by Allison Lane
What would returning home accomplish? Thomas had been deeply affected by Robert’s death. Would this change his perceptions of Crawley? Of Alicia? Of her? Reminders of mortality sometimes forced people to take stock of their own lives. She could only hope that such an analysis would benefit him.
She had surprised several indecipherable looks in his eyes over the preceding days. Was he finally seeing her as she was? Or was he cursing her existence? Without her, Alicia would be his, for Lady Darnley would accept marriage now. He held a viscount’s title with a promise of an earldom in the future. His financial position was secure, again with the promise of great wealth. And he still offered both good looks and passion. A lady of Alicia’s propensities would appreciate both.
Caroline shook her head. Such thinking served no purpose. Instead of considering failure, she should be planning how to further her own cause. She hoped she had made a start. He seemed to appreciate her efforts to spare his family in their time of grief. They would remain at Crawley throughout mourning. Even if he lived in the stables from dawn until dusk, there should be ample opportunity to spend time together. Perhaps they could rediscover their early camaraderie. She would make a concerted effort to earn his respect. And this time, she would have additional weapons at her disposal.
* * * *
As he started down the stairs for breakfast, Thomas spotted Caroline just ahead of him. Even though neither left the house these days, they rarely met. Irritation flared, for she seemed oblivious of his presence. He quickened his pace to catch up. But in his hurry, he overstrode the next step, throwing himself into a fall. He lunged for the railing, grasping it with one hand, but the other caught Caroline between the shoulder blades, pitching her forward. Still fighting to regain his own balance, he was unable to catch her.
She screamed.
* * * *
Caroline was lost in thought as she headed for breakfast. As much as she hoped and prayed for a rapprochement with Thomas, it seemed so impossible. Nightmares had tortured her sleep. Again and again she relived Alicia’s greeting when Thomas had appeared at her door. Nor did her imagination stop there, filling in the details of a passionate encounter of epic proportions. What hope was there for her own paltry dreams? Yet what options did she have? A wife was but a piece of property, wholly at the command of her husband. She was obligated to live where and how he ordained, suffer whatever treatment he meted out, and perform whatever services he demanded. She owned no property, could instigate no divorce proceedings, commanded few legal rights.
Someone touched the center of her back and pushed. Hard.
Screaming, she pitched forward, gripping as tightly as possible with the hand that had trailed down the railing, flailing wildly with the other. One foot slid off the edge of a step, but she managed to regain her balance without falling. Heart pounding she turned to see who wished her ill.
Shock froze her soul. Thomas stood calmly, three steps above her, his face completely blank. But his eyes blazed with guilt. And with something else she refused to name. Hatred, whispered the voice.
So it was true. Obsession had won, even over honor. Only freedom would satisfy him now. Stifling a sob, she fled to the breakfast room.
* * * *
Thomas had barely gained his balance when Caroline caught herself. Guilt over his carelessness paralyzed him, but when she turned her eyes to his, he was overcome with self-loathing. She clearly believed the push was deliberate. How could he have brought them to such rampant distrust? Despite his treasured honor, his touted ethics, even his chivalry, manners, and good sense, his treatment of his wife – the one person he had vowed to God, no less, to honor and cherish – was so appallingly callous that she accepted without question the conclusion that he sought her death. But he could not blame her. The conclusion was wrong, but his behavior was abominable. He was the worst sort of cad. How could he ever atone? Wearily, he plodded back to his room.
He went out that evening for the first time since Robert’s death. Not publicly, of course. He dropped by George’s rooms to bid farewell to his closest friend. Jeremy was also visiting.
“My condolences,” offered Jeremy solemnly.
“Thank you.” The morning’s shock had receded, blending into that gray fog that had protected his emotions for the past week. It permitted him to carry on a normal conversation, even about Robert.
