by Allison Lane
“Die. Leaving you with more blood on your hands.”
“You underestimate his strength. He would cut me off without a shilling. The inheritance I received from my grandmother would support us in a cottage, but no more. And that is not all. He has the connections to force a bill through Parliament removing me from the succession. The only reason he hasn’t already done so is because I begged him to disown me. I would rather join Wellington than take over his honors.”
“You lie. He has too much pride in family to ever do such a thing.” But her voice revealed uncertainty.
“Exactly. So much pride that he would do anything to prevent the marquessate from falling into the hands of a Cain. But just so we understand each other, if you do anything to damage my reputation, I will terminate this accursed betrothal in an instant. The only reason I agreed was to spare my father distress. Once that is no longer necessary, I care nothing for my own credit.”
“Very well, my lord.” Fay’s fury was barely controlled. “Your mistress stays – for now. But you will rue this day.”
He watched as Fay swept down the steps and disappeared. Not until her horse cantered across the valley did he relax. Then a wave of desolation left him shaking. He should have followed Randolph over that cliff when he’d had the chance. There had been a moment when the urge to jump had nearly overwhelmed him. But cowardice had frozen him in place, accepting even dishonor in lieu of taking his own life.
And cowardice was still directing his actions. Fay was right. He already rued the exchange. He should have let her expose him, but he didn’t want Emily to know he was a murderer. Perhaps he deserved Fay after all.
It was all he could do to walk back to the house.
* * * *
The moment Cherlynn identified the speakers, she slipped between the shrubbery and the rear wall of the folly where she could hear without being seen. Within moments she realized that Fay was Emily’s deadly enemy. But even that knowledge receded under the weight of Fay’s other revelations. Drew had killed his brother. And despite his claims, he was terrified that Broadbanks would die if he learned the truth. Had Fay also heard that note of panic in his voice?
That explained his betrothal. He had fully intended to wed Emily, but when he came home to discuss the match with his father, something had happened that left Randolph dead. Fay knew what it was and had used that knowledge to blackmail him into marriage. Emily’s expectations were clear. The girl had not only lost the man she loved to Fay’s manipulation, the man himself had lived every day of his life in fear of exposure.
She shifted when Fay left, catching a brief glimpse of her. Even livid with fury, Fay was beautiful. Blonde hair clustered in natural ringlets. The slender body emitted an aura of fragility that would raise protective urges in most gentlemen. But that was as false as her protestations of love. She untied a massive gelding and leaped into the saddle. The athleticism needed to control her fractious mount belied any hint of weakness, just as grasping greed belied her pretended jealousy.
Drew remained in the folly. Cherlynn considered slipping away, for he would probably stay until his temper was under control. But he suddenly strode out and headed for the house. Her one glimpse of his face made her recoil in shock. After Fay’s threats, she had expected fury or possibly resignation. Instead, his face was twisted in an agony so intense it took her breath away.
She gave him time to get well away, then slipped into the folly and sat on the curved bench that hugged the rear wall. What must Drew be suffering? Fay’s blackmail had forced him to jilt the woman he loved. No wonder he hadn’t spoken to her before the ball. Shame would have tied his tongue. And what could he have said? It was better that Emily believe him a cad than a criminal.
But this gave her a bevy of new questions. How had Randolph died? Drew must have been involved, but she could not believe that he had deliberately killed his brother. Such an action was out of character. He had often accosted her since she had left her room, their discussions revealing a sensitive, caring nature that complemented his intelligence. Drew was not a man who used violence to solve his problems. Nor was he a man who could kill a brother in cold blood. Even her own history of poor judgment couldn’t make her this wrong.
Appalled at her vehemence, she ran through her impressions again. Her feelings were growing too strong. His allure was obvious, for he was a man like none she had ever known – physically powerful, blatantly masculine, devastatingly sexy. Yet it was the contrasts that made him truly memorable. His gentleness, his concern, his aura of carrying a burden too heavy for even Atlas to bear. The desolate face in his portrait had mesmerized her. The reality was even more striking. But falling in love would be a grievous mistake. Emily loved him, and Emily would ultimately have him – by his own choice. Cherlynn wouldn’t even be around to wish them well.
