by Kruger, Mary
“What?” Melissa came out of her daze. “Oh. Justin.”
“The same.” He bowed, and then walked to her, holding out a glass. “And who did you expect?”
She shivered. “I—don’t know.”
“I believe we have a conversation to finish,” he said, drawing a chair closer to hers. “Or are you too tired?”
“I—no, but—”
“Good. Fine evening, wasn’t it?”
“Y-yes.”
“Glad everyone’s gone, though.” He took a sip from his glass, his eyes never leaving her face. “Tired?”
“No. Yes!” She raised her eyes, imploring and frightened, to him. “Yes, Justin, I’m very tired, maybe I’d should just go to bed—”
“Well, now, that is what I was thinking,” he said, and reached out to touch her cheek.
She jerked back, and jumped to her feet, the champagne spilling over her glass. “No! Don’t touch me!”
“Melissa.” He rose slowly, his hand outstretched. “Don’t be frightened, I’ll be gentle, I promise—”
“Don’t touch me, I can’t bear it when you touch me—”
“Damn it, Melissa, what is this?”
“Go away, I don’t want you near me.”
He stood very still. “You don’t mean that.”
“Yes, I do! Go! I can’t stand you, I don’t want you to touch me—”
“Melissa.” He caught her shoulders, looking down at her in concern. “What is it? What has happened to upset you so?”
“Nothing. I don’t want you near me,” she said, with a flat calmness that was far more convincing than her earlier shrillness had been. “I don’t want you.”
Justin’s eyes narrowed, and he stepped back. “Very well, madam,” he said, coolly. “Since my presence is so repugnant to you, I shall leave.”
“Justin!” Melissa stood in the middle of the floor, watching him stride across the room. His shoulders stiffened, but he did not turn. A moment later the door of his room closed firmly shut behind him.
“Oh, Justin,” she whispered, and sank down onto the edge of her bed, staring ahead, the champagne glass still in her hands. She couldn’t bear to be touched, not now. Not after what had happened. She couldn’t let him get too close. Though she had known that all along, tonight’s events had only confirmed it. If he did, he would know the truth about her, the basic wrongness that was in her. Sir Stephen certainly did..
Melissa shuddered, and, like a sleep walker, climbed into bed, her knees drawn up and the comforter pulled over her head. If she could only shut out the world, shut out the reality of what was happening to her, but she couldn’t. It was there, and she would have to face it. Sir Stephen wanted her, and he meant to have her. There was no more escaping that fact.
At first, she hadn’t believed it. It had started not long after he had married her mother, with a certain way of looking at her, of talking to her, that made her skin crawl. Sometimes, when he passed her, he would even touch her, but whenever she looked up his face was impassive, so that she had thought she was mistaken. A father wouldn’t do such things. It had to be her imagination. She had clung to her belief until the evening when her mother, sick with a fever, was asleep, and Sir Stephen, having had too much to drink, had made his desires all too clear. Only the lock on her door had saved her that night.
She had spent a sleepless night, and then, in the morning, knowing what she had to do, had gone to her stepfather. Already she had known that the only thing he cared about was money, and so her threat was potent. If he did not stop bothering her, she would go to her mother and the other trustees of the Selby fortune. That had done it, though he had continued to watch her in a way that had made her uneasy. Someday she would escape, she vowed. Someday.
Her mother’s death had changed everything. Several days after Mama’s funeral, Sir Stephen had made it plain to Melissa what position he expected her to play in his life. Without her mother to protect her, Melissa had known she had no choice. She had to get away from him. And so, she had run, to the Hart and Hind, and, ultimately, to Justin.
Oh, Lord, Justin. Melissa put her hands over her eyes. What a dreadful coil. She would not, could not, give into Sir Stephen’s unnatural desires. To do so would be to acknowledge the wrongness in her. Neither, though, could she let Justin suffer for her integrity. There had to be another way, she thought. There had to be. “Please, God,” she whispered. “Please. Keep him safe.”
“Good boy,” Justin murmured softly to his mount. “Good Diablo.” The horse nickered in reply, twitching his ears, and Justin took up the reins. “Want a gallop, don’t you, old boy?”
