by Jo Beverley
He gave her no chance to escape, however. They accomplished the maneuver without the blade ever leaving her throat. The heavy brocade curtains made a noticeable swish when she drew them back, but surely not enough to waken someone two rooms away.
Dawn was approaching and gray light trickled into the room, still giving only the hint of detail. For Chloe, who knew the room well, it was enough. For Macy, she hoped it would not be.
“Find the jar,” he said curtly, and she felt a tremor in his hand. He too must be terrified, she realized. His name and his life were on the line, and she hardly thought he was accustomed to this sort of brutality. She hoped it would confuse him a little. To assist the process she affected even more terror than she felt.
“I will. I will. Please don’t hurt me!”
“Keep your voice down! Behave yourself, and I won’t hurt you.”
“The dressing table. It will be on the dressing table.” She pulled him forward and felt the blade move a little away from her skin. He didn’t want to kill her. Yet.
“You’ll have to let go of my arm,” she said, “if I’m to search. I have to do it by feel.”
He released his bruising grip, but before she could move, his hand twisted in her hair. “No tricks,” he snarled.
Chloe heard the desperation. At any moment he could decide she had served her purpose, and the blade would bite. . . .
She groped with trembling hands among the half-seen shapes. She wondered what he would do if she sent one crashing to the floor—kill her? She really thought he would.
Oh God, she didn’t want to die before she had told Justin she loved him.
Was that a sound? Was it Miss Forbes?
Chloe had found the two identical jars. She needed only the slightest distraction . . .
“Hurry up,” he said, giving her hair a vicious tug. Chloe gasped and tears came to her eyes. Fear fled before blinding fury.
“There are dozens of bottles here,” she snapped, hardly bothering to lower her voice. “Do you want to try to find it?”
He pressed the knife back hard against her throat, so she had to retreat before it, retreat against his portly body. “Watch your tongue! You certainly are hot to handle, aren’t you, pretty Chloe? It’s time someone taught you manners. Find the potpourri, and fast.”
This time he kept the razor at her throat. She felt it cold and sharp as she leaned forward and she couldn’t stop herself from shaking. She couldn’t delay much longer either. If no one came, she would have to act alone. She grasped a tall, smooth jar. “This, I think . . . ,” she said, and flipped the metal catches that held the stopper.
With a hasty prayer, she raised the jar and hurled the contents over her right shoulder. The reek of camphor and turpentine filled the air. Macy howled. The knife jerked. Chloe twisted out of his slackened grasp.
Still, she felt the blade and the flow of blood.
The door burst open and light flooded the room. None of the lumbago embrocation had got in her eyes, but the fumes surrounded her. They made her eyes smart and burned at her throat. Chloe sank choking onto the carpet and pressed her hand to her neck, feeling the warm stickiness of blood. Was she going to die?
Macy was cursing. There was a thump and crash. Someone tripped over her and she rolled and gasped. The light, in someone’s hand, wavered as gigantic shadows leapt around the room.
Perhaps she fainted. The next she knew, she was in powerful male arms—Justin’s arms—remembering there was something important she had to tell him. She looked up at him, so handsome, with the strong bones of his face thrown into relief by the now-steady light. All his love and caring shone in his eyes. She really didn’t want to die.
“I love you,” she said hoarsely and coughed. “I’m sorry I wasted so much time.”
He held her closer. “It was I who was in a rush, love. We have the rest of our lives.”
Chloe was surprised he hadn’t noticed. “Macy cut my throat,” she said.
He grinned. She couldn’t believe it.
“Believe me, darling,” he said, “people with cut throats don’t give deathbed speeches. Let me see.” He took a cloth and gently dabbed at her neck. His lips tightened, but his voice was even as he said, “A nasty little cut but the bleeding’s stopped. I’ve had as bad from a clumsy barber.”
Feeling ridiculous, Chloe sat up straight and scowled at him. “That’s what Macy said. How is he?”