She deliberately focused on business. This new information made her task even harder. She must save Drew from Fay without revealing his part in Randolph’s death. She must prevent Fay from spreading tales. And she must convince Drew that Emily would forgive that death, no matter what he had done. That last might be the toughest. He had alluded to his misdeeds shortly after Emily’s fall, claiming that she would hate him if she learned the truth – at least she thought that’s what he’d said; she’d been out of her mind with fever at the time.
Perhaps learning about Randolph would help. If his death was an accident, Fay would lose most of her bargaining power. If he had deserved death, Drew’s actions were excusable. Either way, he could break the betrothal with minimal social censure.
Who was her best source of information? Broadbanks had apparently idolized his second son, so he would hardly be reliable. Besides, she had no desire to hasten his death by agitating him. And Drew’s sacrifice had been in vain. His father had died just after the wedding. What a pity.
She scolded herself for extraneous thoughts.
At this point Drew was also a poor source. Once she discovered what kind of man Randolph had been, she could decide how to approach him.
That left Anne. The girl was eighteen, but horribly shy. It had taken several visits to the sickroom before she relaxed enough to exchange more than ritual greetings with Emily. Not until they had met in the morning room just yesterday had they become friends.
“Pardon me,” Cherlynn had said, turning to go when she realized that Anne was curled in the window seat with a sketch pad and pencil. “I did not mean to intrude.”
“You needn’t leave,” she protested. “I am relieved that you are feeling better. Has your headache gone?”
“Long since. My real problem was that first doctor, who nearly bled me to death.” She paused, deliberately taking a deep breath and vowing to control her tongue. “You sketch?” she asked politely.
Anne flinched, but hesitantly held out the pad. “My governess does not consider it proper sketching,” she reported shyly.
Recalling Miss Anders, who had accompanied Anne on her calls, Cherlynn grimaced. The woman would probably condemn eating and sleeping if she thought Anne found the activities enjoyable.
She flipped pages, awe growing with each new picture. The pad was filled with detailed drawings of trees and flowers, showing the stages of development from young shoot to leafy plant and from flower to fruit. The trees included silhouettes of their characteristic shapes and intricate renderings of their bark patterns. “But these are marvelous! You must be a naturalist.”
“I only sketch to occupy my time,” Anne protested.
“Perhaps, yet these are the best I’ve seen,” said Cherlynn. “They should be published.”
“Oh, no.” Horror filled Anne’s eyes. “I could never! And I know little about the plants themselves. Pictures are never enough.”
Cherlynn reined in her enthusiasm. Regency! This is the Regency. Ladies would never stoop to trade, and a female who turned to commercial art would be considered fast. “It is your decision, of course. But don’t lose these.” She paused for a moment. “May I
ask a favor of you, Lady Anne?”
The girl nodded, though she was clearly surprised. The question must have broken another rule. Despite reading hundreds of books set in this era, she knew only the importance of proper behavior, not the details of what propriety entailed. No one published books that contained information proper ladies learned from birth, but which members of the lower classes did not need.
“My memory shows no signs of returning any time soon, and it is terribly frustrating not to know how to go on. Now that I am on my feet again, I will undoubtedly meet many people – you can’t always dine en famille – but the thought of committing a faux pas frankly terrifies me. Would you instruct me in etiquette? I would ask my brother, but he is too frustrated over my problem to make a comfortable teacher.”
“Of course.” Anne was clearly pleased to be consulted. “I cannot imagine suddenly forgetting everything one has been taught.” And without further ado, she had set in.
