by Mary Balogh
“No,” Ashley said quickly. “Stay, please.”
“You must tell Lord Ashley what you believe, Henry,” his sister said.
“It concerns your late wife,” Sir Henry said stiffly. “Perhaps you should hear it alone.”
“No,” Ashley said. He had seated himself again. Sir Henry did not sit. “Whatever you have to say can be said in Major Cunningham’s hearing.”
“’Tis my belief,” Sir Henry said, “that Gregory Kersey’s death was not accidental. He might have taken his own life. He had a gun with him and it had been recently fired—as had all our guns, of course. He had motive—perhaps. But I believe ’twas murder.” He drew a deep breath. “I believe Alice killed him.”
“What?” The word came out as a whisper. Everything had blackened about the edges of Ashley’s vision.
“But why?” Major Cunningham’s voice, sounding strangely calm, broke into the ensuing silence.
“He was to marry Katherine Binchley the very day he died,” Sir Henry said. “He had the special license and had made the arrangements for the ceremony to be performed quietly in a different parish.”
Ashley could do nothing but stare at him.
“And you believe that Lady Ashley—Miss Kersey—killed her brother merely because she was about to be supplanted as mistress of Penshurst?” the major asked. “It sounds a trifle extreme, does it not?”
“Not for that reason.” Sir Henry was looking at Ashley. “I believe you understand, Kendrick. She told you all—except perhaps the incriminating details I have just mentioned.”
But he did not understand at all. Not at all. He felt as if he must have walked into some bizarre dream.
“Tell me,” he said.
Sir Henry looked acutely uncomfortable. He glanced at Major Cunningham and at his sister.
“I know already, Henry,” she said. “I guessed and you did not deny it, remember? You need not worry now about my sensibilities.”
“She was upset at the whole idea of his marrying,” Sir Henry said. “She was fond of him.” He cleared his throat nervously. “She was overfond of him.”
“Egad,” the major said.
But Ashley’s eyes had closed. Into his consciousness rushed a detail that perhaps he had kept at bay ever since meeting Sir Henry Verney. Ashley had reminded her of her lover, Alice had told him on the morning after their disastrous wedding night. That was what had attracted her to him. He had reminded her of her lover—Sir Henry Verney. But Verney looked nothing whatsoever like himself. And one of Emmy’s signed messages just yesterday echoed loudly in his mind, as if she had spoken aloud. Like you, she had indicated. She had been pointing to the portrait of Gregory Kersey, set in a twin frame with Alice’s portrait. Like you.
“She was an unhappy woman when Gregory started paying court to Katherine,” Sir Henry said. “As unhappy about it as I was.”
“But you were her lover,” Ashley said without opening his eyes.
“Katherine’s?” Sir Henry said stiffly. “No. I behaved with honor toward her.”
“No,” Barbara Verney said. “He means Alice’s, Henry.”
“Alice’s?” Sir Henry looked shocked. “I was Alice’s lover? Is that what she told you? Egad. ’Tis not true, as I live.”
But Alice had not been a virgin. She had not been a virgin.
“I can see,” Sir Henry said, “that all of this is new to you, Kendrick. I am sorry. Truly sorry. I assumed when you told me Alice had told you all that she had told you the truth, even if she had withheld the most violent and incriminating part of it.”
“Your quarrel with Kersey,” Ashley said, “was occasioned by the fact that you both loved the same woman. ’Twas not because he knew you had debauched his sister.”
“Dear Lord God,” Barbara Verney said.
“No,” Sir Henry said quietly.
“Her attachment to her brother was so strong that she would kill him rather than lose him to another woman?” Major Cunningham asked. “Do you have any proof that she shot him, Verney? Or is this a wild guess?”
Yes, her attachment was that strong, Ashley thought with certainty. They had been lovers. Her eyes had been fiercely fanatical when she had told her husband of twenty-four hours that she still loved the other man, that she would always love him. Always. Yes, she had loved him enough to kill him. And to live in torment ever after.
