One Kiss From You

by Christina Dodd

“He had no money. He needed to secure the money from Lady Pricilla’s dowry.”

  “Then…he wouldn’t have killed her.” Lizzie curled up on Eleanor’s feet, a warm, living thing, delighted to have her ears rubbed, happy to be with them, a contrast to the swirl of ancient, sinister memories that filled the air.

  “Exactly. After her death, he had to flee to the Continent to avoid his debtors. He married an Italian countess, quite a lot older than him, and on her death returned to England with her fortune—most of which he has squandered, too.”

  “Lord Fanthorpe said the criminal was deported to Australia.” Eleanor looked him over, noting the confidence that seemed to have been bred into him.

  “You’re an American.”

  “When my father had served his term, he moved to Boston, where he had transferred some of his fortune, and there started anew.”

  She wanted all of it clarified, so she insisted, “Lord Fanthorpe said the man’s name was George Marchant. Your name is not Marchant.”

  “The killer was quite determined to cover his guilt—and so he had my entire family murdered.”

  She drew a horrified breath.

  “I changed my name.”

  “Dear heavens. I am so sorry for your bereavement. I wish…” She wished she could hold him, smooth the lines of pain from his face, but he was distant, brooding, remembering events of such loss she couldn’t imagine the pain.

  “Marchant. Knight,” Remington said. “I liked the irony of the names.”

  Sitting here in the ruin of the bed, where they’d so passionately made love, she cared nothing for irony or even justice. Faced with the facts, she could only think, I love him, and he will never love a de Lacy, and certainly never one who has so utterly destroyed his hope of retribution. Her own hopes withered and almost died.

  Almost.

  Yet hopelessness liberated her. After all, if all was lost, she might as well say what she thought. “You lied about your name, too.”

  “What?” he snapped.

  Her fingers clutched the dog’s fur. “I lied about who I was, but so did you.”

  With a whiplash of scorn, he said, “You needn’t worry. I legally changed my last name to Knight. The marriage is binding.”

  She dared yet again. “I wasn’t worried. I was pointing out that you haven’t been, in the most basic of ways, honest with me.”

  “In the most basic of way, with my body, I’ve been totally honest with you.” He gripped the mantel, his long fingers caressing the wood, and his pale blue eyes glowed like the hottest coal. “I want you. I would have wanted you even if I’d known who you really were.”

  His admission took her aback—and shook her to the core. She’d lived in Madeline’s shadow for so many years, that she hadn’t thought anyone ever saw her. “Well…I do look like Madeline.”

  “Or Madeline looks like you.” He swept an impatient hand toward her. “And no man finds his woman interchangeable with another. Don’t imagine you can play another such trick on me.”

  A silence fell while she considered his words, and she petted Lizzie. She thought…it seemed…he had called her his woman. He was inscrutable to her: demanding, tender, furious, kind. He cherished the memory of his family and wanted to destroy hers. He carried her to heaven in the night, and plunged her into hell the next morning. She needed to understand him, what had driven him to make a fortune, and be willing to spend it in the pursuit of vengeance. “Tell me more about Lady Pricilla’s murder. You’ve discounted Lord Fanthorpe as a suspect.”

  “Yes, whoever destroyed my family had to have enough money to trace my father from Australia to America, investigate him and hire thugs capable of murdering a prominent merchant.” Crossing the room, Remington tilted her chin up and looked her right in the eyes. “I considered your father a possibility, too, but he doesn’t have the income to pull off such a plan.”

  Bitterness welled in her. “Nor does he care. Lady Pricilla’s murder marked both of her brothers in different ways, driving Magnus to live a life of irresponsibility in order to escape the memories. Driving my father to shield himself from emotion. He wants never to care for another woman as he cared for his sister, and he is successful.” Eleanor tried to hide her pain as successfully as Remington hid his. “He doesn’t care for me at all.”

  Remington saw through her brave facade, for he looked on her with pity. But pity was the last thing she wanted from him. So she pushed him aside and rose from the bed, blatantly naked. Pretending a casualness she didn’t feel, she walked to her dressing gown. Back turned to him, she inserted her arms in the sleeves. “That’s why you wanted Madeline. You wanted to force the daughter of the duke of Magnus into your bed. You wanted control of her estates in vengeance for your father’s deportation.”