Justin moved aside and she saw Humphrey Macy, under Randal’s untender care, cursing as he tried to wash the Dowager’s lumbago embrocation off his face. It was thick on his hair and dripping down, but little had got into his eyes.
More light entered the room, brought somewhat gingerly by Miss Forbes, in a voluminous gray robe and a plain, encompassing cap.
“Whatever has occurred?” she asked in a wavering voice. “I do hope you won’t wake poor Sophronia.”
Chloe looked at Justin. What could he say?
“Mr. Macy was sleepwalking,” he explained with a perfectly straight face. “He had an accident with the lumbago mix.”
Miss Forbes looked around at the four invaders in their nightwear, the razor on the floor, the spilled embrocation, and the blood on Chloe’s robe.
“I do hope he won’t be staying,” she said faintly.
“I can assure you he won’t,” said Justin.
“Thank you,” said Miss Forbes, and retreated with the air of a nun fleeing an orgy.
Justin helped Chloe to her feet and held her close. She rested against him in great contentment. “What will you do about him?” she asked.
“I don’t know. Do I gather from this that you know where those papers are?”
Chloe nodded. “Don’t you? It was the Dowager’s rambling on about unusual potpourri mixes and vegetables.”
She walked over to the mantelpiece and took down the japonaise jar. She shook it hard and heard a thunk which did not come from dried petals. “I confess, I still don’t see how Belinda got it in here,” she said, inspecting the wire cover again. It was completely immovable.
“I suggest we go and ask her,” said Justin formidably.
“Randal, can you guard Macy?”
“Of course,” said Randal, who had a pistol in his hand. He grasped the man, whose eyes still teared badly, and pulled him up. “I will await further revelations in his room.”
Justin and Chloe went out to Belinda’s room and knocked at the door.
After a delay, it was opened carefully. “Chloe? Justin? What has happened?”
Chloe held up the jar. Belinda went very still, then opened the door wider. “Come in. But please try not to wake Dorinda.”
“The first thing,” said Justin, “is for you to show us how to get the potato out of the potpourri.”
Without protest, Belinda took the jar and set it on the table. She put her hands on either side and lifted, with a turning motion. The whole outside of the jar came off, wire top and all, showing a straight-sided, plain white inner container. Justin reached in and retrieved the potato. He passed it to Chloe.
She studied the cause of all the trouble. It was a wonderfully accurate representation, even down to the eyes, but her fingernail raised a thin curl of brown wax. Real earth still clung to it from its time underground.
“Why?” she asked Belinda.
The young woman turned away. “I haven’t slept tonight, wondering what to do. I never knew that thing was important to the British. You must believe me. I thought whatever it was, it was on its way to the French. When you told me the truth, I knew I had to get it to someone. Tomorrow, I was going to retrieve it and send it to London, anonymously. I hoped that would be the end of it all.”
Justin took the wax vegetable and studied it. “What was the start of it all, Belinda?” he asked quietly.
Belinda sat down with a sigh in the rocking chair where she had nursed her child. Chloe sat down too.
“The start?” asked Belinda. “When do things ever start? When Frank and I played on the sa
nds together?” She sighed. “He was growing so impatient because we couldn’t marry and I wouldn’t . . .” Her hands fluttered and she looked down in embarrassment. “We heard the sailor give the package to George. The sailor said it was clear Lord Stanforth wasn’t coming for it, and it was someone’s idea of a joke. He said George was the only man at Delamere, he could handle the matter. Supposedly, he said, it was important to the French. When the sailor left, George just stood there, looking befuddled. Frank—he was very quick—went forward and sort of took over. He took the potato and said he’d handle everything. I don’t think he had a plan, but he saw a chance to make some money.”
“Then you caught up with the sailor on the way back,” said Chloe.
“Yes. That wasn’t planned, though. We spent a fair bit of time in our secret part of the stables, talking about things. I didn’t want Frank to interfere in gentry matters, but he wouldn’t be stopped. I was afraid we were dabbling in treason, but he persuaded me we were stopping something from getting to the French. That didn’t seem too bad.”
