by Candace Camp
She opened the door and stepped out into the hall, looking back down the hallway to where Michael, as bare as the day he was born, was pounding on the door and shouting her name. Doors had opened up and down the hall, and heads had popped out. In the doorway across the hall from Michael a woman was standing, hands over her eyes, babbling in a high-pitched voice while beside her a man ranted at Michael.
“Oh, Michael!” Rachel raised her voice.
He swung around and started toward her. “I suggest you spend the night at your ‘sister’s,”’ she said, holding up his clothes and tossing them into the room behind her. Then she whirled and ran down the stairs.
Behind her, she heard Michael bellow and start to run, then stop. He would have to go into the room and dress before he could pursue her, which she had counted on.
Rachel flew out the front door and ran straight to one of the hansom cabs that waited there. She called out her address and jumped inside the carriage, leaving Michael behind.
* * *
Her anger propelled her up the stairs of the house to her room, where she tore off her dress and threw it into the fire. She pulled out a serviceable brown traveling dress and put it on, then dug out a soft-sided bag from the back of her dressing room and laid it open on her bed. She pulled open drawers and dug out undergarments and nightgowns, tossing them onto the bed.
And all the time, she was listening, waiting for the sound of Michael’s return. He would not come, she told herself. Now that he realized she knew about his masquerade, he would not bother pursuing her—or, at least, not once he calmed down. Why should he? There would be no more fun now to be had from fooling her.
She wadded up a nightgown and stuffed it into the bag, following it with a handful of stockings and garters. There was the sound of running footsteps in the hall outside, and Rachel whirled to face the door, her heart hammering in her chest. The door was flung open, crashing against the wall. Michael stood in the doorway.
He was not his usual sartorially neat self. He had no coat or hat, and he wore the rough trousers and shirt of James Hobson. His shirt was buttoned only halfway up and hung loose outside his trousers. A ridge of red flamed along his cheekbones, and his hair was tousled. He paused, his chest heaving.
Rachel looked at him coolly, then said, “I am surprised to see you here. I would have thought you would go to your lover to soothe your wounded pride.”
“Lover!” He gaped at her. “What the devil are you talking about?”
“Really, Michael, it’s a little late for that innocent air, isn’t it?”
Rachel turned her back on him and began folding another nightgown and putting it into the bag.
“I have no lover!” he snapped and strode farther into the room. “What are you doing?”
“I should think it’s obvious.”
“You’re packing?” There was a faint note of panic in his voice. “Where are you going?”
“That is scarcely any of your concern,” Rachel retorted, continuing with her job, not looking at him.
“Dammit! It is very much my concern!” he shot back. “I am your husband!”
“Oh, are you?” Rachel asked with heavy sarcasm, not turning to look at him. “And here I thought you were James Hobson, investigator extraordinaire and illegitimate brother of Michael, Lord Westhampton.”
“Rachel…let me explain.”
“Explain?” She whirled around, fairly vibrating with barely contained fury. “You want to explain? Yes, I rather wish you would! Explain why my husband saw fit to deceive and ridicule me! Did everyone in London know about you and your mistress? Everyone except me, of course! Did you tell all your friends how I was even so horrendously naive and foolish that I actually believed you when you handed me that cock-and-bull story that you were your own bastard brother? Or was that juicy little item something you kept between you and Lilith, so that you could laugh at me and all my foolish—”
She broke off, tears choking her voice, and whipped back around. She refused to let him see that he had brought her to tears. She picked up another bunch of clothes and stuffed them into the bag.
“No! Rachel, my God! I never laughed at you! I never wanted to hurt or ridicule you.”
“Well, you succeeded well enough anyway. Congratulations!”
“Rachel, listen to me….” Michael grasped her shoulders and turned her around, but Rachel jerked away from him, her eyes blazing.
“Don’t touch me! Don’t you dare touch me again. Why did you pretend to—” She broke off again as her treacherous voice thickened. “No. I understand why you lied to me. It was the easiest way to get out of it when I confronted you and…her. And, of course, I was so gullible, such an idiot, that I believed it! But why did you pretend to—to like me? Why did she act as if she were my friend? Do you hate me that much? Are you that cruel?”
“No!” Michael paled as if she had struck him. “God in heaven, no! Rachel, I would never try to hurt you. Lilith is not my mistress!”
“How foolish do you think I am!” Rachel cried.
“You are going to make up some other story now, and you think that I will swallow it, too?”
“I am not making anything up. I swear it! Lilith is my sister. My illegitimate half sister. There is no other sibling, or at least, none that I know of. There is no James Hobson. But Lilith truly is my father’s daughter, born to the daughter of a farmer near one of his friend’s hunting lodge. I did not know of her existence until a few years ago. Rob told me about her. He met her first. He was in love with her, and she told him her story, and he knew that I—There! That’s it! You have seen Sir Robert there. You know he is Lilith’s lover. You cannot believe that he would stand by and let her have another man, as well. Right there, beneath the roof that he paid for?”
Rachel looked at him. His words made sense, she had to admit. She did not know Sir Robert, but he had not struck her as a man who would be inclined to share.
