by Nichole Van
Jane crossed to the open door, gripping the frame, skirts flowing around her.
It was exactly as she feared.
Andrew stood over Peter’s private desk, riffling through papers. A candelabra on the desk outlined him in golden light, brows drawn down, expression grim. The candles sputtered and flickered, acknowledging Jane’s arrival.
Andrew didn’t even raise his head to look at her. A quirk of his eyebrows being the only tell that he even knew she was there.
“You cannot invade Peter’s privacy like this,” she hissed, advancing on him.
“I can and I will,” was his reply, continuing to flip through a set of papers.
“Let Peter explain himself. You are invading his inner sanctum here. You’re a better man than this, Andrew.”
“Nae, I’m a rag-mannered idiot.” His tone dripped sarcasm. He pulled out a sheet of foolscap, and then another, setting them aside. “We do things like this all the time, ye ken.”
Jane ground her teeth. “Stop trying to pick a fight with me.”
“Is it working?”
She shook her head. “Don’t do this, Andrew. Talk to Peter.”
He paused, fixing her with his blue eyes, cold and steely. “People I loved died, Jane. I nearly died. I will have justice for them. I will have justice for Jamie. I will have justice for myself.”
“And is this how you achieve justice?! Ransacking a young man’s rooms?”
“Justice comes in many forms, Jane. Peter knows a wee bit more than he’s let on. Enough tae inform Montacute.”
“So Peter knew about the old earl’s ties to you.” Jane threw her hands in the air. “That doesn’t follow that he is guilty of attempted murder! You don’t know who set events in motion with Madsen.”
“You’re right.” His head snapped upright, eyes boring into her. “I don’t ken what happened with Madsen. That’s why I’m here—tae see for my own eyes what Peter may have done.”
“This is absurd! Peter would have been, what? All of seventeen when you set out on your journey? He was practically a child—”
“Seventeen is old enough tae be a man, Jane. Soldiers kill and die at seventeen. Men marry and become fathers at seventeen. I need tae know the truth before Peter or anyone else has a chance tae destroy it.” He waved a hand over the documents.
“This is madness, Andrew. Please. Talk to Peter. If you have any affection for me at all, please stop.”
That got his full attention. He snatched the handful of the papers he had set aside off the desk and stomped over to her. His shoulders blocked the light, painting him in backlit shapes of black and white.
Jane stood firm. Though given the heat in his eyes, she may have been wise to beat a retreat.
“If I have any affection for you?” His nostrils flared. “Ye would tie this tae my love for ye?”
Love?
Oh!
They hadn’t spoken of love out loud until now.
Did he love her, then? Truly?
Andrew continued, seemingly heedless of what he had said. “If ye had any affection for me, Jane, ye would want tae know the truth. Ye would stand with me in avenging Jamie and all those lives lost. Ye would not ask me tae step aside—”
“I am not asking you to step aside but to give Peter a chance to explain this himself. Will you condemn my brother without proof? Is that your idea of justice—”
“Nae. I’m no’ that person—”
“—judge and jury before finding evidence—”
“What is going on here?!” A voice came from behind them.
Jane and Andrew whirled.
Peter stood in the door, hand leaning against the frame. His hair askew, eyes bleary from drink. He swayed on his feet.
“Peter!” Jane stepped closer, holding out a staying hand to her brother, tears setting in earnest.
Peter scanned the room, the papers strewn across his desk. Candlelight flickered, illuminating the bookshelves along one wall and a small cabinet next to the desk.
“How dare you invade my personal study?!” he spluttered, eyes staring at the cabinet.
Peter moved to push past Jane angling his body forward, but she stopped him with a hand to his chest.
She couldn’t bear to see Andrew and Peter at odds. They were two halves of her soul.
How had events come to this?
Andrew stared at Peter before shaking his head and turning back to the desk and the correspondence there. He moved a few more pieces of paper before rotating around with a sigh.