They spent the evening sharing memories, first of Robert, then of past escapades and mutual friends. George’s brandy was good, a late supper better, and Thomas stayed until nearly dawn, relaxing in the warm friendship and support, maintaining a parody of his customary demeanor without too much effort.
But his mind churned, quite apart from the discussion, rehashing the details of his marriage. By the time he collapsed into bed, he had decided that postponing the confrontation with Caroline until they reached Crawley was unacceptable. He would speak with her first thing in the morning.
* * * *
Caroline awoke with the dawn, too restless to go back to sleep. A week tied to the house was finally eroding her composure, and a night of confused dreams left a pounding headache. Donning a black gown, she wrapped a cloak around her shoulders and slipped into the garden. Much as she would have preferred the square, she could not flout convention. Besides, anyone she met this time of day would likely be a gentleman staggering home after a long night, and she did not wish for such an encounter.
She was no longer convinced that Thomas’s push had been deliberate. Surely, if he had intended death, he would have first removed her hand from the railing. He had never been stupid. This hope was supported by a glimpse of him crossing the foyer after lunch, limping as though his right ankle was badly sprained. He had not seen her, so was not faking. Had he slipped on the stairs, regaining his balance as he crashed into her? She clung to this picture, using it to erase that blaze of hatred that had flared in his eyes.
Fog clung to shrubbery and trees, turning the garden into a forest of ghostly images. She paced the enclosure for nearly an hour, mind churning in nauseating circles. She loved Thomas. Thomas loved Alicia. Alicia loved Alicia. And anything in breeches. How could she induce Thomas to discover that fact so he could turn his attentions elsewhere? If she destroyed his image of Alicia, would he hate her forever?
Yet his current resentment was just as bad. It was time to chance his wrath. Nothing she did now could possibly make things worse. So how could she expose Lady Darnley? Denounce her to Thomas’s face? Challenge him to discover the truth for himself by watching the mews gate to Darnley House? If Alicia was half as active as rumor reported, but a few hours should convince the most determined skeptic.
The light gradually brightened, but the fog remained, casting a shroud of mourning over the garden. She shivered as its icy fingers penetrated her cloak. It was more than time to return to the house. But nothing was settled. She allowed herself one last circuit.
As she approached the gate to the mews, she spotted another early riser on the other side. He had donned a hooded cloak against the foggy chill so she could not see who he was, but he seemed to be staring directly at her.
Her mouth opened to bid him good morning, but no sound emerged.
His right hand clutched a pistol. Taking careful aim, he squeezed the trigger, the sound echoing hollowly through the fog.
Caroline reacted the instant she identified the weapon. Twisting sharply to the right, she dove for a thick hedge and rolled behind it. The bullet whistled past her shoulder, putting a double hole through a fold of her cloak. A muttered curse rent the morning calm, the voice clearly belonging to the London slums. Footsteps rapidly retreated along the mews.
Carefully working her way behind the hedge until she was out of sight of the gate, she concentrated on control, refusing to dwell on what had just occurred. Stealthily she slipped from tree to shrub to bench, forcing calm, forcing quiet, forcing blankness into her mind. Her back tingled, expecting attack at any moment. Her head was in constant motion, twisting this way an
d that as she scanned the fog-shrouded landscape for other assailants. Every misty shrub assumed a sinister cast. The five minutes it took to reach the door stretched like five years.
When she finally reached her room, her hand shook so hard she could barely turn the key in her lock. On the verge of collapse, she threw herself across the bed.
Why? screamed her brain. Her eyes saw nothing but the black hole of the gun barrel. Sobs tore through her throat, and she wept for a long time.
The attempt was deliberate. That much was abundantly clear. The assassin first identified her, then took careful aim. Who would wish her dead?
“No!” she protested aloud. “I will not believe it.”
