“No one. Nothing happened.” Nora tried to extricate herself from the embrace. A wildness entered her eyes.
“On our way here that first day back, you became emotional and wild when we rode near the Duke of Aylesbury’s estate. Do you remember? We were right near some of the farmhouses that the tenants use. During your fever, you begged someone to stop hurting you. Your father heard you one night. You called him—”
“Stop it. Stop it.” Nora clawed free of Marianne’s hold. She jumped off the bed and strode around the chamber like a caged animal, holding her ears.
Marianne went to her. She forced the hands away so Nora could hear her. “What happened that day, Nora? You keep it deep inside yourself, but I think you remember very well.”
Nora broke her hands free and began hitting Marianne about the face and shoulders. Tears puddled in her eyes, then flowed down her cheeks. “I don’t want to. I don’t want—” She ran to her dressing table, crying so hard she moaned. She pulled over the looking glass. It crashed to the floor and shattered.
Marianne pulled her away from the shards, then embraced her firmly. “I am here, darling. I am here. But tell me now. I do not like to cause you distress, but it is time you told someone. You cannot live like this, with such a horror inside you.”
Nora screamed and moaned at the same time. Marianne got her to the bed, and sat with her in a tight embrace. And amidst the crying and screaming, a story came out in bits and pieces. A terrible story, of Nora coming upon Hemingford while she rode, and riding with him, flattered that he even noticed her. Of being lured to a cottage where he said he had to bring something to a tenant. Of being pulled off her horse by another man, and dragged inside, and held down while they and another hurt her and ripped her dress and chemise and hit her when she bit one of them. Of being left there alone afterward, and trying to get home in a downpour.
Her frenzy broke halfway through. After that she only cried, finishing the horrible memory between gulps of air.
Marianne held her all through it, and cried, too, as she imagined frail little Nora being so misused, and so frightened.
Afterward they just sat there while Nora calmed. Only then did Marianne speak. “Was it the brother who is now the duke? Was it that Hemingford son?”
Nora shook her head. “The other one. The shorter one. The eldest. They all watched each other do it. They kept saying things, laughing while he—like it was a horse race. Round the bend now, Hemingford. Nearing the finish line I think, Hemingford. It was a joke to them. They made fun of me when I pleaded for them to stop.” She covered her eyes with her hands. “I am so embarrassed. I feared someone would learn of it. What would anyone think? He was the duke then. The duke.” She buried her face in Marianne’s shoulder and cried again.
Marianne held her and soothed her. She stayed for hours even after the tears stopped. She prayed her insistence had helped Nora, not damaged her more. That would be too high a price to confirm her suspicion that her uncle had taken his revenge on the wrong brother.
She had one more thing to do. Then she could let Aylesbury live his life as his legacy required.
* * *
“You have been riding a lot recently.” Lance poured more wine into Marianne’s glass and his own.
“I enjoy the cold air. It is good for one’s complexion.” She looked toward a third glass on the table. “Your brother must agree, to leave right at the end of dinner for a ride at night when it is frigid.”
Ives had arrived today, at Lance’s request. His ride tonight was not an idle one. “He came down in the carriage. That always leaves him yearning for some exercise.”
“I see.”
She appeared lovely tonight. In honor of Ives’s company, she had donned one of her duchess dresses, as she called them. Its pale green hue favored her. The candlelight brought out the more fiery tones in her copper hair.
He had enjoyed her company the last few days, when she graced him with it. Theirs had become a periodic friendship, shared at odd moments and meals. She amused him with stories from the village, and light banter. He always felt calmer, happier, afterward.
There had been nothing else, however. No passion. No pleasure. Half his mind was always on the time passing, and the need to have Peterson issue a verdict.
“I have something to tell you,” she said. “I was sworn to secrecy, I suppose. However, I have decided you need to know.”
He did not like the frown knitting her brow, or the way her humor became subdued. He could feel the way she marshaled her courage while she fingered one of the unused spoons in front of her.
“I am trusting you will not blame me, and not bring me your anger,” she added quietly.
Hell. That was another reason he had not visited her bed. She did not hold what had happened against him. Not the acts and not the ravishment, at least. How it had happened, and why, mattered, however. She had known what was in his head from the way he treated her.
He had no defense. No excuse. He wished he did. Even claiming drunkenness would be a help. Only he had been totally sober. Sober and burning and furious.
“I promise I will not.”
She let that statement sit there a moment.
“I need to explain why my uncle did all he did.” She said much more then, about her cousin and her illness, and how she had been violated on the day she was found out in a storm. “While she was ill, she named the man he thought was her seducer. Hemingford. He told me it was you.”
“I swear it was not.”
“No, it was not. It was Percy. And it was not a seduction, but a violent act. He was not alone either. When you confided about him, I suspected at once. I made her tell me. She did not want to. She did not go into that lake because of you, but because the very idea of suffering that again with any man, in any marriage, revolted her.”