“This will be easier if ye cooperate, Peter.” Andrew tapped the papers on the desk. “What did ye know about the old earl’s investments with me and my trip tae the South Pacific?”
Peter stood taller, his jaw tensing, face pale. “I know nothing.”
Jane’s stomach sank.
Her brother clearly knew something. Why not admit it? Why was he hedging?
Worse, why was he wearing his mulish expression, the one he adopted when he wished to be his most intransigent?
Peter took a side-step, as if he were going to inch along the wall.
“Peter, just tell Andrew what you know,” Jane said, shooting him a beseeching look.
“I know nothing!”
“Och, ye knew enough tae tell Montacute about it—
“Andrew, please.” Jane turned to him. “Peter would have been too young to do anything, a mere youth, as I keep saying. This is absurd.”
“Is it? Is it, Jane? I was making business investments at his age.” Andrew’s voice rose. “As I said, good men died. People I loved and fought for. I almost died myself. We. Deserve. Justice.”
“I don’t understand what you’re referring to,” Peter growled. He inched forward again, his eyes dropping to the cabinet against the wall. Without thinking, Jane’s eyes followed the movement.
Andrew’s gaze followed suit. But he was quicker than Jane to pick up on it.
“Why do you appear concerned about that cabinet?” Andrew asked, waving a hand toward the small chest standing thigh-high next to the desk. It was a mahogany chest of drawers inlaid with flowers. Jane knew Peter kept the two narrow drawers at the top continually locked.
Peter glanced at the cabinet.
“I am not concerned about the cabinet,” her brother said.
Jane nearly closed her eyes.
Peter was definitely concerned about the cabinet.
Andrew was no slow-top.
“Prove it,” Andrew replied. “Open it.”
Peter bristled, voice rising as he talked. “I do not have to answer to you. These are my private quarters and my private papers and my private things—”
“My house!” Andrew jabbed a finger toward his own chest. “My life that was threatened. My people and friends who died. My right tae seek justice—”
“I have done nothing!”
“Then prove it, Peter. If there is nothing tae hide, then open the cabinet and show me its contents.”
“Hadley, this is ridiculous—”
“Open the bloody cabinet, Peter. Or so help me, I’ll smash it tae bits. I’m happy tae play the barbarian you English ken that I am.”
Growling, Peter stomped away from the cabinet, running his hands through his hair.
He did not, however, open it.
Shaking his head, Andrew snagged a letter opener from the desktop. A sharp jab into the keyhole destroyed the locking mechanism.
Peter began pacing as Andrew worked.
“I am appalled that you are destroying my privacy like this, Hadley,” Peter raged from across the room. “How can you let him do this, Jane? Have you no care for me now?”
Jane wanted to wring her hands from the tension. How could things have come to this? Trapped between her love for her brother and her love for the man she hoped to marry?
Andrew pulled out the top drawer. It was littered with tailor’s bills and other odds and ends.
The second drawer consisted entirely of letters.
Peter snarle
d, continuing to pace.
Andrew pulled them out, letter after letter, flipping one open after the other, scanning them in the candlelight.
“Well? Have you found anything?” Jane asked at last. “The least you can do is find proof of some wrongdoing after putting on this ghastly charade.”
Andrew’s face turned weary. He blinked and took a step back.
“Aye.” He looked down at the papers in his hand. “Aye. I’ve found enough.”
Jane snatched the top one from his grasp. Words leaped out at her.
. . . you have suggested a brilliant plan . . .
. . . Mackenzie needs to be brought down a peg or two . . .
She swallowed.
Oh, Peter! What have you done?!
She held out her palm for another letter. Andrew handed it to her, his expression wordlessly communicating his anger and agitation.
. . . found the right captain for this venture . . .
. . . Cuthie says he will ensure the deed is done with exquisite discretion . . .
. . . no one will ever suspect us . . .
. . . yours to command, T. Madsen . . .
She pressed a trembling hand to her brow.
No! Her heart screamed. No, this can’t be! Not Peter. Not this.
