by Penny Jordan
‘Sorry I can’t be more hospitable,’ he apologised insincerely, as he opened it. ‘Afraid I’ve got a dinner engagement, and I’m already running late.’
A dinner engagement, or a meeting with one of his victims? James wondered cynically as he allowed himself to be ushered out and down the steps towards his car.
Charles waited until he had seen James drive off, and then he walked quickly over to the door that opened into the library.
The man standing inside it was staring out of the window.
‘That’s him…’ he told Charles excitedly. ‘That’s the guy who was here earlier… the one I was telling you about.’
Charles stared at him.
‘Who is he?’ the man asked.
‘No one who need concern you,’ Charles told him grimly. ‘Here’s your stuff…’
He removed a small package from his pocket and handed it to him, gripping hold of his wrist so hard that the other winced as he said fiercely, ‘Oh, no, you don’t, not in here. Wait until you’re well clear of this place before you touch it, damn you, or that will be the last lot you get from me… and remember, the next time you want something, wait for me to bring it to you. Don’t come round here!’
The rage in his voice penetrated the other’s ecstatic relief. He stopped greedily fingering the small package and stared at Charles.
‘But I had to come,’ he whined. ‘I needed something—–’
‘If you come here again, I promise you you will be more sorry than you ever dreamed possible,’ Charles told him softly. ‘Now get out… and use the back way.’
Once he had gone, Charles stood staring unseeingly into the fire, and then, with great deliberation and intensity, he picked up a fragile Sevres ornament from the mantelpiece and flung it the width of the room so that it hit the wall and splintered into a mass of tiny fragments.
That the ornament was probably worth more than he made in a whole month of dealing didn’t matter. What mattered was that he had been found out… that James knew what he was doing… he must know. James was no fool, and it was obvious to anyone with any intelligence just what Tony Byres was. Tony had told him himself that James had questioned him.
At first when he had come home and found Tony waiting for him, Charles’s greatest fear had been that one of his neighbours might have alerted the police to the fact that a drug addict was apparently camped out outside one of their houses, but fortunately it seemed that most of the inhabitants of the square were away in the country for Christmas, and so, after cursing him and making him remove his disreputable car from outside the house to the service area at the rear, Charles had been forced to let him in.
Once there, Tony had given him some garbled tale about a meeting with another ‘user’ who had taken him off to hospital and left him there.
Tony had grown very aggrieved and loquacious at this point, and Charles might not have got any more information at all out of him if Tony hadn’t remembered that this other man had questioned him about whether or not Charles supplied him.
Hoping against hope that his unknown visitor must have been another of his customers, Charles had bundled Tony into the library and warned him to keep quiet when he’d seen James’s car outside.
He didn’t doubt for one moment Tony’s recognition of James; it was all too plausible. So why had James said nothing to him? What was he waiting for? Had he told Geraldine Frances yet? He must intend to.
Charles’s greatest hope lay in the fact that so far James had said nothing to him. That must surely be because James himself was not entirely sure of his ground. Somehow or other he would have to persuade James that his suspicions were unfounded.
He had not lied to James about having a dinner engagement. He was supposed to be meeting Thérèse. Sex was the last thing on his mind right now, but she was the most temperamental of all his lovers, and if he cancelled their date… Time enough to worry about James and what he intended to do tomorrow. As he went upstairs to get ready for the evening, it came to Charles that he was back where he best liked being: right on the edge of a crevasse, walking the tightrope between safety and danger.
As he always had done, as he always intended to do, he would survive.
When James picked him up in the morning there was no evidence in Charles’s face or manner that he was suffering from any kind of stress or tension. Beneath his clothes his flesh was marred with small bruises and bites inflicted by his lover. She liked inflicting pain as well as receiving it, and it had been well into the early hours of the morning before Charles had finally persuaded her to go home.
There was nothing in James’s attitude towards him to give him any indication of what his uncle might be thinking. He was sitting in the back of the Bentley reading the Financial Times when the chauffeur picked Charles up, and only raised his head from his paper to murmur a brief good morning.
Now was not the time to try to find out just how much James knew, Charles recognised. He wanted to make sure they were completely alone when he did that, with no one to overhear him.
His opportunity came earlier than he had expected. Both he and James were riding borrowed hunters; James’s was nervous and edgy, and obviously not very experienced, balking at the hounds, and causing James to fall behind the rest of the field.
Charles fell back with him, and drew alongside him.
‘I wanted to ask you something,’ he told James.
The older man wasn’t in a good mood. His mount was proving hard to handle. This morning he had suffered an attack of palsied unsteadiness which had left him weak and edgy. He hated these reminders of what lay ahead of him, and tried his best to ignore them.
‘When you called round last night, why didn’t you say you had also called earlier?’
James couldn’t control his start of surprise. How had Charles known about that? His mouth set firmly, and Charles knew that Tony had been right. James made no attempt to evade the confrontation.
‘You realise that this means the end of your hopes of marrying Geraldine Frances,’ James told him flatly. ‘Once she knows…’
Once she knows… Charles’s heart leapt. Perhaps he hadn’t told her… but he had to be sure; too much was at stake for any mistake now.