The afternoon had been the most enjoyable that Cherlynn had spent in years. Their budding friendship filled a void that she usually ignored. She had made no new friends since leaving Willard. Nor had she ever acquired the kind of lasting friends that others took for granted. School. College. Work. Marriage. People had moved through her life who seemed to like her when they were together, but who quickly forgot her when she moved on. Once she returned home, she must work on finding some real friends. Loneliness took too great a toll on her emotional resources.
Anne was again in the morning room. It seemed to be her favorite place. The girl craved solitude almost as much as Cherlynn did herself.
“Your father mentioned Randolph when we were walking in the garden, but he seemed so saddened that I hesitated to ask for details. How did he die?”
Anne jumped, but controlled herself immediately. “He fell from the cliffs just outside the estate boundaries.” She sighed. “It seemed too fantastic. I had just finished reading Julius Caesar – ‘Beware the Ides of March’ – and then Randolph died on that day.”
“How tragic,” Cherlynn murmured, but her skin crawled and her mind was whirling. The cliffs. Nine members of the family would die there, all on March 15. What did Randolph have to do with the curse? It had not yet been uttered. Fay was Marchioness of Broadbanks when she triggered it. Or so the story went. But it couldn’t be that far wrong. Mabel Hardesty was a direct descendant of an eyewitness.
“Yes. Papa had his worst spell just afterward. He hasn’t been the same since.”
“From the shock, I suppose.”
Anne nodded. “Randolph was always Papa’s favorite. It was never a secret, not that Randolph deserved such favor,” she added under her breath.
But the words carried. And this was exactly the information Cherlynn needed. “Why?” she asked softly.
“I—” She stopped in confusion. “Please forget I said that.”
“Of course I will, but I suspect you need to talk. I know one is not supposed to speak ill of the dead, but I am more concerned with the living. If you keep irritation locked in your heart, it will make you bitter. Whatever you say will go no further.”
Anne appeared undecided, but she soon sighed and turned to stare out the window. “Randolph had a mean streak,” she confessed. “He lashed out at anyone who annoyed him – not in anger but in revenge. He delighted in hurting people. And terrorizing them. When I was five, he shut me in the priest’s hole, knowing that I was afraid of the dark and that the release was too high for me to reach. He didn’t free me for three hours, and I doubt he would have done so then if Papa had not been showing visitors through the Elizabethan wing where they would have heard my cries.”
“How awful! Why didn’t you tell someone?”
“Who would believe a child? Randolph had the sort of charm that could sell sin to heaven. Besides, he would have done worse if I had even hinted at his actions. I learned to stay out of his way when he was home from school. And to ignore anything I saw.”
“That is an unconscionable burden to place on a child,” Cherlynn said softly, then remembered that she was supposedly the same age as Anne, with no experience of the world.
But Anne saw nothing wrong with her statement. “It is over. I wish I could mourn his death, but I can’t. It saved untold multitudes from his fury, and it saved Papa from having to admit that Randolph had sold his soul to the devil.”
“It must have been difficult for Lord Thurston to return home to a death.”
“Drew arrived the night before Randolph’s body was found, though Randolph must have been dead by then. He was last seen in the Blue Parrot’s taproom. If he indulged to his usual extent, it is no wonder he fell from the cliffs. Many is the night I heard him return home in his cups. Again Papa did not know because he always retired early. The servants learned long ago never to say anything against Randolph if they valued their jobs.”
Poor Anne. Cherlynn extracted a sampling of Randolph’s deeds. The man was a sadistic monster who had terrorized the girl, belittling her interests, destroying her enjoyment of any gathering, and harming any people or things she liked. No wonder she was painfully shy and had no confidence in herself or her abilities. Having a dragonish governess who forbade everything fun had finished the job. And Randolph had used even her shyness against her, convincing Broadbanks that Anne was too delicate to attend school. Thus she had no close friends.
“What about your other brother?”
“William? He had been in Portugal barely a month when he fell. And not even in a pitched battle. It was some nameless roadside skirmish in which he was the only English casualty.”
