “Are you telling her about the baby?”
“Yes, I ve already written that part.”
“What are you writing about now?”
“Hannah Forster. As soon as I receive the money from Papa, I intend to take her to a London physician. I’m asking Mama’s advice about making the appointment.”
“I see.”
Christ. How wrong he’d been to oppose her about the dowry. He’d viewed the money as contaminated; she viewed it as a benefit to the people of Radcliffe. The legacy of his father’s hatred had blinded Kent to her goodness. She was right; he was as rigid and self-seeking as Emmett Carleton.
Her womanly fragrance drifted to him. He ached to reach across the chasm separating them, to fold her into his embrace, to kiss away the pain and distrust and betrayal. To prove he wasn’t altogether a scoundrel.
Impossible.
“Did you say anything... about what’s happened?” he asked.
Juliet set down the pen. Her green gold eyes looked as cold as Emmett Carleton’s. “Shall I tell Mama that you married me for revenge? That you were once wed to her husband’s bastard child? That you blamed him for driving his own daughter to suicide?”
The truth shriveled his soul. Would he ever grow accustomed to seeing repugnance where love had once bloomed?
You sowed the seeds of vengeance, he reminded himself. Juliet’s hatred is the bitter harvest.
Wrenching his gaze away from her lovely face, he went to a window and braced an arm on the stone casement. Dizziness swept him, as if he teetered on the precipice of black damnation.
Far below, the river flowed serene and blue-gray, lapping against the ancient wall. A trout’s fin flashed against the water. He concentrated on the familiar view of hills and fields. Doom ebbed slowly, driven away by the calming sight of his castle, his lands.
He had Radcliffe. His heritage... his child’s heritage. It offered at least a token hope for the future, even if she raised their child far from here.
He turned back to Juliet. Her frigidity had thawed to a guarded coolness, as though she took pity on his suffering.
Pity. Not love.
He returned her stare. “No, I don’t expect you to tell your mother anything distressing. Yet I wonder if you ought to let your father know about the greenhouse incident.”
“One of you badgering me to leave here is quite enough.”
“So you believe he still cares?”
Her gaze faltered; then she sat up straight. “I don’t know what to think anymore. Except that I want to find the murderer so we can...”
We. She’d used the word unconsciously, of course. Yet for a moment he could only look at her and yearn for a future together. Would he ever again be singed by the flame of her love?
The mantel clock chimed four times. She turned away, and his fantasy faded into dreary reality.
“Since you’re determined not to rest,” he said, walking to her, “do you mind finishing the letter later?”
“Why?”
“I sent a note to Augusta, asking her to join us for tea at five o’clock. I’d like you to be there. But first, I’d like to speak to Gordon.”
“About what?”
“Dreamspinner.” Frustration gnawed at him. “At this point, the necklace is our only clue. I’d like to see if he—or anyone else here—reveals strong feelings about it leaving the family. Will you come with me?”
Hesitating only a second, she rose to face him. “Do you suppose Chantal resents the fact that your father never gave the jewels to her? Could she have turned that resentment on Emily?”
“No,” he said, emphatically shaking his head. “I’ve known Chantal Hutton for almost twenty years. She keeps her emotions close to the surface.”
“But she was an actress, Kent. Can you be so sure she isn’t playing a role?”
An arrow of misgiving pierced him. What if he was wrong about Chantal? He’d certainly been wrong about someone here.
He gazed at Juliet. Pregnancy had enhanced her natural beauty with the glow of health, and sunshine shimmered upon her cinnamon hair. Her dainty features were so dear that he ached just looking at her. From their first meeting she had brought an unexpected radiance into the darkness of his heart. The absence of that light left him dismal and empty. “Julie...”
She tilted her head to study him. “Yes?”
He yearned to touch the rose-kissed ivory of her cheek, to savor the warm affirmation of life. Instead his fingers formed a cold fist at his side.
“I’m no longer sure of anything,” he murmured.
She blinked, but gave no acknowledgment of his irony. He escorted her out the door, and the gloomy chill of the hall enveloped them, as if the very air held a premonition of peril. A fury born of fear flared inside him. He would kill the person who threatened his wife.
She tipped a curious look at him. “You aren’t serious about selling Dreamspinner, are you?”
He opened his mouth to say no. Then the notion blazed with a sudden, enormous appeal. “Yes,” he said firmly. “I am.”
The resolution on his face fascinated Juliet. As they walked down the age-worn stairs, she glanced at his imperious profile. Was it possible that he could shed the hatred learned at his father’s knee? That he could forget the feud and accept love as the cornerstone of his life?
Longing seared her soul. She wanted to see his harsh expression soften into a smile again. She wanted to hear his husky voice murmuring tender words of affection. She wanted to lie naked in the dark and feel his hands and mouth arousing her body to vibrant life.