Her revelations made him numb. Sick.
“I wrote to my uncle yesterday. He knows the truth now. He was taking his revenge ever since your brother died. He encouraged the suspicions about you.” She lowered her gaze. Her face flushed. “Even I was part of it, of course. He wanted the relationship, so he could take advantage of you. But you already know that part.”
“Your cousin. Having told you, will she— Will it help her?”
“I have been visiting every day since. That is where I go when I ride. I think I see improvement. Perhaps speaking of it served like a purge.”
“If it would help her to name him publicly, she is to do it, Marianne. I will not ask you to protect his name. Not from something this criminal.”
She sniffed, and wiped her eyes. “Thank you for that. I do not think she or my uncle have it in them to be so bold, however, no matter what your reassurances.”
Boot steps sounded, coming toward the dining room. Ives appeared in the doorway. He caught Lance’s eye, then walked away.
Marianne noticed. “I will retire, so the two of you can talk in privacy.”
He stood and offered his hand. “Stay. Please do. We are in this together, and you have a right to hear everything.”
She took his hand.
* * *
“At this hour, there is only one way in, through the kitchen.” Ives gave his report in the library. He sat in a deep armchair, with muddy boots propped on a footstool. Marianne and Lance sat together on a sofa. “I tried every door.”
“I expect the kitchen is busy still,” she said. Ives had come down from London to investigate access to the house in the evening and night. He had indeed gone riding, but circled back to approach the house like a criminal might.
“Very busy, as it has been since at least three o’clock, according to the butler,” Lance said. “So it had to be someone here. If it was anyone at all.”
They kept adding that last part, she noticed. They both hoped to discover that Percy died of natural causes. She had given up on that possibility after hearing Nora’
s tale.
A man does not do such a thing one time. There were fathers abroad in this county, perhaps in nearby ones, who might know about the last duke. The victims themselves might seek revenge. Poison was an easy weapon that required no strength, only stealth.
God forgive her, but she clung with relief to the knowledge that Nora had not even been in this county the night the last duke died.
“I said there was only one way in, other than past the footman at the front door,” Ives repeated. “I did not say I think coming in was impossible. The activity in the kitchen does not encourage vigilance on that entry. Servants come and go. Provisions are dropped off by tradesmen’s workers. Someone might slip in. Once inside, there are places to lurk until the way is clear to the stairs.”
“Did you try to enter that way?” Lance asked.
“I did. I was noticed at once.”
“You are not a tradesman’s worker, or a servant,” Marianne said. “You are known here and, if I may say so, are a prominent presence in any chamber. Of course they would notice you. But a man in rustic clothing, or servant’s garb, perhaps not.”
“Unfortunately, even if we accept it was possible, we are no closer to learning who it was.”
“Nor do we need to,” she said to Lance. “I understand the desire to learn the truth. However, all you really need is to ensure no one officially points a finger at you.”
“That is what we assumed for the last nine months,” Ives said. “Yet, here we are, with your uncle dangling the possibility of revealing a witness who will provide enough evidence for that finger to point.”
“I do not think he will do that now. Not after what I told you in the dining room, Aylesbury.”
Ives looked at Lance, quizzically. “Has the plot thickened, and I do not know it?”
“She is probably correct. Radley is unlikely to produce that witness.”
“Yet that witness may produce himself. Dare we leave that to chance, and not have an answer ready that proves him false?”
“You can see the conundrum, Marianne.”
She could see it. However . . . “I betray my uncle in saying this. I have thought long on it. I am not convinced he has a witness who saw anything.”
Silence.
“Again, do we chance that?” Ives said. “And would he wield such an empty threat? He risked much if he did.”
“I did not think his threat is empty,” Lance said. “He spoke with overweening confidence that day. He had me well cornered and he knew it.”
“I am not saying there is no witness,” Marianne said. “I am saying whoever it is may not have really seen anything. Let us acknowledge that my uncle’s character is not the best. Also that he had reasons to corner you, he thought. Might he not have found someone to bear false witness, if necessary?”
“He might,” Lance said. “I would not like to wonder forever, however, whether that is the case, and whether this person will do it even without your uncle’s encouragement.”
“I do not think he will,” she said.
“You are more optimistic about human nature than I am,” Ives said. “I regret to say that I have seen it done, out of spite or anger, with devastating consequences.”
“I do not think he will,” she repeated, “because I do not think it was his idea. I think my uncle coerced him into the role.” Much as he coerced me. “I think I know who it might be.”
She could tell Ives wanted to argue. Aylesbury held out a hand, stopping him. “If she thinks she knows, there is a good chance she does. Whom do you have in mind, Marianne?”
“If I am wrong, it is easy enough to find out. If I am right, you must promise not to hold it against him.”
He nodded. “Who?”
“Jeremiah Stone.”
* * *
Ives retired first, after they laid plans. Soon after Marianne and Lance went up. They mounted the stairs together.