“She was on the hill,” Sir Henry said. “I saw her fleeing downward when I stopped and looked back after hearing the shot. She denied having been there when I confronted her, and then admitted it. She claimed to have been coming to join the shoot—she did sometimes—and to have heard the lone shot and to have seen her brother down. She claimed to have been too filled with horror and panic to go close. She had run back to the house for help. But there was a firmness, an intrepidity about Alice that made that explanation ring not quite true. Besides, she did not send Binchley to look until hours later. Do I have proof that she killed Greg? No. Perhaps I have always been glad that I did not. I kept my mouth shut. Even Barbara has only guessed these things until this morning. She is now hearing for the first time, as you are, that I saw Alice.”
“Why might it have been suicide?” Major Cunningham asked. “Why might Kersey have killed himself on the morning of his wedding?”
Ashley’s elbows were on his knees, his face in his hands.
“His—love for Katherine was a sudden thing,” Sir Henry said, an edge of bitterness in his voice. “And he was an unhappy man. We had always been close friends. But there was a barrier there between us even before he took Katherine from me. There was something he was not willing to talk about. Something I could only guess at. ’Twas only later that I discovered Barbara had made the same guesses.”
“He was trying to make his life more . . . normal, then?” the major said.
“I believe so.” Sir Henry had gone to stand at the window, his back to the room.
“Henry has been puzzled and hurt by the extent of your hostility,” Miss Verney said quietly to Ashley. “’Tis clear now that there has been a huge misunderstanding. I think we should take our leave, Henry. Major? He looks in a state of near collapse.”
“I shall see to him, madam,” Major Cunningham said. “I am his friend.”
“Yes,” she said. “I can see that. Come, Henry.”
Ashley was aware of Sir Henry Verney’s stopping beside him on his way to the door. For a moment a hand rested on his shoulder.
“I am sorry,” Sir Henry said.
Ashley kept his head down, his face resting on his hands. His wife’s brother had also been her lover. She had killed him because he had been trying to break free of an incestuous relationship by taking a wife.
• • •
“Henry,” his sister said as their carriage drove away from the house, “he did not know. That poor man!”
“There is one thing no one seemed to think about,” he said, “though I daresay Kendrick will think about it soon enough. The person who killed Greg cannot be the same person who shot at Lady Emily this morning—not if our suspicions are correct. So who did shoot at her? And why?”
“I thought all unpleasantness concerning Penshurst was at an end when Alice went away,” she said with a sigh. “Now it seems to be back again. But can there possibly be any connection? What were you doing all morning?”
His smile was rather crooked. “Are you wondering if I was on that hill?” he asked.
“Of course not,” she said briskly. “I am just curious.”
“I was riding for most of the time,” he said. “If you were to ask me exactly where I rode, I would be unable to answer. I do not remember. I went to see Katherine earlier. I often do, you know, before Eric rises and she has no time for me. I offered for her at last—I finally got up the courage. She refused me.”
“Oh, Henry,” she said, and she leaned
across the space between their seats to lay a sympathetic hand on his arm. “But why? She has always been fond of you. I used to think she loved you. I have thought recently that she loves you again—if she ever stopped.”
“She said no.” He set his head back against the cushions. “She would offer no explanation. Just no.”
“I am so sorry,” she said.
But when the carriage reached the gates to the park, Sir Henry turned to rap on the front panel for his coachman to stop outside the Binchley cottage. Eric was, as usual, swinging on the gate. He was smiling and waving.
“What is it today?” Barbara called to him after pulling down the window. “A horse? A ship?”
“A cloud,” he said. “I am riding across the sky. Grandfer told me a story about a god who rode his chariot across the sky. But I am riding a cloud.”
“Eric,” Sir Henry said, “ask your mama if she will step outside for a moment.”
Eric went skipping off up the path.
“I will not intrude upon her,” Sir Henry explained when his sister looked at him in inquiry. “But I very much need to talk to her.”