  “And for Lady Pricilla’s murder. Yes, you’re right. There’s more to my plan than the glory of having a de Lacy in my bed. Although the pleasure involved was acute.” He bowed, and from the expression on his face, she knew he had noted her nudity and appreciated it.

  She didn’t care, and humiliation lent her voice a flick of scorn. “Am I supposed to be honored by your condescension?” She knotted her tie with a savage yank. “Tell me the rest. Tell me everything. I don’t even understand how a gently bred young lady like my aunt Pricilla met the commoner George Marchant.”

  Absentmindedly, Remington petted the dog and watched Eleanor, and that sensual awareness was back in his eyes. “Easy enough. Forty-five years ago, your grandfather was on the verge of losing everything. His debts were gargantuan, his income from his estates not enough to cover the interest. George Marchant came to him and offered him a deal. He had an idea for supplying food for His Majesty’s Navy, but he didn’t know the right people who could ensure that he would receive the contract. George would give the old duke half of all the profits if the duke would use his influence in the court on George’s behalf. Magnus agreed, and within a year, he had earned enough off my father’s hard work to settle his debts. In less than five years, he owned a fortune, and best of all, no one knew he had anything to do with sordid commerce.” Sarcasm rang in Remington’s tone. “Your grandfather was consulted at every step, but my father did the disreputable business as a merchant, protecting your grandfather’s reputation as a worthless aristocrat.”

  Eleanor sat on a chair by the fireplace. The ashes within were cold; so was she. “You haven’t yet told me how Lady Pricilla met your father.”

  He walked toward her, stood above her, and watched her broodingly. “The men became good friends. My father was an educated man. Magnus was a scholar, and so George was often a visitor in Magnus’s homes. There he met Lady Pricilla. He sang her praises to me. Beautiful, kind, intelligent…” Lizzie leaped off the bed and trotted to Remington’s side, sniffed his polished boots, then gazed up at him in adoration.

  Stupid dog. To look at him as if the sun rose and set in him…Eleanor hoped she never looked at him that way.

  He continued, “I don’t know how much was infatuation and how much was true. But he loved her, and she loved him enough to fight her father for him. When the old duke insisted she marry Fanthorpe, she made an assignation with my father and waited for him in the garden. They were to run away that night, but when my father went to fetch her, he found her stabbed to death, blood all over her.” Remington’s voice had grown harsh, so harsh it seemed that the light dimmed. Shying away from him, Lizzie hurried to Eleanor and cowered at her feet. “He held her cooling body in his arms and howled his grief to the moon—and that’s how they found him.”

  Remington’s vivid description raised goose bumps on Eleanor’s arms. She could see the broken body, the grief-stricken lover, and imagine the horror of the onlookers when they found him covered with blood. Sliding off the chair, she knelt beside the dog, rubbed her fingers into the fur at Lizzie’s ruff and clutched it as if Lizzie, cheerfully oblivious Lizzie, could somehow make things better.

  “When the hired thugs burned down my home and my father�
��s business in Boston, my sister ran screaming from the house. They caught her and beat her to death.” Remington stared into space as if seeing things better forgotten. “Abbie was nine years old.”

  “Abbie…” Eleanor whispered. She could imagine a skinny little girl with pale blond hair, a sister who adored her big brother.

  No, the bond between Remington and Eleanor could never strengthen. There were no words to soothe his pain. He held her family accountable, and he would never forgive such grievous offenses.

  Remington took a long breath, then dragged his attention back to Eleanor. “When my father was deported, Magnus took over the business. Society didn’t notice, they were too agog with the murder and the trial. Magnus also received the estate my father had bought in a futile attempt to make himself acceptable. The de Lacys still own it. There the shambles of my father’s home still stands.”

  “Magnus holds no estate like that,” she said.

  “But he does. My father’s estate was adjoining Lacy Hall outside of Chiswick not far from London. Do you not remember—”

  “The old ruin against the hill.” A shiver ran up her arms, and she rubbed them. The estate at Chiswick was huge—two estates together, she now knew—the wrecked house reputed haunted. And perhaps it was.