Michael saw her thinking over his words, and he pressed his advantage. “I never intended to tell you that story. Lilith made it up on the spur of the moment, and I—I didn’t know what to do.”
“So you continued to act out the lie?” Rachel asked scornfully.
“Well…yes. All right, obviously it was an idiotic thing to do. She should never have made it up, but she was only trying to help me, to keep you from being angry with me. And I did not deny it. I didn’t know what to do, and once she had said that, it would have seemed even more idiotic if I had denied her words. I took the coward’s way out. I said nothing. I thought it would not matter, that I would never see you again.”
“And what about when you did?” Rachel asked, crossing her arms over her chest and raising her brows at him. “What stopped you then?”
“I—oh, bloody hell!” He swung away, smashing his hand into the wall. “I was a bloody fool! There! I have no other explanation! I…wanted to be with you.”
“You are my husband! You could have been with me at any time,” Rachel pointed out.
“Not in the same way.”
“No, clearly not. Then you would not have had the fun of deceiving me, of wooing me—of making me sick with guilt and remorse, thinking that I was breaking my marriage vows, when all the time…ohhh!” She ground out the last word, swinging around and stalking away. “When I think of the things I did. The things I said. And all the time you were laughing up your sleeve at me!”
“I never laughed at you! My God, do you think I enjoyed deceiving you?”
“It certainly appears so,” Rachel retorted. “You obviously thrive on deception. You have deceived me from the moment we got married. You have had an entire life that I knew absolutely nothing about. You had a sister whom you kept secret from me. You had all these investigations, which you also kept secret from me. Even when that man stopped my carriage to warn you about the danger you were in, you lied to me. You pretended that you did not know who he was or what he was talking about. I was your wife, yet clearly that highwayman knew you
better than I did!”
Michael let out a groan, plunging his hands into his hair and tugging at it. “I did not mean any wrong! I never intended to hurt you. I didn’t set out to deceive you. I—it seemed foolish. I would have felt like a braggart, a crowing, swaggering cock o’ the walk trying to impress a girl.”
“So you thought it was better to be a liar, instead?”
“I did not lie to you!” He paused, then added fairly, “Well, not until the highwayman stopped you.”
“Oh, so you didn’t lie to me. You just neglected to tell me anything of importance about your life.”
“I—it never came up. We were rarely around one another. It was part of the life I lived at Westhampton. I—we were not close.”
“No. How could we be, when I did not know you at all?” Rachel shot back.
“You lived the life you wanted in London,” Michael retorted, old anger and resentment roughening his voice. “You did not care to be a part of my life.”
“Are you saying that your deception was my fault?”
“No, of course not. But, dammit! It isn’t as if we shared a life. It isn’t as if you were truly my wife or cared anything for me. And since we are speaking of deception, you are not entirely blameless, now, are you? You have been seeing Anthony Birkshaw! You swore to me that you would not, but you—”
“Twice! I saw him only twice! Just a week ago, when he came to me, begging me to let him talk to me, saying it was urgent. So I spoke with him. I did not turn him away. I listened to his problem and told him I would speak to you about it. And had you been here, I would have told you immediately. And then once more to find out more about his case. I did not try to hide anything from you. I have never tried to hide anything from you. I made one foolish mistake, and I have spent the last seven years trying to atone for it. But obviously you will never forgive me.”
“Forgive you? What do you mean? I forgave you long ago.’
“No. You tolerated me.” Rachel turned and walked back to the bed, beginning again to fill the bag with her garments. She felt suddenly weary to the bone, and so sad that she was afraid she would begin to weep.
Behind her, Michael groaned and said, “Oh, God! I’ve made a mess of everything.”
“We both have,” Rachel responded listlessly. “I—I am going to leave tomorrow morning. I am too tired tonight, after all.”
“Where will you go?” he asked in a voice as dead as hers.
“To Darkwater, I think. It is home, after all, and Miranda will need me before too much longer.”
“I see.”
“Please…if you don’t mind, I am rather tired. I would like to go to sleep now.”
“Yes. Of course.”
Rachel did not turn around as Michael walked out of the room, closing the door behind him.
* * *
Even as tired as she was, Rachel had trouble going to sleep, and once she finally did, she spent a restless night, waking often and lying in the dark staring up at the tester of her bed.
The next morning, when she awoke, the prospect of journeying to Darkwater filled her with little joy. Her life, she thought, would be as empty there as it was here. The impetus for her anger had dried up. She felt tired, bored and sad, and none of those conditions seemed as if they would improve with a long journey.
She put off ringing her maid to start packing her trunks and went downstairs to breakfast. Michael was there waiting for her, and only the presence of one of the footmen kept her from turning around and beating a hasty retreat.
“Good morning, Rachel,” Michael said levelly. He was as neatly and soberly dressed as ever, but the blue shadows beneath his eyes and the drawn quality of his face bespoke a night as unfulfilling as Rachel’s own.
“Michael.” Rachel sat down in her chair, and the footman poured her a cup of coffee.
“That will be all, Deavers,” Michael told the footman. “Lady Westhampton and I will serve ourselves.” He nodded toward the sideboard loaded with dishes.