She came, wiping her hands on a clean white apron as she did so. She did not look at the carriage but somewhere on the ground before her feet. She looked as if she might have been crying.
“Katherine,” Barbara said, “you are busy as usual, and as usual you make me feel like an idler.”
“Kathy,” Sir Henry said, “we have come from Penshurst. Lady Emily Marlowe was shot at this morning by an unknown person for an unknown reason.”
Her eyes looked up at him, wide with dismay.
“She was not badly hurt,” he said. “She is suffering more from shock than from her wounds, I believe. I tell you only so that you will be careful. So that you will stay close to the house unless your father is with you. And so that you will watch Eric. Promise me?”
Her face had blanched.
“Kathy?” he said.
“You have frightened her,” Barbara said. “There is no reason whatsoever to fear, Katherine. Only to be a little cautious, perhaps. How lovely all your flowers are. You are so very clever and industrious.”
Katherine Smith had set her arms around her son from behind. She lowered her face to kiss the top of his head.
“Kathy,” Sir Henry said. He sighed in frustration. “Be careful.” He signaled his coachman to drive on.
She stood for a long while with her arms about Eric, looking after the carriage. Eventually he protested and she released him so that he could continue with his game. She stared sightlessly around at the flowers.
25
EMILY came downstairs for tea. Apart from a slight pallor and her heavily bandaged hand, one would not have known that anything was very wrong with her, Ashley thought, bowing over her good hand in the drawing room and seating her beside him on a sofa. She was dressed prettily and fashionably in spring green with delicate flowers embroidered onto her stomacher and the robings of her open gown. Her hair was neatly dressed beneath a frothy little wing cap. He resisted the need to sit closer to her than propriety would allow and to draw her arm through his.
She answered all inquiries about her health with a smile.
“She refused to lie abed any longer,” Anna said, “or to take any more laudanum. The hand must be very painful, though.”
“Sometimes pain is preferable to the feeling of being drugged,” Luke said. “’Tis but a cut, Anna, though a nasty one to be sure.”
“Lady Emily’s courage is to be much commended,” Major Cunningham said. “Many ladies of my acquaintance would cower in their rooms for days or even weeks after such an experience.”
Emily smiled her way through tea. Ashley noticed that she made little attempt to follow the conversation.
It had not taken Ashley long after the departure of Sir Henry Verney and his sister to realize that the mystery of what had happened to Emily that morning and two days before had deepened. Only she herself could enlighten them—but now seemed hardly the time.
Luke and Anna thought that they should take her away, back to Bowden, at least until Theo and Lady Quinn returned to London. Ashley could not help but agree, though with the greatest reluctance. He wanted to marry her. He was half convinced that this time she might be prevailed upon to accept his offer. But how could he marry her if she must leave Penshurst? If it was not safe for her?
There was only one answer, of course, and Roderick Cunningham had provided it in private, after the four-way conference on Emily’s safety had been concluded over luncheon: Ashley must live elsewhere with her. The offer to purchase Penshurst was still open.
It was an offer Ashley hated to consider seriously. Penshurst was his. He already felt the attachment of ownership. He and Emily had loved here and found happiness together here—lasting happiness, he hoped. He wanted to settle with her here, have children with her here, grow old with her here. He did not want to be driven away. He did not want to fear to bring her into this part of the world. And who knew for sure that the strange assaults would not follow her elsewhere? He would far prefer to find her assailant than to run from him—or her.
But he had told Roderick that he would think about selling.
His friend had laid a hand on his shoulder. “I know ’twould wrench your heart, Ash,” he said. “But I know that giving up Lady Emily would shatter it. Think about my offer. There is no hurry, no pressure. We are friends.”
“Come for a walk, Emmy?” Ashley asked now, setting a hand on hers to draw her attention. “The rain has stopped. Will it frighten you too much to leave the house? With me at your side?”
No, she told him, she was not afraid. She left and came back with one of her attractive wide-brimmed straw hats perched forward over her brow and secured with a wide ribbon bow at the back of her neck beneath her cap.
