Warming himself against the chill of the November morning, Simon stood with his back to the fire, fighting against the waves of exhaustion rolling over him. He yawned again, wishing for his bed, but the envelope and what it contained kept the seductive call of sleep at bay.
Sighing, Simon once again took the envelope from his vest and stared down at it. When he hadn’t been looking over his shoulder expecting Nolles’s henchmen to rise up out of the darkness to kill him, curiosity about the contents had bedeviled him. Now that he was safely within the walls of Windmere, there was nothing to stop him from tearing open the envelope and satisfying his curiosity, yet he hesitated. His lips twisted. He was, he admitted, reluctant to find out what Townsend had wagered, but he had a strong suspicion what might lie within the envelope. If he was right ... He swallowed. If he was right, he realized that he’d most likely gambled tonight with a dead man ... realized brutally that as he stood here looking at the envelope, Townsend was lying somewhere dead.
The arrival of a footman with a tray laden with a coffeepot and several covered dishes distracted him. After the footman deposited the tray and had been dismissed, Simon laid the envelope at the end of the table nearest the fire and, walking to the sideboard, poured a cup of coffee. Sipping the coffee, he examined Mrs. Spalding’s additions to his original request. She’d not only frosted the hot cross buns, but under the other covered dishes, he discovered some slices of ham, coddled eggs and a large dish of warm cinnamon-sprinkled applesauce. Absently, his mind on Townsend, Simon served himself and wandered back to the table.
Pushing the envelope aside, he put down his cup and plate and seated himself with his back to the fire. The room was heating nicely, but from the moment he’d agreed to Townsend’s wager, he’d not been able to shake the chill that had come over him.
He ate slowly, not tasting the food, his eyes on the envelope. It represented a Pandora’s box. There were many things it could hold. A confession to taking part in Canfield’s death and/or a recitation of his dealings with Nolles were two things that came to mind. Yet Simon suspected it was neither of those things.
Nolles had been worried, but Simon knew if Nolles had thought for a moment Townsend had put either of those things in the envelope, he’d never gotten out of The Ram’s Head with it. Recalling the sound of hoofbeats behind him as he’d ridden home, he was certain that Nolles had sent someone after him. Whether to simply rob him of the envelope or murder him he didn’t care to contemplate.
Mrs. Spalding’s fine cooking sitting like a bag of sand in his belly, Simon gave up eating and, pushing aside his half-empty plate, picked up the envelope. Oh, stop being such a namby-pamby coward, he chided himself, and open the bloody thing!
Simon took a deep breath and did so. He scanned the two pages and his expression bleak, guilt churning through him, he set down the document. It had been drawn up by an attorney in Brighton and signed by Townsend on Friday morning, just over twenty-four hours after Canfield’s death.
The document was simple. The entailment that had seen Townsend inherit his uncle’s fortune and estate ended with Townsend, and in his Last Will and Testament, Townsend bequeathed all of his belongings, his entire estate, to Simon Joslyn.
Simon slumped in his chair. He’d suspected it had to have been something like this. The Birches, his lands, even encumbered with debt, were the only things of value that Townsend possessed. He shook his head. Why not simply deliver the document to him at Windmere? Why go to these elaborate lengths? Knowing what he did of the man, Simon concluded that Townsend, a gambler to the end, had simply chosen to stake his life on the turn of a card.
In hindsight it was easy to see how Townsend had manipulated the situation. With the Will drawn and safely in his vest, Townsend must have guessed that time was running out for him and had engineered the sequence of events tonight. St. John’s absence had been a stroke of luck. Once Padgett and Stanton had grown tired of losing, which wouldn’t have happened if Townsend had been drunk as usual, they’d left—exactly, Simon guessed, what Townsend had been angling and hoping for all night.
With the others gone, it had been simple to lure him into remaining and playing piquet, Simon thought bitterly. All Townsend had to do then was lose until there was nothing but the contents of the envelope to lay on the table. Blast him! Simon swore explosively under his breath, one hand clenching into a fist. I knew there was something odd about the way he was playing. The suspicion even crossed my mind that he was losing deliberately, but the bastard was cleverer than I realized and won just enough to allay that idea.