New tears welled. She fought them down, pacing the floor in agitation. Was this not exactly what she derided Thomas for? Allowing love and desire to cloud his reasoning so that even blatant evidence was ignored or explained away? Two accidents on the stairs. A shooting in the garden. He had been away most of the night – ample opportunity to arrange such a thing. Yet she could not believe him responsible. He lived for honor. And if he chose to kill an unwanted encumbrance, he would never hire another to carry out the act. He had been asleep in his room when she returned to the house.
Another possibility came to mind. She clung to it as to a lifeline.
Thomas might not be responsible, but what of Alicia? She could not accuse her openly, of course. But who else existed with the slightest motive for terminating her existence? Every sense accepted her guilt.
Caroline relaxed into a smile. Could she use this attack to further her own cause?
Hope bloomed as she explored this possibility. If nothing else, it distracted her mind from the horror of that pistol shot. But the longer she considered the situation, the more certain she became. It did not take long to develop her strategy.
First and foremost, she must remove from town without delay. If Alicia wanted her dead, this morning’s failure would not prevent a second attack. She would pack a small valise and order out the carriage immediately. Dawson could pack the remainder of her clothes to be sent down when Thomas joined her. And she would have to reward Dawson for her faithful service. Perhaps the earl could advance her enough. Caroline’s reticule was woefully empty just now.
She would not wake Thomas before leaving. If he was– No, he was not guilty, she reminded herself sharply. She would leave him a letter containing an explanation of the morning’s events.
No longer did she face having to make a direct accusation. The shooting might be enough by itself to force him into seeing Alicia for what she was. He could come up with no other suspects either. Dawson should pack her cloak last, allowing him to examine it.
She descended to the breakfast room.
“What?” The earl nearly choked on a piece of bacon when she baldly announced the murder attempt.
“I fear it is true,” she calmly repeated. “And I have no doubt who was behind the plot.” When horror convulsed his face, she hastened to reassure him. “No! Thomas would never stoop to such depths. You know that as well as I do. I am convinced a certain unnamed female conceived this action.”
“My God, I’ll see her transported for this,” he swore viciously.
“No, you will not,” countered Caroline. “Do you want to plunge us all into scandal? Society would never believe Thomas was not involved. Let him handle it. He will settle things without publicity. Please do not meddle unless he requests it. This might be the one thing that will force him to confront the truth. Since I emerged unscathed, I am actually delighted at this turn of events.”
He frowned for several minutes before his brow smoothed. “Very clever, Caroline. What do you plan to tell him?”
“Nothing in person, believe me. Prudence dictates that I leave immediately for Crawley. I cannot risk another attempt. The carriage will be here in fifteen minutes. I left a letter for Thomas describing the attack, but naming no names and assigning no blame. He should be able to reconstruct the plot without further assistance. And will accept it more readily if he does so.”
Marchgate nodded. “Is there any evidence you can offer to aid his thinking?”
“My cloak. It contains two holes. I will leave it in my room.”
The earl blanched. “You must take Worth for protection,” he insisted, naming his head groom. “He can return later.”
“Thank you.”
They discussed the details of her forthcoming journey while she finished breakfast, then bade each other a fond farewell, and she slipped away into the fog.
Chapter 17
Caroline arrived at Crawley at two, weary from the emotional strain to which she had been subjected for so long. The entire journey had passed in agonizing memory and unanswerable questions.
Though convinced that Alicia was responsible for the morning’s attack, she could not completely banish a nagging suspicion that Thomas might be involved. Or might condone his idol’s actions. Obsession obeyed neither common sense nor prudence. Would he accept a fait accompli without delving too deeply into how it came about? Could that convoluted brain somehow twist Alicia’s attack into a justified action? Though she was convinced that his conscience would eventually rebel against such horrors, the immediate outlook was definitely uncertain. Nor could she forget the disappointment that had flickered across his face after the first accident or the hatred that blazed following the second. He may not have initiated either action, may not even have entertained the idea of eliminating her, yet he was not slow to recognize what it meant to his future.