“You have a good memory,” he said. “I had all but forgotten how your uncle let Stone off when Langreth laid down information about catching him that day.”
“Is such generosity common to my uncle in his role as magistrate?”
“Hardly. Even without my testimony, or my steward’s, normally Mr. Stone would have been convicted.”
“That is why I thought it might be him. You cannot coerce a man unless you have some threat to his well-being. Or something he wants. You know that better than most.”
“As a poacher, he would have a plausible explanation for how he was on the property, and even near the house. Would he have admitted to trespassing in the house, however?”
“It is a far less serious crime than poaching. And my uncle would preside on the petty session where he would be brought, if anyone bothered to do so.”
They reached the level with her apartment. She looked down the passageway. “You should take possession of the duke’s chambers. Have the servants clear them all out. Bring in workers to change the paint and paper, and buy a new bed. You have never really accepted the title, it seems to me. One would think you did not want it.”
“Perhaps I did not. Events since then have hardly made me warm to it either. However, if you change that apartment as you suggest, if you bring in those workers, I will consider claiming it as my own.”
He gave her a brief kiss on the cheek, then walked away. She stayed at her door, watching him.
Thirty feet away, he stopped, then turned. He must have noticed the lack of sounds from the door. “Is something wrong?”
“You know there is.”
“I am sorry, Marianne. My thoughts are never at peace now. You have asked that I not bring my anger to you, and I cannot promise that right now.”
“I have decided that I would rather have half of your mind, and all of your anger, to nothing at all, Aylesbury. I understand if what you have learned about my uncle’s scheming has made you not want me, however.”
“Not want you?” He came back toward her. “Is that what you think?”
“Under the circumstances, it is understandable. I was part of a trick. One built on misunderstanding and bad motives.”
He cupped the side of her face with his hand. “You did not know what he was doing.”
“I knew there had to be a why. I should have found out what it was.”
His thumb slowly meandered down her cheek, until it reached her lips. He stroked them so they tingled. “Rather suddenly, I am not compelled to explain your innocence in your uncle’s scheme. I am more interested in the decision you just shared with me. Did you mean it? Are you sure?”
She nodded, although she was not really sure. Her heart trembled, reminding her of the cost now, and in the future. She wanted to know the best that pleasure could be, however, even if he did not join her in intimacy’s full potential.
He took her face in both his hands and kissed her. She still felt the absence of part of him, and the churn of his thoughts. She wanted to soothe that, if she could. Even if he only knew a moment’s peace, she would be happy for it.
She reached behind and pushed down the latch on her door. In a slow dance of steps they crossed into her sitting room, and on to the bed.
He tried very hard to bring none of the anger to that bed, and all of himself. She felt the effort his spirit made. He handled her with great care, slowly giving her pleasure and not allowing her to do more than receive it.
She allowed him to do as he wanted, although she yearned to instead care for him. She wanted to soothe and distract him from his hard thoughts and dark mood. She tried to absorb all of that into herself, through the way she held him and by the way she opened her heart to whatever he was willing to share.
It was not at all like the last time. Even at the end, the kisses and caresses mattered more than the release. To her, at least. Perhaps to him too.
Did she imagine that the last kiss he gave
her before falling asleep was one of gratitude? She held him all night, while asleep and when awake. She kept him close, so he would know she was there, and so her heart could indulge its love as long as possible.
CHAPTER 22
The scarlet coat grew larger, until its rider came into view.
“I told you to tell him he did not have to come,” Lance said.
“So I explained in my letter. It appears he came anyway,” Ives said.
They stood in the portico of Merrywood, dressed for riding, while they awaited their mounts. Gareth galloped up the drive, then pulled in his horse. He paced the steed forward, smiling.
“Are those pistols I see there? Only two, Lance?”
“I trust they will be enough, if any are needed at all. The goal is a conversation.”
“It is a good thing I came, then. Should you require one shot to encourage a chat, I will hit his hat while you might blow off his head.”
“At least I will not shoot his ass, like Ives here.”
Ives sniffed dismissively. “Pistols are cowardly weapons. I prefer swords, and could slice off a lock of his hair if required.”
“We would have to get damned close for that. Do you expect him to just stand there while we walk up and you give him a haircut?” Gareth asked, dismounting.
“No, he will hurl a law book at him, and bring him to his knees from a distance,” Lance said. “What are you doing here, Gareth? Shouldn’t you be with your wife, awaiting the glorious event?”
“It is months away yet, Lance. She does not require my constant attendance. Don’t let your wife know I told you that, in case she has other ideas when you are in my shoes.”
Lance had no idea what attendance such events required, or when. While having an heir was the whole point of marrying, he had not even considered that eventuality. Until the last few nights. Rather suddenly it had struck him that with all the etcetera going on between them, he and Marianne might have a child soon.
He would like to say that the idea left him happy. Instead it terrorized him. Even good men sometimes made a shamble of being fathers. And, as he kept explaining to Marianne, he was not even good.
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