Simon had no trouble guessing the “why” behind Townsend’s actions. Canfield was dead, whether accidentally or not, and the inquest was over, Townsend’s testimony no longer needed. At present the cellars at The Birches were empty of smuggled goods, and while the arrival of a new shipment from France was expected, Simon surmised that Nolles, in anticipation of getting rid of Townsend, had found a new place to hide the contraband. The inquest behind them, The Birches no longer needed, Townsend became superfluous to Nolles and the others. Knowing the men he was associated with, Townsend knew, or suspected, that before a great deal of time passed that the odds were in favor of him suffering an “accident” much like Canfield’s. The moment the inquest ended and the coroner gave his verdict on Monday, Townsend had known that time was running out for him. It wasn’t a question of if, but when Nolles had him killed.
Simon shook his head. Poor bastard. He looked at the Will. Christ! Why the hell hadn’t Townsend come to Barnaby for help? Why did he believe that his death was the only solution?
Barnaby would have to know, he thought heavily, and was conscious of a sneaking feeling of relief that he wouldn’t have to be the one to tell Emily. Not that Emily and her cousin had been close, but Townsend had been her cousin and they’d known each other since childhood. He wondered if he could turn over Townsend’s estate to her. The Birches had been her home. Perhaps, one of her children?
The opening of the door startled him, and he looked up to see Barnaby entering the room. Barnaby was surprised to see him sitting there, but knowing Barnaby rose early, Simon didn’t find it strange to see the viscount booted and garbed for the day at this hour of the morning.
Recovering, Barnaby flashed a smile. “Just get in?” he asked, crossing to the sideboard and, taking one of the cups kept there, poured himself some coffee.
“No,” Simon answered. “I’ve been here awhile. Mrs. Spalding was kind enough to cook me something, but I find my appetite is gone.”
A note in Simon’s voice had Barnaby taking a closer look at him. “What is it?” he asked quietly.
Silently, Simon pushed the Will across the table in Barnaby’s direction. Picking it up, Barnaby read the document quickly. Laying it down, Barnaby took a chair and said, “Tell me.”
As succinctly as possible, Simon did so. When he finished speaking, Barnaby shook his head and echoed Simon’s earlier assessment. “Poor bastard.”
The two men sat in silence a moment before Simon asked, “Do you think he’s already dead?”
Barnaby shrugged. “Most likely. If Nolles let him leave The Ram’s Head alive, he probably killed himself once he arrived home.”
Simon nodded. “That’s what I was thinking.” He sighed. “I guess we’d better ride over there and find out for ourselves.”
In the faint light of dawn, The Birches appeared still and deserted. There was no sign of Townsend’s horse and they assumed the animal was in the stables, unless Townsend had not returned home... . Opening the door, Barnaby and Simon stepped into the house, silence and cold greeting them.
They found Townsend in a small room at the rear of the house. A decanter of brandy sat on the table before him, an empty snifter nearby. Townsend was seated at the table, slumped back in the chair, one hand hanging down by his side, a pistol lying on the floor directly beneath his fingers.
Examining the neat round wound in the temple, Barnaby said, “So did he do it himself, o
r did Nolles arrange this tidy little scene for us?”
Thinking back over the night, the look in Townsend’s eyes, Simon muttered, “My money’s on Townsend having done it himself. He knew he didn’t have much time before Nolles killed him or had him killed. I’ll wager, though, that he had more time than he gave himself. Canfield’s death occurred a week ago almost to the day—Nolles would have waited awhile before dispatching him.”
“I agree. Nolles may be a snake, but he’s a clever snake.” Barnaby’s jaw clenched, a muscle bunching in his cheek. “I never liked Emily’s cousin and I’m not sorry he’s dead,” he admitted. Sighing, he added, “This is probably for the best, but I wish the coward had helped us catch Nolles before he decided to kill himself.”
“Perhaps he was trying to spare the family embarrassment,” offered Simon. “If he helped expose Nolles, during any trial his part in Canfield’s death and the smuggling would be bound to come out. And if they did murder Canfield, he would have hung right alongside Nolles.”