So he could betray her again? So he could whisper more lies? Ever since their quarrel, he’d avoided touching her. He didn’t love her; he’d only said what he thought she’d wanted to hear. Now that she’d learned his secret, there was no need for pretense.
Angry at her gullibility
, she walked rigidly at his side until they reached the library. He grasped the tarnished knob and pushed open the huge oak door. The room formed an H, with long branches stretching to either side of the entrance. The scents of old leather bindings and musty parchment hung in the air.
Kent directed her straight ahead, down a short corridor that led to a second set of wings. There, he turned left. A yellowed globe on a wooden stand occupied a cobwebbed corner. Several armchairs sprouted stuffing from holes in the faded burgundy upholstery. A fire snapped in the hearth. At the end of an age-scarred table sat Gordon.
His head was bowed over an open book, his face hidden, only the top of his thinning brown hair visible. He looked as though he were peering closely at the pages. Even the tap of their footsteps failed to penetrate his concentration.
Had Gordon always been so frail, so scholarly? Juliet tried to envision him as a healthy youngster, frolicking and playing. Gordon must be nearly ten years older than Kent. How close had they been as boys?
Stopping beside his cousin’s chair, Kent gently shook the maroon-coated shoulder. An incoherent mutter escaped Gordon. Like a trout shooting to the surface, he sat abruptly straight, his thin mouth working in protest and his pale eyes magnified behind the spectacles.
He blinked hard at Juliet. “You look rather familiar,” he said, the words slightly slurred. “Do enlighten me with your appellation.”
His dreamy tone startled her; he must have been sound asleep when they walked in. “It’s me, Juliet. Kent’s wife.”
Leaning onto the book, he cocked his head. “Ah, yes... the other Carleton girl. Ought to have discerned so from the eyes. Quite singular. Identical to your father’s.”
Uncertain if he meant the words as a compliment, she said, “Thank you.”
“I hope we’re not disturbing you,” said Kent, withdrawing his hand from the stooped shoulder.
Gordon listed awkwardly in the chair. “Ah, Cousin. Didn’t apprehend your presence.”
“I wanted to show my wife where the safe is located.”
“Needn’t procure my consent for that,” he said, waving a clawlike hand. “This domicile belongs to you.”
His red-rimmed eyes drifted shut and his chin began to sink toward his chest. Odd, she thought. His medication must make him drowsy.
Kent gave a faint nod, asking her to follow him. Pursing her lips, she complied. Above the rows of bookshelves hung a collection of ancestral portraits. Many were so darkened with age that she could make out little more than the pale glow of face and hands, the white of ruffs and collars.
Someday she’d see to cleaning the pictures. Then she caught herself, her heart aching. No, she was leaving here.
Kent stopped before a more recent painting that occupied a prominent place at the end of the room. This one depicted an unsmiling man in modern garb, a starched neckcloth and navy blue coat.
“My father,” he said.
Of course. She should have spied the resemblance in the cheekbones and devil-dark eyes. William Deverell’s chin was tilted at a haughty angle, giving the impression that he looked down his nose at the rest of the world. That stern, condescending gaze seemed to bore into her. So this was the cruel man portrayed in Emily’s diary. The rigid man who’d hated her father. Somehow she felt only pity that he’d let enmity ruin his life.
Gripping the gilt frame, Kent lifted the portrait and propped it against a chair. The removal revealed a metal door in the stone wall. Pulling a ring of keys from his coat pocket, he inserted one and unlocked the safe.
The hinges squawked loudly into the dusty air. She glanced at Gordon, but he was nodding over the book.
Curiosity induced her to move closer to Kent, to stand on tiptoe and see inside the repository.
Only a forest green velvet pouch occupied the shadowed interior. Even as he withdrew the bag and untied the drawstring, she guessed the contents.
Dreamspinner.
The emeralds glinted dully in his hand. Without the softening luster of candlelight, the peacock looked merely vulgar. Glowing with malevolent satisfaction...
Emily’s description made Juliet shiver. Had this necklace motivated someone to murder?
She raised her head to find Kent staring at her. Angry desperation tightened his jaw and burned in his eyes. The impulse to embrace him throbbed like a physical pain inside her.
His fingers abruptly clenched around Dreamspinner. Wheeling, he stalked toward his cousin.
“Gordon.”
The word snapped him from the stupor. Blinking, he looked up and frowned. “Ah, Kent. What brings you here?”
His disorientation startled Juliet; she walked slowly to the other side of the table. Kent gave no sign of noticing the lapse.
“I’ve come to fetch this.” Bracing one hand on the table, he held forth the necklace. “I’m selling Dreamspinner.”
“Selling?”
“Yes, my wife doesn’t much care for the piece. Do you, Juliet?”