But these were clearly letters from Madsen, addressed to Peter, discussing their plans to arrange for Andrew’s death.
What was she to do? Panic and anger and terror converged in her throat, clogging her breathing and blurring her eyes.
She simply couldn’t assimilate it all. Her mind struggled to rearrange her life to accommodate the horror.
The guilt.
The grief.
Peter was all she had.
If Andrew brought charges against him, Peter could be hanged for attempted murder of a Peer of the Realm.
What was she ever to do?
She looked back and forth between the men. Peter’s sullen countenance. Andrew’s angry, troubled gaze.
“T-there has to be s-some other explanation,” she began, teeth chattering. “Peter had to have been t-too young to arrange this—”
“Not too young, Jane. Foolish, definitely, but not too young.” Andrew shot his heir a tight glance before taking the papers from her lifeless fingers, adding them back to the stack. “Peter arranged for my murder. He hired Captain Cuthie. He authorized the illegal kidnapping of those innocent villagers.”
“Murder? Villagers?!” Peter reared back in alarm.
Jane and Andrew ignored him.
“Peter is a good m-man!” she nearly shouted, swiping at an errant tear that escaped to tumble down her cheek. “He wouldn’t order a sea c-captain to enslave innocent p-people!”
“Enslave people?” Peter was appearing more and more alarmed with every passing moment. “What on earth—”
“These documents would say otherwise.” Andrew shook the stack of papers at her.
“I know my brother, Andrew! There must be some m-mistake—”
“There is no mistake, Jane.”
She bit her lip. “But—”
“There is no but here, Jane! Cannae ye see? Yer brother saw an opportunity and he took it.”
“But why—”
“Why? Why?! The answer is glaringly obvious! We asked, who benefits from ma death? The answer is simple—Peter does.” Andrew jabbed a finger in Peter’s direction. “He was the next in line. If I had died before the old earl, Peter would have inherited everything—the title, the lands, everything!”
“This is absurd,” Peter spluttered. “I never enslaved anyone! I’m sure there is some logical explanation—”
Andrew whirled toward him. “Explanation? For this?” He spread his hands wide, encompassing the disheveled room, brandishing the papers still in his hand. “What excuse can ye give, Peter? What justification merits condemning innocent people tae death? What about the blood staining yer own hands?!”
“Death? People?” Peter flinched. “I don’t know to what you refer.”
“Hah!” Andrew threw the words at him. He shook the letters. “I’m holding proof right here that ye knew enough. Did ye think tae remove me as the heir and set yourself up as the Earl of Hadley?”
Peter’s eyes followed the papers, seeming to gauge if he could rip them from Andrew’s hands. “I know nothing about villagers or slavery. I ask you again, Hadley, to leave my private chamber at once—”
“Your private chamber?! Yours?! I’m the bloody earl here, Peter, not ye—”
“Really, this is a most unbecoming scene,” a new voice cut through the room.
Jane turned, eyes closing.
Of course, Montacute would follow them here. Granted, their shouting had likely carried all the way to the drawing room.
Both her brothers were here now. Both scapegraces for one reason or another.
“This is none of your affair, Montacute,” Andrew barked, all pretense of politeness gone. He finished gathering all the letters together, tucking them under his arm.
“You are closeted with my sister in a private bedchamber, yelling at your heir like a shrieking fishwife,” Montacute tsked. “This is what comes when a peer allows his bloodline to become so contaminated.”
Deadly silence greeted that particular speech.
Andrew and Peter’s loud breathing punctuated the stillness. Jane swiped another tear away.
A vein bulged in Andrew’s temple, his blue eyes nothing more than icy chips. Montacute met his gaze with the typical ennui arrogance of a powerful lord.
“May I remind you, Montacute, that this is my house.” The deathly quiet of Andrew’s voice only heightened the menace of it. “My room.” He spread his arm wide. “My heir.” He pointed at Peter. “And, the most salient point, none of Your. Damn. Business.”