Barnaby shrugged. “It’s possible, and if that’s the case, it’s the only decent thing he ever did.” Turning away from the body, Barnaby said, “We’d best notify the constable.” His expression bleak, he muttered, “And I have to tell Emily and Cornelia.”
Four hours later, the constable notified and their statements taken, the two men rode to Windmere in a misting rain. The day was gray and depressing and Simon thought it appropriate.
Once they were inside and closeted in Barnaby’s study, Simon cleared his throat and asked, “Uh, what about the Will? Do you think I should give everything to Emily?”
“No,” Barnaby said flatly. “She needs nothing from that bastard.”
Looking bewildered, Simon demanded, “What am I to do with it?”
Barnaby thought a moment. “Keep it,” he said. His eyes narrowed and he admitted, “It’s possible that Townsend was trying to make amends.” He studied Simon. “Yes, I think maybe he was. You’ll make a fine squire, cousin. And you have the fortune and the ability to turn The Birches into the place it was before Townsend got his hands on it.” He frowned. “That may even have been what he had in mind when he drew up that Will.”
“Me !” yelped Simon. “What about his brother, Hugh? If not to Emily, shouldn’t the estate go to him?”
“Hugh has his own estate, his own fortune, and he’s quite happy where he is.”
“But there have been Townsends living at The Birches for ages, and a Townsend has been squire for generations,” argued Simon, feeling as if he were being swept into a whirlpool.
“And now there won’t be,” said Barnaby, amused. “There’ll be a Joslyn.” He grinned. “Squire Joslyn has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”
Simon eyed Barnaby with dislike. “You’re happy about all of this.”
“If you think about it, it settles several things,” Barnaby replied, ticking off the items on his fingers. “Emily’s contemptible cousin is dead. There will be no scandal—other than the manner of his death. An honorable man will now be squire. Emily’s home will be restored to its former state and I’ll have a genial neighbor. Why shouldn’t I be happy?”
To Simon’s astonishment, Barnaby’s assessment proved correct and the family and neighbors, in one way or another, all echoed the viscount’s sentiments. Even before Townsend was buried, Simon was startled to hear himself referred to as “the new squire” or “Squire Joslyn.”
Simon had expected Emily to have reservations, but once she had dealt with the first shock of Townsend’s death, she’d flung her arms around his neck and cried, “Oh Simon! Jeffery was a beast, but in the end he did something good. You will make a fine squire, and to know that The Birches is in your hands is more than I could have wished for.”
Cornelia, too, had fixed her eagle eyes on him and remarked, “Squire Joslyn, eh? Lord knows you’ll be a grand improvement over that rapscallion Jeffery!” She smiled at him. “You might think that your inheritance is more a burden than a prize right now, but once you drop some blunt on it, you’ll find that The Birches is a handsome place and quite comfortable.” She tapped him on the cheek. “Don’t look so uneasy—you’ll do well, boy.”
Even Mathew seemed pleased about Simon’s elevated status in the area. “I’m sorry for the way it came about,” Mathew told him, “but it is, I think, a good thing.” He half-smiled. “Now when I complain about all the details involved in running an estate, you’ll know precisely what I’m talking about.”
The affection and respect people in the area held for Emily and Cornelia ensured that Townsend’s burial on Monday morning was well attended by the gentry, as well as the common folk. Townsend’s mother, Althea, his brother, Hugh, and Anne Townsend, Emily’s stepmother, had made the trip from Hugh’s home, Parkham House, and stood with other members of the family. Mrs. Gilbert and her daughters were there, as was Nolles, looking suitably saddened, and Padgett, Stanton and St. John also attended. Despite the number of attendees, the manner of Townsend’s death and his unpopularity in the neighborhood produced a short service and a quicker burial. The lightly falling rain made no one inclined to linger, and after paying their respects to the family, the crowd quickly dispersed.
Luc and Gillian attended the funeral and afterward, along with the rest of the family and invited friends, drove to Windmere. Except for his mother, few mourned Townsend’s passing, but there was no rejoicing and there was a subdued air surrounding the gathering inside the great mansion. No one, other than family, lingered long.