“Right frisky this morning, milord,” Jeffrey said, as Diablo danced about.
“Right. Should give me a good ride. Let him go!”
“Yes, milord.” Jeffrey stood back as Justin walked the horse out of the stable and headed for the park. Since the snow had melted he had begun to ride in the early morning again. Though both Alfred and the Bow Street Runner protested, he refused to take along an escort. He was not going to live his life in fear. Besides, he thought better when he was alone, and lately there was a lot to think about.
Justin frowned slightly. There was, of course, his speech before the Lords, which no longer seemed very important. There was the ever-present question of who might wish him dead. And, most importantly and perplexingly of all, there was his wife. He hadn’t the slightest idea what to do about Melissa.
His frown deepened as he rode at an easy lope down Mayfair’s cobblestoned streets, busy even at this early hour with tradesmen’s carts and street vendors. Hard to believe now he had once mistrusted her, disliked her, that he had let the prejudices instilled by his past color his view of her. For she was nothing like what he had once thought, and not even her money bothered him very much anymore. She had come to be an important part of his life, and he had thought she felt the same way. There had been no mistaking her reaction to him when they had waltzed; she had been soft and warm in his arms, and her eyes had shone up at him. Yet, when he had come to claim her at last as his wife, she had acted repulsed, revolted. Something had happened, between the waltz and her bedroom, something that had upset her. Otherwise, nothing made sense. Oh, he’d been upset about it at first, angry and hurt and full of injured pride, but he never had held onto anger for long. Once he had calmed down and thought about it, he had realized that what he had seen in her eyes wasn’t revulsion. It was fear, pure and simple.
The Stanhope gate was just ahead, and then he was in the park. Once off the city streets he let Diablo have his head and they rode as one, man and beast, an action so automatic that Justin’s mind went on with his thoughts. What had frightened her so? He didn’t think she was afraid of him; he’d never hurt her, not physically, at least, and though their relationship had had its rocky moments, in the main they got along well. Nor did he think she was really frightened of the physical intimacy. No, it was something else, and so the question remained. What scared her?
A tree loomed up in their path. Justin tugged the reins to the left, and, suddenly, something gave under him. With the instinct born of years of riding, he grabbed at the reins, but instead of stopping, Diablo, startled at the sudden motion, bolted. The saddle slipped, Justin’s grip on the reins loosened, and he was tossed, ignominiously, to the ground.
He came to a few moments later, staring up at the sky through a canopy of branches just beginning to bud with leaves. A quick inventory showed that he wasn’t hurt, except for the leg he had wrenched in the fall, the same one injured in the attack several weeks ago. Diablo was contentedly munching grass nearby, and Justin climbed painfully to his feet and went to him, running his hands over the horse’s glossy coat and lean flanks to check for injuries. The saddle lay on the ground a few feet away. God, what a foolish thing to do, not to check the girth of the saddle before mounting to make sure it was tightly cinched, he thought as he limped over to it. Somehow it must have come loose. He was lucky his feet had come free of t
he stirrups, else he might have been dragged quite a distance. He would have the groom’s head for this. He picked up the saddle, turned it to examine the girth, and then froze. The leather was broken in two.
For a moment, he simply stared, unable to take it in, and then he brought the girth closer to his face, to study it. The saddle was in good condition, the leather soft and supple. How could it have broken? he wondered, and then his mouth set in a straight, grim line. Not broken. Cut. The break was too clean to have been anything else. Someone had deliberately cut the girth, so that it would let go while he was riding. Someone most definitely wanted him dead, and that someone was in his house.
“We do know a bit more now,” Lawton, the Bow Street Runner, said a little while later, facing a stony-faced, angry earl in the book-room. “Know who does the hiring, anyway.”
Alfred slipped in at that moment, glancing at Justin, who sprawled in an armchair, his injured leg outstretched, while the Runner stood before him. Justin raised an eyebrow at him, and Alfred shook his head. “No, my lord,” he said, regretfully. “Looks like the new stableboy, one was hired when we came up to town, did it, but he’s disappeared. No one admits knowing who he is.”