  “Your grandfather had the building demolished even before my father was deported. They say he did so in a frenzy of grief.” Remington’s voice grew hoarse. “My father thought it was a frenzy of guilt. He was convinced your grandfather had killed Lady Pricilla.”

  She shook her head decisively. “That’s not possible. Grandfather mourned Lady Pricilla to the end of his days. His mind wandered those last few years, and he used to talk to me. Clasp my hand and call me Pricilla, and he said…he said it wasn’t George who did it. He said…it was so much worse. I didn’t know what he meant.”

  “So that leaves only one suspect. The duke of Magnus.”

  She laughed, brief and amused. “No.”

  “In the months before the tragedy, the current duke of Magnus had men sniffing around my father’s business. He wouldn’t rest until my father and all his family was destroyed.”

  “You’ve made a mistake.” She stood and faced him. “I know my uncle. I’ve lived in his house. I’ve been the companion to his daughter. He is ineffectual, genial, and scatterbrained. I don’t approve of him—I think the way he treats Madeline is shameful. But I like him. It’s almost impossible not to. He could no more concentrate long enough to deliberately carry out a plan such as you describe than he could fly to the moon. He hasn’t a drop of malice in him, but neither does he have a drop of familial responsibility. You’ve made a mistake,” she repeated. “I don’t know who killed my aunt, nor do I know who killed your father and sister, but I know who it wasn’t. It wasn’t the duke of Magnus.”

  Remington seemed to grow larger, and his voice grew menacing with fury. “The only mistake I have made, my darling, is marrying the wrong woman.”

  Her anger leaped to meet his. “I have the same blood flowing through my veins as Madeline, so if it is for my family that you wished to wed, then you should be very happy. But you wanted the duchess. You wanted the best.” Her heart thundered in her chest. She stepped closer and glared into his eyes. “And you got me. I’m not my family, to be blamed for whatever crimes or honored for whatever tributes came before.” She might as well say what she thought. What had she to lose? He already thought the worst of her. “This is the first time I’ve been on this earth, and I have as much right to grasp happiness as anyone else. I’m not Madeline. I’m not my grandfather. I’m not my aunt, who died for love of your father. I’m me. I won’t die for you. But I’ll live for you. So make your choice and let me know what you decide.”

  She would have stormed away, but he caught her arm. “A touching speech, but you forget. I’m not the kind of man who cries over spilt milk. I’m married to you now. I’ll find another way to revenge myself on your uncle. I’ll make sure you don’t interfere. And in the meantime, darling”—he slid his hand inside her robe and cupped her breast—“I’m going to enjoy myself with you. Over and over and over again.”

  He curved her over his arm in a kiss that bent her like a reed beneath a great wind. He fed her passion and fury in equal amounts, and she clutched his hair and answered him. The taste and scent of him were addictive, glorious, and her blood leaped to answer his call.

  Putting her back on her feet, he held her while she grew steady. “Now get dressed,” he commanded. “I’m taking you on a honeymoon.”

  That afternoon, before she left for the seashore with Remington, Eleanor sent a request to the housekeeper at Lacy Hall. She wanted Lady Pricilla’s diaries. She wanted to know whether her aunt had feared for her life, and if she had, whom she’d feared.

  Eleanor had to get to the bottom of this mystery before Remington took vengeance on the wrong person, ruining her life, and his—and leaving the murderer free to strike again.

  Chapter 27

  On their return the next week, Eleanor had barely discarded her bonnet and sorted through the stack of mail, looking for the package from Lacy Hall, when a knock sounded on the outer door. At the sound of a well-known voice, she rose and hurried into the foyer. A familiar face and form, much like her own, stood there.

  “Madeline!”

  “Eleanor!”

  The women rushed to each other’s arms and hugged, and tears sprang to Eleanor’s eyes at the comfortable scent and feel of her cousin. Drawing back at last, Eleanor asked, “Where have you been? I expected you that whole week before the wedding, and you never came!”

  “So you married Mr. Knight anyway?” Impatiently, Madeline shed her pelisse into Bridgeport’s hands. “Eleanor, have you lost your mind? I assure you, Dickie thinks you have.”