Belinda sighed, doubtless reflecting on the results of that night’s work. “We came upon the sailor near my home. He had been down sharing a pipe with the fishermen. Frank tried to get more information from the man, but couldn’t.”
Chloe wondered if she realized Frank had probably killed Samuel Wright.
“I came up to the Hall the next afternoon,” went on Belinda. “I wanted to talk to Frank. I was worried about what he had planned. I needed to be sure he had no notion of passing those papers to the French. His main idea seemed to be to get money from Mr. Stephen not to tell what he was up to. He was sure he was a spy. I was here when the news came about Mr. Stephen being dead, and Frank flew into a rage over it. He thought we’d lost our chance. Then he started to think of ways to get something out of George now he was the viscount. Frank was walking me down the drive when we came upon George in a state of confusion. He was upset by Stephen’s death, but excited at the thought of being the viscount, and rich. He was just like a child. He got to worrying about the potato. He seemed to think he should have inherited the knowledge of what to do with it now he was Lord Stanforth. He wanted it back.”
Belinda leapt to her feet and twisted her hands. “I honestly don’t know how it came about. Frank was talking about George paying for the potato, and George was saying he didn’t see why he should. He could be very stubborn if he took an idea into his head. Then Frank said if George didn’t pay, he’d tell the justice George was selling secrets to the French, and the sailor would back him up. It was all so stupid, but George believed it. Next, Frank was saying George should marry me and the potato would be my dowry. He sold me like a heifer on the hoof!” All the pain of that betrayal echoed in her voice.
“Why didn’t you refuse?” asked Justin quietly.
“I did at first,” said Belinda dully. “But he sweet-talked me. He always could. He said George wouldn’t live long, which was doubtless true. He said George wouldn’t be . . . be able to perform his marital duties, which was not true.” She looked fiercely at Chloe. “I was a virgin when I married, and Dorinda is George’s true child.”
Chloe nodded. “I know.” The look in Belinda’s eyes thanked her.
“Frank just terrified George into it, plain and simple. If George balked, Frank would paint an even more lurid picture of what would happen once he told his tale to the authorities. Drawing and quartering, beheading . . . George was like a child in many ways and he believed it . . .”
Justin spoke again. “What happened to the potato?”
“I kept it in a jar of potpourri,” said Belinda. “I wouldn’t let Frank have it because I wasn’t sure what he’d do. If George became rebellious, I’d show it to him. It terrified him.” She covered her face with her hands. “Oh, I have felt so badly about what we did to that poor man.”
“How did he die?” asked Justin quietly.
Belinda looked up. “Not by my hand!” she declared. “He wasn’t well and he suffered a seizure.”
“With Macy by his side,” said Chloe thoughtfully.
“Yes,” said Belinda.
“Macy is the spy who has been trying to retrieve those papers,” said Chloe and Belinda gasped.
“I did wonder,” she said. “It seemed so impossible but . . . George was really pleased and flattered when he first came to stay. I don’t think they’d been the kind of friends Mr. Macy always made out, but George thought he was wonderful. After a while, though, he grew frightened of him. I think Mr. Macy was after George about the papers, but George was too terrified to tell him. He thought, you see, that Mr. Macy was a government man, and was sure he was going to drag him off to the gallows. He tried to get rid of him but Macy just stayed on and on.”
“I never realized,” said Chloe with surprise.
“Mr. Macy acted well. He kept saying what good friends they were, what jolly times they were having, and as George didn’t deny it outright, it seemed so. I think he frightened him to death.”
Chloe imagined poor George, terrified of Frank and Belinda, and then harangued daily by a desperate Macy. How could she have been so unaware of what was going on beneath her nose? She had been mourning Stephen, in grief and guilt.
“When George died,” said Justin, “why didn’t you just destroy the potato?”
“Everything was so topsy-turvy,” Belinda said, a faraway look in her eyes. “I was supposed to be free, then, with a rich widow’s portion, ready to marry Frank. Instead, I was pregnant and might be carrying the next Lord Stanforth. I couldn’t decide what to do, so I buried the potato along with the seed potatoes Budsworth was putting in. I wouldn’t have minded that much if he’d found it. I just left it to fate.”