“Of course not. Oh, sit down, man,” Justin said, waving the Runner to a chair. “Damned inept assassins,” he went on, rubbing his leg. “All they’ve managed to do so far is bang up my leg.”
“It might have been worse, my lord,” the Runner said, quietly. “Might still be. See, the man we found is one has a reason to be angry with you. Or rather, with your wife.”
“What? Who?”
“Man name o’ Jenkins.”
“Jenkins!”
“Sound familiar, my lord?”
“Good God. Yes, he used to be my butler.”
“Until her ladyship dismissed him.”
“Know about that, do you?” Justin sent him a shrewd look. “So he’s hired others to do his dirty work.”
“Jenkins?” Alfred, too, looked startled. “But I saw him, my lord.”
“When?”
“The day we went to Richmond. I was waiting out front for you, and I saw him across the street. He disappeared soon as he realized I was watching him.”
Justin turned to the Runner. “You have a man on him?”
“Yes, my lord, of course, and I’d like to put a man on you, too, for your own protection.”
Justin raked his hair with his fingers. “Damn! Oh, very well. I suppose it’s necessary.”
“Or you could leave London, sir. Go back to Surrey.”
“No. Not until I make my speech.” He glanced at Alfred. “What is it?”
“Well, sir,” Alfred began, “the day I saw Jenkins…”
“Yes?”
“Her ladyship was just going out. And, sir, Jenkins was staring at her, and if looks could kill—”
“The devil he was!” Justin started up, and then sank back into his chair. This put a different view on the matter. “Very well, then, we will return to the country. After I make my speech. And I want a man put on my wife, too.”
“Yes, my lord, I was going to suggest that,” Lawton said. “My lord, she hasn’t said anything?”
“About knowing who’s behind it? No. I haven’t talked to her about it. I don’t want her worried. Besides, I believe I know who it is. And he’s not going to win this time.” His face was grim. “No. Not this time.”
Lawton was going out the door as Melissa came downstairs, and she frowned slightly. The man looked so disreputable, in his shabby coat and battered hat, that she couldn’t imagine what business he could have here. “Alfred,” she said, and Alfred, who had been on his way back to the stables after seeing the Runner out, stopped.
“Yes, m’lady?” he said, his eyes wary.
“Who was that?”
“Someone to see his lordship on business, m’lady.”
“Oh?” Melissa continued down the stairs, glancing down the corridor in time to see Justin limp into the book-room. “His lordship’s leg is bothering him again?”
“No, my lady. Well, yes, but this is something else.”
Melissa was suddenly alert. “What? What’s happened?”
“Took a tumble off his horse, my lady.”
“What?” She grabbed at the banister, going pale. “It was an accident, wasn’t it, Alfred? Wasn’t it?”
Alfred didn’t answer right away. In the past days, her ladyship hadn’t looked good, like she was sickening for something. She ate hardly enough to keep a bird alive, her maid had reported, and her face was thin and drawn. Something was bothering her. Alfred hoped it wasn’t what he thought it was. “Of course it was, my lady,” he said, finally. “What else would it be?”
“Oh, nothing.” Melissa tried to laugh, and almost succeeded. “I am just being foolish. But, Alfred.” She laid her hand on his arm and he looked at it with surprise. “You will watch out for him, won’t you?”
“Of course I will, my lady. Got him through Spain. I’ll get him through this.”
“Thank you.” Again she nearly succeeded in smiling. “That does make me feel better.” She continued down the corridor. At the book-room she hesitated, and then went in.
Justin looked up from the table. “Yes? Oh, it’s you, m’dear. Forgive me if I don’t rise,” he said, leaning back.
“Of course. Alfred told me what happened,” she said, sitting across from him.
“Did he?” Justin’s eyes were wary.
“Yes. However did you come to fall off Diablo, of all things?”
He shrugged. “Just clumsiness, I suppose.”
“You are not clumsy!”
“Thank you,” he said, rather startled by her vehemence. “Tell me, m’dear, something you wished to see me about?”