  “Bring tea, please, Bridgeport. We’ll have it in the library.” Hooking her arm through Madeline’s, Eleanor drew her into a more private place. “I wanted to marry Remington”—she lifted her chin—“so I did.”

  Madeline stared at her cousin, jaw dropped open. A slow smile spread over her face. “Well. Eleanor. Timid no more.”

  “There’s something about him that makes me…I don’t know…I’m not afraid when he’s around. I do what I want.” Eleanor looked around the library, where she had first seen Remington, and felt a rightness. “He makes me a stronger person.”

  “Impossible. You were already the strongest person I’d ever met.” They sat on the sofa, and Madeline surveyed Eleanor with a twinkle in her eyes.

  Eleanor wanted to laugh, except Madeline sounded serious. “I’m not strong. I’ve always been such a coward, not like you at all!”

  “No. Not like me at all, with all my privileges and the memory of my mother who loved me so dearly and my sweet nanny and my kind governess and my father—who I know you think is unpardonably neglectful—but in his way, he loves me.” Madeline discarded her gloves. “You grew up without any kind of support at all, without a father’s affection or even the memory of your mother’s love.”

  “I had a perfectly wonderful governess,” Eleanor reminded her.

  “Until you were ten and your father remarried and Lady Shapster sent her away! Lady Shapster is a menace, and you were a lion to defy her as you did! If I had had the difficulties you’ve had, I wouldn’t be bold, I’d be afraid of my own shadow.” Taking Eleanor’s hand, Madeline held it tightly. “No, dear cousin, I remember your serenity in the face of every crisis in our journeys, and I refuse to listen to you call yourself a coward. You’ve overcome obstacles that would have crushed most people. You’re the bravest woman I know, and I’m so proud of you.”

  Eleanor didn’t know what to say. She’d never thought of her life that way.

  Bridgeport entered with the tea tray while she mulled it over. Slipping into their old ways, Eleanor poured while Madeline selected biscuits and cakes for both of them.

  “Now.” Madeline looked around. “Is he here?”

  “Remington? No, after his ti
me away, he had business that required attention.” Eleanor nibbled on a lemon tart. “He is in commerce, you know.”

  “We won’t tell the snobs about that, will we? When you reenter society and sweep all before you with your beauty and your kindness, we want nothing to mar your triumph.” Madeline sipped her tea. “Since we’ve returned to Town, that is all we’ve heard. How sweet you are, and how much everyone likes you. They tell me that, then they eye me as if to say, why can’t you be more like your cousin?”

  Eleanor chuckled. “Madeline, you’re teasing me.”

  “Unfortunately, I’m not, and a lowering experience it has been. But never mind that.” Madeline flipped society’s opinion aside. “Confess all that has happened to you.”

  “No! You first. Where were you?” Eleanor sat back and looked Madeline over. She saw nothing wrong with her cousin. Madeline looked healthy, with rosy cheeks and a smile that wouldn’t go away. “You said you would come to London in only a few days. Were you injured?”

  “My husband was shot.”

  Eleanor froze.

  “Oh, I forgot to tell you.” Madeline giggled, obviously delighted with Eleanor’s bug-eyed reaction. “Gabriel and I are married.”

  “Married? Married? Gabriel?” Eleanor could scarcely stammer. “The earl of Campion? Your former betrothed?”

  “Yes, the very same.”

  “He was at Rumbelow’s gambling party?”

  Madeline frowned. “But my father wasn’t.”

  Pleased to be able to speak with authority about something, Eleanor said, “About that, I can reassure you. He was here the day of my wedding. He heard about it—heard you were marrying Remington—and rushed to your aid.”

  “Well, bless the old noodle.” Madeline looked thoughtful. “I would have never thought he cared enough.”

  “I own, I was surprised. But never mind him. Relate every detail about Gabriel. He was shot? He’s fine, obviously, or you wouldn’t look so blooming.”

  “Rumbelow’s party was a scam, and Gabriel was almost killed protecting me.” Madeline’s eyes filled with tears, and Eleanor’s self-confident cousin trembled. “That’s why we couldn’t come when we got your letter. He was wounded, and even if I could have left him, the roads were flooded in that dreadful storm.”