But he stopped her in the hall before they stepped outside. He made sure that he was not within earshot of any of the footmen, then said, “Emmy, answer some questions before we leave. We may need pen and paper. You did not see the person who shot at you this morning. Did you see the person who frightened you two days ago?”
He could see she had, though she was obviously reluctant to say so. But she did nod eventually. He breathed an inward sigh of relief and satisfaction.
“Who?” he said. “Tell me who.”
“No,” she told him, biting her lip.
“Emmy.” He caught at her upper arms and bent his head closer. “Let us go into the study. Write the name for me. I must know. I must be able to protect you from further harm.”
“No,” she said, frowning.
He drew a deep breath and let it out on a sigh. “Tell me, then,” he said. “Do you believe there is any connection between the two incidents?”
She was very firm in her answer. No, there was no connection. But how could she be certain? he wondered.
“Are you very sure of that?” he asked her. “Sure beyond any doubt at all?” He searched her eyes.
“Yes,” she said.
And so his final hope was gone. It was frustrating not to know who had frightened her so badly, but she seemed quite convinced that whoever it was had not also tried to kill her that morning.
They strolled along the river walk, her arm drawn firmly through his. Though he usually wore it only for evening dress occasions, he was wearing his sword beneath his skirted coat. And in one pocket of his coat he carried a loaded pistol. It was not a good way to be in one’s own home, he thought. Perhaps in a different home he would feel more in control, better able to protect his woman.
“Emmy,” he said, dipping his head so that she would see him beneath the brim of her hat. “Luke and Anna wish to take you home to Bowden. Perhaps even tomorrow.”
She stopped walking and stared at him with wide eyes.
“I cannot fight them on it,” he said. “I do not ha
ve the right. And I am as concerned for your safety as they are. What is your wish?”
She spoke very carefully. “You wahnt it?” she asked him. He could tell by her lifted brows that it was a question, not a statement.
Love made him selfish. He hesitated, but he shook his head finally. “No,” he said. “But you have been very badly frightened here, Emmy. Perhaps you ought to go. I can come to Bowden when I have settled a few things here.”
“No,” she said.
“You would not want me to come?” he asked her.
She tipped her head to one side and looked reproachfully at him. I will stay here, she told him firmly with her hands.
“I will make Penshurst safe for you, then,” he said. “I promise you, Emmy. And then you can live here without fear—forever, if you wish.”
It was the wrong time to say more, though he yearned to do so. And her eyes appeared to tell him that she wished it too. It just seemed to him that his life was still too full of tangles—or perhaps fuller of tangles now than it had been even the day before.
He bent his head and kissed her.
• • •
She woke up with a feeling of deep dread. The room was dark despite the fact that the curtains were pulled back both from about her bed and from the window. It was still. Not a shadow moved. But why would she expect one to do so? And why this feeling?
It was only when she gripped the bedclothes covering her and felt the bandage on her left hand and winced with the pain of the sudden movement that she remembered. She did not like the helpless feeling that fear brought. All her life she had fought it. Because she was deaf, she was perhaps more susceptible to fear than most people. But she had never been willing for fear to master her. She had fought hard to be in control of her emotions, to make peace the dominating force of her life. She had tried again when she came to bed earlier. She had refused to have either Anna or a maid sleep in her room with her. She had even refused to allow herself to leave the candles burning.
It seemed that since coming to Penshurst there had been nothing but one fear following another. Perhaps she ought to do what Anna and Luke wished her to do and what even Ashley advised. Perhaps she should leave Penshurst and go home to Bowden. But she did not want to leave. She wanted to stay with Ashley. He had mentioned forever during their walk by the river. She wanted forever with him, or at least the rest of their lives. She even dared to hope that he was coming to love her as she loved him. Besides, she did not want to run from her fear. If she ran now, perhaps she would find herself running all her life. She would start seeing herself as a handicapped person.