“No, nothing in particular. If I’m bothering you, I’ll go—”
“Half a minute, m’dear. Sit. Something I want to talk to you about.”
“Yes?” Melissa sat, and this time she was the one who looked wary. In the past days she had avoided her husband as much as possible, but she knew quite well that, sooner or later, he would demand an explanation for her behavior the night of the ball. She dreaded that day.
“I’ll be giving my speech at the Lords next week,” he said, riffling the corners of the papers that lay before him. “And then I’ll be giving it up.”
“What!” Melissa sat up straighter. “Give up politics? But, Justin, you seem to be doing so well—”
“Perhaps.” He shrugged. “But I am not happy, m’dear. You told me to try it, and so I have, but it’s not the life I want.”
“Have you decided what you do want, then?”
“Yes.” He leaned back, his hands behind his head. “Decided being a gentleman farmer suits me to the ground. Once I give my speech, we’ll be going back to Chatleigh.”
“Really!” Melissa exclaimed, but inside a new and fragile hope grew. In Surrey, on his own lands, Justin would be safe, and so would she. Sir Stephen couldn’t touch them there.
“Yes. You look relieved, m’dear.”
Melissa stiffened, and then forced herself to relax. “Of course,” she said, striving for lightness. “Anything to keep you away from Miss Keane.”
Justin looked startled, and then let out a crack of laughter. “No fear there. But won’t you mind leaving London?”
“No, not at all. I’m a country girl, Justin.” She beamed at him. “I’ll be glad to be back at the Hall.”
“Yes, so will I.” He toyed with his pen, his eyes never leaving her face. “Anything else you wished to talk about? Must work on my speech, you know.”
“Of course. Aunt Augusta won’t be pleased, I’m afraid,” she said as she rose.
“Aunt Augusta has no say in this.” His voice was so firm that she smiled at him. His answering smile faded as soon as she had turned her back and was walking away.
So, his wife was glad, relieved, even, to be returning to the Hall. Vastly relieved, if the look on her face were any indication, and
that was curious. It meant that whatever was bothering her was in town, and the suspicion that it was connected with what was happening to him, fostered by Lawton, grew. So, he wondered, making a steeple of his fingers and gazing at them, was she in danger, or in league against him? At Chatleigh Hall, he would find out.
“My lady,” Phelps called as Melissa emerged from the book-room.
“Yes, Phelps, what is it?” she asked, turning on the stairs. Her spirits were the lightest they had been in days. Soon she would be leaving London, and the threat her stepfather posed.
“This just came for you, ma’am.” Phelps held out a salver on which lay an envelope.
“Really? I wonder what it could be.” Breaking the wafer, she opened the envelope. Inside was a single sheet of paper, with a brief message: “Are you convinced now?” There was no signature.
Puzzled, Melissa turned the paper over, looking for some clue, when she suddenly recognized the handwriting. It was Sir Stephen’s. “Oh, God!” she exclaimed, going white, and grabbed the newel post.
“My lady!” Phelps took a step towards her, but she waved him away.
“No, I am all right, Phelps.” She crumpled the paper. “Will you dispose of this—no, never mind, I will.”
“Ma’am, are you sure? Shall I call his lordship?”
“No! No.” Her tone moderated. “I’m fine, Phelps. Something I ate must have disagreed with me.” Forcing a smile, she turned and continued up the stairs, her mind numb. So Sir Stephen’s threats were not idle. Justin was in danger. Thank God they were going to Chatleigh soon; there he would be safe. Please, God. Let him be safe.
Chapter Seventeen
The gallery in the House of Lords was only partially filled when Melissa and Augusta, having paid five shillings for admittance to the doorman, came in to take their seats. On the floor below them, those peers who had seen fit to attend today’s session hardly seemed to be attending to business. Some were engaged in conversation, some were leaning back, staring at the ceiling, some even appeared to be asleep. None of them took much notice of Justin as he rose from his seat, but Melissa leaned farther over the balcony to watch him. He glanced up, and she gave him an encouraging smile. An answering smile briefly touched his lips, and then he straightened.