‘She’ll what?’ he taunted. ‘Break our engagement? Oh, I don’t think so… She loves me, you see…’ He laughed softly when he saw James’s bitter expression. ‘You don’t believe me? Why not try telling her and see?’
‘I fully intend to tell her,’ James told him acidly. ‘Just as soon as—–’
He cursed as Charles’s mount came too close to his own and the animal sawed at its bit, dancing nervously.
He was an excellent rider, but this horse was too highly strung to be used as a hunter, he acknowledged disgustedly.
So he was right, Charles gloated. James hadn’t told her… not yet… And he mustn’t be allowed to do so. It was one thing for Charles to boast to his uncle that Geraldine Frances would refuse to break their engagement, but what if James chose to expose him publicly, to hand him over to the police? He started to sweat nervously.
James’s horse had pulled a little in front of his own. A rabbit shooting out from the undergrowth startled it, and it reared up sharply, almost unseating James. Watching, Charles was suddenly struck by a thought. A thought so dangerous… but so right…
His crop was already in his hand; it was the easiest thing in the world to lift it and bring it down hard on the other animal’s exposed flank.
It screamed in pain, reared up as it had done before, almost unseating James, and then bolted out of control, while Charles watched, narrow-eyed and unmoving.
James was an expert rider, but the horse was unpredictable and the ground treacherous. A hedge loomed in front of them, one which it should have been easy for the horse to jump, but instead the animal swung violently sideways and James, unable to save himself, was flung off, his foot still tangled in the stirrup. He was dragged across the hard ground, unable to prevent the horse from continu
ing its panicked course.
Normally James’s quick reactions would have saved him, but those increasingly frequent muscle-seizures, those panicky moments of confusion betrayed the fact that his co-ordination was not what it had once been.
James had one moment’s stark disbelief that it was after all happening like this, that he was going to die, and another of tremendous fear for Geraldine Frances, and then it was all over.
Charles reached him first, seconds ahead of two other riders.
‘Is he all right?’ one of them demanded anxiously.
Charles, already on the ground, shook his head, his expression appropriately shocked.
‘He’s dead… His neck…’
‘Oh, my God! What happened?’
He was asked that question over and over again during the next few confused hours.
The master of the hunt, too far ahead of them to know what had happened, had to be informed, a doctor summoned who confirmed Charles’s own statement.
‘Get one every year,’ he said unemotionally. ‘Someone will have to tell his family.’
‘I’ll do it,’ Charles told him. ‘He is… was my uncle. There’s only me and a daughter…’
Significantly he put himself first, before Geraldine Frances, because that was where he now intended to come.
All through the questions and concern that followed he acted superbly; he was the shocked, disbelieving, grief-stricken nephew of a very great man, who had seen his uncle thrown in front of his eyes…
‘But he was such a good rider,’ the master muttered in disbelief when he was given the news. ‘Could have ridden anything… did…’
‘His mount was very nervous,’ Charles commented, and then improvised, ‘Uncle James was in London yesterday meeting an old friend… they were dining at the Connaught…’ He frowned, and looked self-conscious, but everyone there knew what he wasn’t saying. Drink could play havoc with a man’s concentration, and no one there thought the worse of James for having imbibed it, only sorry that his indulgence should have had such tragic results.
There was of course a whole host of necessary formalities to be gone through, and it was several hours before Charles was free to instruct James’s chauffeur to drive him to Rothwell.
Gloatingly, he was saving for himself the pleasure of telling Geraldine Frances about her father’s death.
She would be devastated, of course, all too ready to allow him to assume full responsibility for everything, including Rothwell. And once he had done so…
It struck him, as he automatically assumed the seat in the rear of the Bentley which had always been his uncle’s, that the sooner he and Geraldine Frances were married, the better. Once they were married… well, there was no James to protect her now. He would be able to do as he wished. Geraldine Frances had always liked Ireland and Castle Kilrayne… well, he might suggest to her that she took up permanent residence there. He would visit her as infrequently as possible, and would take the reins of Rothwell and its fortune firmly in his hands… because of course, once they were married, he would have no difficulty whatsoever in persuading Geraldine Frances to hand over control of her inheritance to him.
Safe from prying eyes in the back of the Bentley, he permitted himself the luxury of a small smile.
It had all been so easy. Just the merest flick of his crop, and fate had done the rest. His smile broadened. Really, it couldn’t have been better. For as long as he’d lived James would have stood between him and Rothwell. Charles mused on how long it would be before he could assume the title, because of course Geraldine Frances must be brought to see how impossible it was for her to refuse to allow him to overset James’s petition for her to hold it… What difference could it make to her, anyway? As his wife she would still have the title of Countess, and their sons…
For the first time it occurred to him how pleasurable his life might be if only he could dispose of Geraldine Frances as easily as he had disposed of James, but he dismissed the temptation. Once, yes, but twice—that was too much of a risk; it would raise too many questions, too much suspicion. He couldn’t kill Geraldine Frances, but there were other, equally effective means of banishing her from his life and yet at the same time holding on to everything that marriage to her would bring him.