But she loved him. No suspicion could alter that. Unbidden, her thoughts moved ahead through the years. Could she share his house if he stubbornly continued adoring Alicia? Sadly, she could not. The constant pain would destroy her. Love would turn to bitterness. Anger would eat at her soul. It would not take long for mutual recrimination to destroy them both.
How long could she endure the present situation before she gave up all hope? A month? A year? If Thomas remained adamant, would her efforts turn his course? She shook her head. Even if her hopes proved true, he might not redirect his attentions toward her. Suspicions of Drew would cloud his judgment.
Wearily, she gave up. Unless Thomas acknowledged Alicia’s true character, there seemed no hope for their future. So she was back to her initial problem. How long should she wait before removing from the scene? And where would she go? Sheldridge Corners was not a possibility. Not only was it unfair to her parents, but she could not tolerate the sympathy she would receive from her family. Perhaps the present Lord Cummings could help. There were several aunts and elderly cousins who might be willing to take her on as a companion.
This is the last chance. Give me the strength to leave if it fails.
As the carriage pulled to a halt, she composed her features into a calm mask.
“Welcome home, my lady,” greeted Peters at the door. “Is his lordship not with you?”
“No.” She smiled. “Again I must apologize for not warning you of my arrival. But with the funeral behind us, I simply could not remain in town. Lord Hartford will follow in a few days, as soon as he winds up his brother’s affairs. But the journey has wearied me. Dinner on a tray in my room will suffice for tonight, Peters.”
“Shall you need Sarah, my lady?”
“Yes, please, and a bath. The house looks lovely. I see the new covers are installed in the drawing room.”
“Last week.”
“Wonderful. You and Mrs. Peters have done well.”
She climbed to her room, relaxing for the first time in days. Despite the amount of work yet to be done, she could not but feel content in her own home. The idea of leaving tore at her heart, but unless Thomas recovered from his obsession, she would have no choice.
A bath improved her outlook and she lay down for a nap, sleeping soundly until a nightmare intruded late in the afternoon.
She had been cornered in the Marchgate garden by the cloaked killer, reliving that awful instant when the realization that he w
as going to shoot had paralyzed her legs. Only when she established that her assailant could not be Thomas had she been able to move. Her attacker was much too short.
Sleep was now impossible. She donned an old cloak and wandered toward the lake, again pondering the events leading to her flight from London. The nightmare would fade in time. No one could survive such an attack without residual terror. It would continue at least until Thomas returned. His attitude would determine how long it would remain. If his obsession continued, the dream would intensify. If he repudiated Alicia, it would fade quickly. If he set his idol aside but retained her image, she did not know what would happen. But until then, she must concentrate on estate duties.
The rest of the day flew past in a flurry of activity. She met with Jacobs, who introduced her to Richards. Jacobs’s leg was much better, allowing him to walk with the aid of a cane. He could not yet stand for any length of time, but should soon be riding for short periods. Another hour passed with Talbert. Estate conditions improved daily. Planting was complete. She was surprised at the difference in the gardens and grounds. Deadwood and overgrowth were gone. Many garden plantings were too damaged to recover and had been removed. She must plan replacements. If she stayed. But even with bare spots, the grounds began to do justice to the manor.
These activities kept her thoughts at bay. But an evening at the pianoforte failed to do so. She could not connect with the music. Nor could she reach any real conclusions. Fears, plots, options, and longing swirled through her head, unaffected by the most challenging pieces. There was no one with whom she could discuss her problems. Drew might have offered sound advice, but he was beyond reach. She could not air her difficulties with anyone local. Not even the vicar. She had to protect Thomas from rumors.
There was a vicar who could help, of course. Her fingers crashed in a dissonant cluster on the keys. Vicar Cummings, her own father, would listen and understand, and he knew enough of London society from his own youth to offer realistic advice. Was Uncle William still there? Could she bare her soul to her father without advertising to Waite her rift with Thomas?