Montacute reared back, eyes flaring. Jane was quite sure no one had ever dared speak to him in such a manner.
“How dare you—”
“How dare I?”
“I’ll see you ruined for this!”
Andrew snorted. “I have larger issues than the prickly pride of a spoiled duke. Please leave, the lot of ye.”
“Hadley, this farce has dragged on long enough,” Peter walked forward, eyes on the papers Andrew had tucked under his arm.
Andrew’s returning look would have peeled paint. “You are trying my patience, Peter. I suggest ye leave before I do something rash.”
The tension in Andrew’s jaw and vibrating tautness of his shoulders must have communicated the seriousness of his intents.
With a low growl, Peter turned on his heel and pushed past Montacute, storming out the door.
“Peter!” Jane turned to rush after him.
A firm hand on her upper arm stopped her.
Jane looked up into Montacute’s furious face.
“You will stay, Jane,” he commanded. “I will not have you running about like a common shrew.”
Hah! If she had to choose between her brothers . . .
“Go to hell,” she spat, and yanking her arm from Montacute’s grasp, ran after Peter.
28
Jane raced down the main staircase, intent on confronting Peter.
She barely held back the sobs wrenching her chest.
Oh, Peter! What did you do?
Oh, Andrew! How can our love survive this?
She was impossibly trapped, stuck between two immovable forces. How was there ever to be a peaceable resolution?
She found Peter standing in the Italian parterre garden, hands clasped behind his back, chest heaving. The moon peeked out from the clouds, casting the garden into dim shadows. Only Peter’s blond hair gleamed, quicksilver bright.
“Peter?” Just the sound of her voice made him flinch. He turned around.
“You don’t believe those lies, do you?” The moonlight rimmed his head. “I had nothing to do with villagers or slavery. What was Hadley even referring to?”
Jane stilled.
She needed answers. She needed to understand.
/> “To be honest, I don’t know what to think, Peter.” She ordered her racing heart to slow down, to tread carefully. “Why don’t you tell me what those letters meant?”
Peter scrubbed a hand through his hair, shaking his head, a loose laugh escaping.
“You don’t believe me,” his bitter words clanked between them.
“Tell me. I want to believe you. I want to believe in you.”
Silence.
Peter rocked back on his heels, eyes staring sightlessly into the reflecting pond at the center of the garden. Jane walked to his side, slipping a hand into his.
He swallowed, the noise loud in the quiet night. “What does Hadley accuse me of?”
Jane nearly sighed. This had always been Peter’s tactic when he was in trouble.
What do you think I’ve done wrong?
The question gave him time to sort through an appropriate excuse while the accuser outlined his supposed crimes.
Oh, Peter. How could you?
Who knew that one’s heart could literally break in two?
She stepped back, releasing his hand and turning toward him.
Jane was no coward. She would face this head-on, as she did everything in life.
And so she told him. “Hadley had a business partner, Thomas Madsen, who betrayed him.” She outlined everything she knew—the promise of cargo on their voyage, the enslaved villagers, Andrew beaten and left for dead, the horror of scores of lives lost in the sunken ship, particularly Jamie Fyffe.
Peter’s expression grew stonier and stonier the longer she spoke, until Jane had no doubt left.
Peter was guilty.
Suddenly, all of Peter’s actions over the past months came into sharp focus. No wonder he had been so angry. No wonder he abused and resisted Andrew so thoroughly at the beginning. What Jane had thought of as resentment had likely been the product of a guilty conscience.
“Why Peter?” she whispered, licking a tear off her lip. “Why did you do it?”
He shrugged. “Are you really interested in hearing a defense?”
“Yes!”
He shook his head and kicked at the ground. The motion at once so familiar and so heartbreakingly sad Jane was not sure she could bear it.
“My father wasn’t particularly demonstrative, as you well know. He generally avoided us both.”
“That he did.” Jane nodded. This topic was a well-worn path between Peter and herself. “But what does the old earl’s lack of affection have to do with Andrew?”