“Why then did you attack him when he did find it?” asked Justin.
Belinda gasped and stared at him with wide, frightened eyes. “I can’t deny it, can I? I wish I could, the poor man. The feel as that rock hit his head . . .” She shuddered. “Thank the Lord he’s no worse for it. It was you, Chloe, saying how the smell of potpourri lingered. I wondered if the potato would smell of it. Everything was going worse and worse. There was Frank dead, and you suspecting me. Then Budsworth was digging the Brownell’s Beauties.”
She looked at Chloe. “I’d been trying to get out to retrieve that potato for days. I knew where I’d put it—right at the edge near the path. I came upon Budsworth digging there, right at the spot. I prayed he wouldn’t dig it up, but he did and something about it must have struck him as strange. He picked it up and looked at it. I panicked. I couldn’t seem to think straight at all. I could only think that if the potato smelled of potpourri everyone would know I had put it there. They would think I was in league with the French. The smell did linger too.”
She looked down at her hands, clasped tight in her lap. “I couldn’t get a moment to myself to throw it into the sea as I’d intended. I went toward the sea and there you were, Chloe. I had to go back to the house and then the alarm was raised. I knew about the search. The potato mustn’t be found in my room. If it was found smelling of potpourri it still would point to me unless I could make that seem reasonable. The only thing I could think of was to put it in the Dowager’s potpourri. I hoped by the time it was discovered, anyone could have put it there, and that would account for the smell. It’s all been so horrible, though, that I wanted you to find it this afternoon.”
Justin looked up at Belinda, and Chloe wondered what he was thinking. Surely he wouldn’t hand her over to the authorities.
“How did Frank die, Belinda?” he asked.
Belinda’s face tightened and aged. “He fell off the Head,” she said, almost dreamily. “He still wanted to marry me, you see, but I couldn’t. It wouldn’t have been fair to Dorinda. I let him . . . I let him love me once. It seemed a terrible thing that we never had, but it was a mistake. It made him more desperate. He wasn’t a bad man, Frank, but he didn’t like to be thwarted. He went after Sally Kestwick, thinking I’d be jealous, but it
didn’t work. Next, he reckoned if he made me pregnant, I’d have to marry him, because he’d be the only one who would have me. He tried to force me. I pushed him away. He fell . . .”
The calm voice suddenly broke, and the girl bowed forward, shaken by racking sobs. Chloe went over and held her.
“The look in his eyes!” Belinda gasped and fell to weeping again.
Chloe looked over to Justin with appeal. He nodded slightly.
“Don’t, Belinda,” Chloe said softly after a little while. “Frank’s gone now, and nothing will bring him back. You have to think of Dorinda.”
Belinda fought her tears under control. “Yes.”
“Justin will manage things so you are not blamed for any of this,” she said. “Your greatest crime has always been to love too well.”
Belinda looked up, red-eyed but somehow relieved of a burden. “I will leave here,” she said.
“There is no need,” said Justin, and Chloe loved him for it.
“Yes. I must leave if I’m to make a proper life for Dorinda, perhaps find her a worthy father. I kept thinking, you know, these past days, that if I were taken for treason, she would never live down the shame of it, Delamere or no Delamere.”
Chloe threw open the curtains. The first dusky pink of dawn was lightening the sky. A few late birds were beginning to sing.
Justin stood and said, “You are a Delamere and so is Dorinda. You must never forget that.” He went over and very gently kissed Belinda’s cheek. A faint wail notified the world that Dorinda was awake and wanting attention. The sweet tyranny of child.
Belinda sadly smoothed her robe. “Thank you,” she said.
16
CHLOE AND JUSTIN left the room and walked down the corridor. They needed to talk, and yet were still in their nightclothes. For the first time she looked at him, and admired his brown velvet banjan. She strongly suspected he was naked beneath it. Oh my.
“I will invite you into my room,” she said at last, “if you promise to behave.”