“But he is just as dead,” Cherlynn said with a sigh. “So Lord Thurston is all you have left.”
Anne nodded. “But he is so morose these days. I don’t know if it is Randolph’s death or if something happened earlier. Except for William’s funeral, I’ve not seen him in years.” She glanced hopefully at Cherlynn.
“I cannot help you there, at least until my memory returns. You say he is not usually so glum?”
“He has always been full of life – which is one reason he and Papa never got along. Papa demands proper decorum, which he interprets as solemnity and complete control of one’s emotions. Drew loves to laugh – or he did – an attitude more suited to the lower classes. And they argued often about the estate – planting, investments, and other things I don’t understand. Drew finally got tired of it all and moved to Thurston Park.”
A knock on the door cut off any reply. Drew stuck his head into the morning room, his eyes lighting at the sight of Emily.
“I was going to ask Anne to ride with me. Are you up to joining us?” he asked.
She stifled her panic. She had been on a horse only once in her life – astride, using a western saddle atop a lethargic trail horse who did nothing but plod in the wake of his peers. “Do I ride?” she asked hesitantly, hoping the answer was no, though he wouldn’t have asked in that case.
Drew’s expression softened. “You ride quite well, but if you wish, we can test your memory with a refresher lesson before we go into the park.”
“Very well.”
“I will pass for now,” said Anne softly. “Perhaps another day.”
* * * *
The animal Drew chose for Emily’s first ride was small, as horses went, but appeared enormous to Cherlynn. The sidesaddle included a leaping horn – the second horn that would supposedly keep her in her seat when jumping fences.
Drew noticed the direction of her eyes. “We won’t do any jumping today,” he assured her. “In fact, you’ve never been much for cross-country riding, but the extra horn will improve your security.”
“Thank you.” A comment found in most historical romances was the instability women endured on sidesaddles, so she wasn’t looking forward to this. All she could hope was that Emily’s muscles remembered what to do. Unfortunately, only a few primitive reptiles had helper brains in their extremities that might make that possible.
She had read many st
ories in which the heroine was tossed onto her horse – and had written that very line more than once – but she had never appreciated just what it meant.
“Easy,” murmured Drew as he grasped her waist with both hands. His touch burned clear to her toes. Lifting her effortlessly, he set her gently onto the saddle, twisting her so she faced forward. A glare had already sent the grooms back to their jobs so only he would witness her skill or lack thereof. It allowed her to relax.
“Keep your back straight and your hips square,” he suggested, adjusting the single stirrup. Her right leg curled around the horn, while her left rested loosely against the horse. She nearly asked why it did not fit against the leaping horn, but remembered reading that a lady only tightened her grip on the horns when actually jumping. The position was surprisingly comfortable.
“Are we ready?” he asked, swinging onto his own mount. The restive bay sidled under the sudden weight, but he controlled it easily. Her horse paid no attention. Lovely placid animal.
Riding was an exciting new experience. Drew kept her in the meadow behind the stables until he was satisfied that her lost memory had not impaired her abilities. She found that the sidesaddle was actually easier to sit than a cross-saddle. Or perhaps the horse was unusually smooth gaited. They did nothing strenuous in deference to her recent injuries. But an hour of riding through the park gave her a sense of freedom that she had hitherto lacked.
She might have known that Drew had an ulterior motive for his attention. “Did riding trigger any memories?” he asked as he helped her dismount near the Roman folly that overlooked the Channel. On clear days like today, one could glimpse France on the horizon.
“Nothing. It might have been my first time on a horse except that my muscles seemed to be familiar with the motion,” she admitted truthfully.
He sighed, but his eyes contained both disappointment and elation. She suddenly realized his problem. He loved Emily and wanted to spend as much time with her as possible – especially since Fay had made it clear that Emily would not be welcome in her home. But if Emily recalled their past, he would no longer be able to treat her as a friend. She might even turn on him. And so he was trapped between desire for her recovery and the need to keep his perfidy a secret.