Numbly she shook her head.
“So you see,” he continued, “it’s foolish to keep the jewels when the estate could reap a small fortune from the sale.”
Gordon stared at the necklace. His benign expression slipped away. He struggled to his feet, his gaunt form swaying. “You mustn’t sell Dreamspinner. You can’t!”
“Why not?”
His mouth opened and closed. The hand he pressed to his lapel trembled visibly. “Because... you pledged so to Uncle William. You can’t break a vow!”
Kent shrugged. “I no longer feel bound by a vow based on hatred. As I said before, my feelings about the feud have changed.”
“Changed?”
“Yes. Since I married Juliet, I’ve come to realize how little I care for past quarrels.”
The falsehood hurt... because he’d voiced what she so dearly wished for, an end to hostility and a beginning of peace. He couldn’t even bear to look at her as he lied; his fierce gaze remained focused on his cousin.
Gordon shook his head in childish befuddlement. “I cannot comprehend this transformation in you. I never conceived you would ever sell Dreamspinner.”
“The prospect seems to alarm you. Why is that?”
Gordon wilted into the chair, his hands worrying the book pages. “Uncle William would be most aggrieved,” he said, his tone plaintive. “That necklace meant the world to him. You, of all us Deverells, must perpetuate tradition.”
“Tradition be damned. We’re better off without this cursed necklace.” Kent let the emeralds slither back into the velvet pouch. “I should have gotten rid of it long ago.”
Gordon blinked wildly. “You must reconsider—”
“No. Ravi will make inquiries at a few London jewelers. I expect to have a buyer within a fortnight.”
Gordon fell silent. His shoulders drooping, he supported his head with his gnarled hands. He gave the impression of retreating from a reality too painful to bear.
Reluctant sympathy gripped Juliet. How different he seemed, how pitiable. On impulse she touched his arm; the feel of wasted flesh beneath the maroon coat appalled her. “Would you care to take tea with us, Gordon? We’re joining Augusta in the drawing room.”
He didn’t seem to hear the invitation. After a moment Kent guided her away. Through the mullioned window she glimpsed the intricate walkways of the rose garden. By craning her neck, she could see the ruined greenhouse abutting the outer wall.
A fear prickled her skin. Had Gordon watched her at work there? Had he plotted her murder?
She couldn’t reconcile that notion with the defeated man slumped at the table. Yet she’d seen a spark of desperation at the notion of selling Dreamspinner. Perhaps such a powerful emotion could give him the strength to attack...
The instant the library door closed with a quiet click, she said, “How strangely he behaved. What’s disturbing him?”
Kent stared at the pouch in his hand. “Gordon has his own demons to fight. For some reason he wants me to keep Dreamspinner.”
“Maybe he has a fanatical attachment to it. Maybe he truly does want to honor William’s wishes.”
Kent shook his head. “He and my father weren’t close. I’ve know Gordon since boyhood, and he’s always shown far more interest in books than people. I can’t imagine him harming anyone.”
“You aren’t privy to his secret thoughts. Even someone you know well can have a hidden side.”
By the darkening of his gaze, she knew he’d applied her words to their own painful schism. A muscle in his jaw leapt; then he looked away. “I deserved that,” he murmured.
In spite of his lies and betrayal, she found a bittersweet joy in his nearness. Protection, she told herself. That was all Kent Deverell offered her. That was all she wanted from him.
“There’s another reason for Gordon’s odd behavior,” he went on, as they started down the dim hall. “My cousin is addicted to opium. He started using the drug many years ago, to counteract the pain of his rheumatism.”
Horror and pity dried her mouth. Of course, drugs would explain so much... the hazy mannerisms, the lapses of rationality, perhaps even his gray pallor yesterday, when he’d been searching for Augusta and his “medication.” If opium could make him act in an irrational manner, could it turn him into a devious maniac?
Before she could speak, Kent added, “Juliet... believe me, I wanted to tell you earlier. It’s just that Gordon prefers people not to know, and I’ve tried to honor that wish.”
He looked so earnest and anxious that she touched his sleeve. “People are entitled to their privacy. It’s just a shame we can’t do anything to alleviate the progress of his disease.”
The tap of hurrying footsteps echoed down the corridor behind. “Kent, wait!” called Rose. “I must speak to you.”
Turning, Juliet spied the girl hastening after them. Sable hair swinging loose about her shoulders, she clutched her gray skirts, the upraised hem revealing the fringe of a modest white petticoat.
She scowled at her brother. “Mama told me the news! How could you even think such an awful thing?”
“Think what?” he asked.
“Selling Dreamspinner, of course!” Her gaze dropped to the pouch in his hand, and she gasped. “Why have you taken the necklace from the safe? You can’t have found a buyer so quickly.”