CHAPTER TWELVE
GERALDINE FRANCES observed the Bentley’s stately process down the lime-lined avenue with frowning eyes, knowing immediately that something was wrong.
Her father wasn’t scheduled to return for another two days at least, and she was downstairs and waiting in the hall when the door opened and Charles walked in.
Automatically she looked past him for her father, pleasure radiating from her as her concern died beneath the delight of seeing Charles so unexpectedly.
‘Where’s Daddy?’ she asked him incuriously as he came towards her.
Charles took hold of her—one never knew, after all, who might be watching—and held on to her forearms firmly, keeping her grotesque body out of contact with his own.
‘Geraldine Frances, my dearest girl… I’m sorry… there’s been an accident…’
An accident… Geraldine Frances stared at him, and then suddenly she knew. Cold shock seized her.
‘No… not Daddy… tell me he’s all right…’ she begged pitifully, but Charles, enjoying his role far too much to relinquish it, said gravely,
‘If only I could… You must be brave, dearest. Your father is dead…’
Geraldine Frances gave a low moan of shock, and as the chauffeur, who was standing behind Charles discreetly awaiting his instructions, told the rest of the staff later, ‘You’d have thought he’d have told her somewhere private, like. The poor thing looked fit to collapse.’
‘And well she might… she was that close to her father…’ someone else commented.
‘What happened?’ Geraldine Frances whispered. Her whole body felt icy cold… She ached for Charles to take hold of her and warm her… to comfort her, to wrap her in his arms and tell her that everything was all right and that it was a mistake. But he did no such thing.
Instead he said, almost pleasantly, ‘He was thrown from and dragged along by his horse… When I got to him it was all over, he had broken his neck.’
He heard her whimper, but refused to reduce his own pleasure. ‘I thought for a moment when I reached him that he might still be alive…’ He saw her face and the look on it gave him great pleasure. ‘I’ve arranged for his body to be brought back here to Rothwell, of course,’ he added almost casually. ‘Kingscombe is coming down tomorrow, so I’ll be staying overnight… Will you tell Soames to have a bed made up for me, Gerry? Not your father’s on this occasion, of course, but in future… until we’re married at least… I suppose I ought to have his old room… as head of the family…’
Geraldine Frances was too shocked to feel pain at what he was saying. Her father, dead. She couldn’t take it in… couldn’t believe it.
Only yesterday she had seen him, said goodbye to him… he had been so alive and vital. To accept that he was now dead, that she would never see him again…
Her composure shattered abruptly, her self-control disintegrating as she gave a terrible cry of anguish and sobbed, ‘No… no… please, it isn’t true…’
She was still sobbing hysterically when the local doctor arrived, hastily summoned on Charles’s orders.
‘Shock,’ he pronounced kindly, wondering why on earth this very good-looking but obviously incredibly stupid young man had chosen to give her such shocking news here, in this lofty, cold marble hall, when surely the privacy of a smaller, more comfortable room would have been a far wiser choice. He was only small himself, and he viewed the vast bulk of Geraldine Frances’s obese body with despair, wondering how on earth they were going to get her upstairs to her room. She was virtually on the point of collapse already.
Charles solved the problem for him, saying coldly, ‘Gerry, for goodness’ sake remember who you are and pull yourself together… She is rather prone to
hysteria,’ he told the doctor untruthfully. ‘I’m afraid she tends to be highly strung…’
‘She’s had a terrible shock,’ the doctor sympathised. ‘Perhaps if we could get her upstairs…’
It was Soames, her father’s butler, who had known her since she was a child, who managed to coax Geraldine Frances upstairs to her own room, while Charles stood by and watched with cynical enjoyment… And this was just the start… she was going to pay, and pay over and over again, for every small slight of his childhood, every tiny humiliation… and when he was tired of punishing her, of making her pay, then he would banish her to Ireland where she could stay for the rest of her life—just as long as she produced his sons.
In the morning Geraldine Frances was calmer and insisted on getting up. Her father’s solicitor arrived, and to Charles’s fury insisted on seeing her on her own.
‘Tell him that you want me with you… that we’re going to be married,’ he demanded, but she shook her head, too exhausted with grief to do anything other than listen to the contents of her father’s will in numb acceptance.
There was nothing she didn’t already know. Various bequests to members of the staff, various requests as to the disposal of some of his private possessions, but, as she had already known, the bulk of his assets, Rothwell itself and the titles, all came direct to her, and would pass into her control and hers alone.
The solicitor coughed and said uncertainly, ‘You do know, I am sure, that your father was most insistent that only you control his estate… that not even your husband should be allowed to have any say…’
‘Yes… yes…’ Geraldine Frances assured him tiredly. ‘I’m sorry, I’m not feeling very well,’ she told him. ‘I wonder if you would excuse me.’
She escaped to her room to cry the tears she felt would never stop flowing. They poured from her like blood, liquid anguish that could never be dammed.
And worse was to come. Charles had attended to all the arrangements for the funeral, organising a far grander affair than she suspected her father would have wanted… A quiet ceremony here at Rothwell was what he would have preferred.