The funeral was Gillian and Luc’s first public appearance since their wedding, and Gillian was guiltily aware of being grateful that everyone’s attention was on Townsend’s family and not her and Luc. She felt sorry for Mrs. Althea Townsend, but she’d have been a hypocrite if she’d shed any tears. It wasn’t, she excused herself, as if she’d known Squire Townsend. She hadn’t. Beyond hearing his name mentioned once or twice, she knew nothing of him, and her sympathies were for his mother and Emily and his family. It didn’t take her long to realize, except in the case of Townsend’s mother, those feelings were misplaced.
After the guests left, Althea, looking worn and sad, disappeared upstairs to her rooms, leaving the other women sitting in a semicircle in front of the fire. The gentlemen were gathered at the other end of the room, talking quietly amongst themselves and drinking hot punch.
Watching Althea leave, Cornelia commented, “Poor woman. He treated her as badly as he did anyone else, but she’s suffering.”
Sipping a cup of tea, dark-haired, pretty Anne said, “I know. She is such a dear creature and I have tried to comfort her, as best I am able, but it is difficult. I feel sorry for her, but when I think of what he tried to do ...” She stopped, her pansy-brown eyes filled with remembered horror. “He was a monster! I cannot be sorry he is dead. I just wish dear Althea didn’t suffer so.”
Emily, looking tired, the bulge under her gown impressive, sat beside Anne. Touching the mound where her child grew, Emily murmured, “She is his mother, and no matter what we think of him, even if he disappointed her and treated her wretchedly, she loved him.”
“I know,” said Anne, “but knowing the lengths he was prepared to go to get his own way—” She bit her lip. “I cannot be happy over his death, but it is hard to offer kind words about him.”
“Then don’t,” said Cornelia. “Althea is as kindhearted a person as you will find and a shatterbrained little widgeon, but she knows what her son was like. She doesn’t expect you to sing his praises. Just comfort her and love her.”
Garbed in a dove-gray gown, the neck and sleeves trimmed in Brussels lace, a few sable curls dangling near her cheeks, Gillian sipped tea and listened with growing mystification to the conversation between the other women. If she understood matters correctly, except for his mother, not one of the women here bore the late squire any love. Anne’s allusion to “what he tried to do” made her wonder “what” it was he’d tried to do. Emily and Cornelia obviously knew what Anne re
ferred to, but no one seemed inclined to share that knowledge with her.
Having secrets of her own, though curious, Gillian didn’t hold it against them for not telling her. The other three women had known each other for years, while she was a newcomer to their circle and family. She felt a trifle left out, it was true, but not enough to dwell on it or feel hurt over it. Everyone, she reminded herself, was entitled to keep some things private. She almost snorted. How virtuous she sounded, when the truth was that she was dying to know more.
Taking her mind off the curious reference, Gillian’s eyes sought out Luc, her heart giving that by-now-familiar leap when their eyes met across the room. Luc was standing next to Barnaby, the other men arrayed nearby. Luc was listening to what was being said around him, but his gaze was on her. His eyes slid over her demurely garbed figure and back to her face, a half smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he stared at her. She flushed and buried her nose in her cup. Drat! Even though there wasn’t a part of that long, lean body of his that she wasn’t intimately familiar with or a part of her own that he hadn’t touched or kissed, with just a look he had the power to fluster her.
It was incredible that they had been married now for over a week. Only partially listening to the conversation between the other women, Anne asking about the preparation for the birth of Emily’s child, Gillian let her thoughts drift. These past days of marriage to Luc had been a revelation to her.
When she’d married Charles she’d been madly in love with him and had thought that he loved her; she had been, she’d thought at the time, deliriously happy. Yet, now she wondered about the depth of her feelings for Charles. With age, she’d realized that what she’d felt for Charles had been a girlish emotion—especially when compared to the bone-deep emotion she felt for Luc. Yes, she’d loved Charles, but she had been as much in love with love as in love with Charles, and loving Luc as she did, she now knew the difference. That Charles had not loved her and had married her for her fortune, she accepted these days with an equanimity her eighteen-year-old self could not have faced.
Desire Becomes Her Page 32