The footman left and Rachel set down her cup. “I—I think I will go back up to my room. I am not very hungry, I find.”
“No, please, don’t go. I have something I want to talk to you about.”
Rachel remained, her eyes fixed on her plate.
“I realize that you are very angry with me right now,” Michael went on. “And you have every right to be. I—I will not be so impertinent as to ask you to give me another chance. But I would point out to you that Mr. Birkshaw is relying on you.”
“What?” Rachel was so startled that she raised her eyes to Michael’s face. His statement was the last thing she would have expected him to say.
“There is the unresolved matter of his wife’s death. I have been continuing to investigate it. I spent two or three evenings talking to some of the male servants in a tavern, but none of them offered anything particularly interesting, other than an indication that few people liked that chap Hargreaves and that he had not worked for the Birkshaws long before Mrs. Birkshaw was taken ill.”
“I see. What will you do next?” Rachel asked, interested despite herself.
“Well, you and I had discussed visiting Anthony Birkshaw. I thought perhaps we might do that today…if you were still in town, that is.”
Rachel looked at him for a long moment. “Are you saying that you and I should continue to work together on this investigation?”
He shrugged. “I see no reason why we cannot. I would think that you would have an interest in seeing that the truth is found out about Mrs. Birkshaw’s death. You have in the past expressed a belief that I would not be entirely fair to Mr. Birkshaw. I presume your presence during the investigation and your influence upon it would ensure that he received fair treatment.”
“Are you bribing me to stay here by offering me a chance to work with you on this investigation?”
“Yes.”
A startled laugh escaped Rachel. “Well, you are very blunt this morning.”
“I am trying to be completely truthful with you,” Michael responded, and his gray eyes warmed a little with humor. “I found it much more enjoyable working with you than by myself, and our discussions were…not only pleasant but enlightening.”
He looked down at the table, seemingly finding something engrossing in the pattern of the cloth. “Please stay. Give me a chance to redeem myself.”
Rachel ignored the little flutter in her stomach. “All right,” she agreed. “I will stay to help Mr. Birkshaw.”
“Of course.” Michael raised his head and smiled at her.
Rachel stood up and went to the sideboard to fill her plate. Her appetite, she discovered, had returned.
CHAPTER 16
Rachel and Michael walked to Anthony Birkshaw’s house. They said little, the awkwardness that was so common to them even more pronounced than usual. Rachel glanced over at him as they walked. She wished that she could still feel the burning anger at him that she had felt last night. Then she had felt powerful. Righteous. Now all that was left of that fire was a sad ache.
At Michael’s request, Rachel had not sent a note to Anthony to say that they would be calling on him. He wanted to surprise the man, Michael had explained, feeling that they would get the most honest response from him in that manner. It was clear from Anthony’s expression as he came forward to greet them that they had indeed succeeded in surprising him.
“Lord Westhampton. Lady Westhampton. I—it is very good of you to visit me. Please, sit down.” He gestured vaguely toward a grouping of chairs. Would you care for some refreshment?”
At their negative response, Anthony closed the doors of the drawing room and came back to sit across from them. “Does this mean that you have learned something? Have you found out if Doreen was…?” He hesitated.
Michael shook his head. “We have learned a little. But not enough to know whether her death was by misadventure. Everyone involved at the time seems to think that it was illness.”
“Yes. So did I,” Anthony agreed.
“Then why did you approach my wife about it?” Michael asked coolly.
“Oh. I, ah…well, I just began to wonder about it. It—it seemed odd in retrospect, her dying like that. And so young.” Birkshaw broke off, glancing at Michael.
Michael gazed back at him without saying anything, his disbelief clear. Anthony looked toward Rachel as if for help, but she simply watched him, too. Anthony shifted in his chair, appearing very much as if he wanted to be elsewhere.
Finally he said, “Very well. I see I must tell it. It…is so odd, I could not bring myself to say anything before. But I—well, a few weeks ago, I received a letter, and inside it was a piece of metal.”
“Metal?” Rachel repeated, surprised.
Birkshaw nodded. “Yes, obviously snipped from a tin of rat poison. It had enough writing that I could tell as much. Arsenic, you see. Well, I had no idea what to make of that. It was disturbing. I—Was someone threatening me? Why? But then, later, I got a second letter. It had printing inside, large and awkward-looking, like a child’s writing. It said, ‘Favor for favor.”’
“What?” Rachel asked. “What does that mean?”
Michael said nothing, merely watched Anthony.
“I don’t know!” Anthony cried, lifting his hands. “I couldn’t understand. But…but it also said, ‘Arsenic remains in the body after death.”’
He turned to Michael, his face pale and sick-looking. “I think they were talking about Doreen.”
“Why do you think so?”
“What else could it mean? I racked my brain trying to think of something. But, I mean, obviously Doreen had died of the sort of illness that could have been poison. Couldn’t it?”
Michael nodded, his eyes never leaving Anthony’s face. “Some poisons, certainly. Arsenic, for instance, builds up in the body. Given in small doses, it makes the person sick but doesn’t kill until enough of it has built up to do so. And it does remain in the body after death—in the hair and nails.”