“She is my wife,” Seacourt said, “and once this nonsense is ended, she will quickly be reminded of that fact. Moreover, your threats are meaningless, since I cannot believe you will, any of you, really encourage her to shoot Catherine.”
“But, Geoffrey,” Daintry said sweetly, “we do not have to encourage or allow it. As I recall, attempted murder is also a hanging offense, so all we need do is say that you had commanded her to kill Catherine but that we intervened in the nick of time to save them both. And there are three of us, you know, so even if Catherine should happen to tell another tale, she will not be believed, not once she is known to be your mistress.”
“That’s utter drivel,” Seacourt exclaimed. He looked at Gideon. “Surely, you will not pretend to support such an absurd accusation, Deverill!”
“No,” Gideon said, smiling at Daintry when she whirled to glare at him, “but Daintry forgets that it is not the least bit necessary to invent accusations against you, Seacourt. There are plenty of real ones that are more dangerous to you at the moment, or have you forgotten the attack on Lady Ophelia’s coach, not to mention the villainous attack on me in London, both of which can be set at your door? I am certain it occurred to you that by eliminating Lady Ophelia you could keep her from altering her will, but what possible reason did you have to eliminate me?”
Seacourt flushed. “You have no proof of that!”
“Do not be so sure,” Gideon said. “Melissa, come here.”
Penthorpe said quickly, “If you truly want the children in this, they are in that little parlor across the way, for I took the liberty of putting them there when it looked like things might get ugly. Do you really want her, Gideon?”
“Melissa?” Susan’s eyes lighted. “You found her?”
“All right and tight,” he said, moving to take the pistol from her slackened grasp, then glancing at Gideon. “Well?”
Gideon said, “No, leave them. The point remains the same, Seacourt, in that they were not alone when we found them, and the rogues who held them prisoner were quite willing, after some encouragement, to chat about activities both recent and past.”
“They did not admit to any attack in London,” Seacourt said confidently, extracting a snuffbox from his waistcoat pocket and helping himself to a pinch as if he had not a care in the world. “Good God, man, as I understand the matter, you had only just arrived in town when that happened. I doubt they will admit to anything at all in the end, for to do so would be to implicate themselves. Moreover, I have done nothing whatsoever myself.”
“Good God, I can’t bear this any longer,” Catherine said suddenly. Avoiding Seacourt’s outraged eye and looking directly at Deverill, she said, “I don’t know about the attack on Lady Ophelia and Daintry though I do believe he may have arranged it, but I do know that just then he wanted not only Lady Ophelia but Daintry out of the way, because he had got it into his head that if both were gone, Susan would inherit all the old lady’s money. And he does torture poor Susan, and God help me, I behaved despicably to her, at first because I thought she was a fool not to try to be exactly the sort of woman he wanted, but later out of a rather odd but increasing sense of power that became nearly overwhelming to me at times. I cannot explain that part of it, but gradually I came to see that she did try to please him, that she tried too hard, and he took advantage of it. He is a cruel man, you know, but he seemed to care for me and I let myself be blinded to reality until today.”
At last, she looked at Seacourt. “Today, when you let Susan believe you knew nothing of Melissa’s whereabouts, even after she threatened to kill me, you proved how truly malicious you can be, and I would rather live in poverty than be thought an intimate of yours.” She looked around at the others. “I know an apology can never make up for all I have done to increase Susan’s misery, but if telling what I know in a court of law will help—”
“Are you mad?” Seacourt demanded.
“Not anymore, Geoffrey. What must I do, Deverill?”
Gideon let the silence lengthen until Daintry thought someone—most likely, Geoffrey—would explode, then said quietly, “It need not come to that. What Lady Susan wants is her freedom and custody of her child. If Seacourt will grant those to her, there can be an end of this business today. No one was hurt, and none of us wants scandal. Do not mistake me,” he added, looking sternly at Seacourt. “The men who held your daughter and Charley will be made to speak if it becomes necessary, and the crimes they committed at your behest—even if only the abduction of the children and the attack on Lady Ophelia’s coach can be proved—are serious enough to hang you. The case is compelling enough without Lady Catherine’s testimony. Do you understand that?”
Seacourt glared at him, then at Catherine, but when she returned his look steadily, his gaze was the first to falter. He turned back to Gideon. “What do you want?”
“Your wife will require your written statement that you agree to divorce her and that you will put forward no claim to your daughter. Any settlement that was made on Lady Susan’s behalf by you is to be considered her money, as is any dowry provided her by St. Merryn. If you will write out such a statement now and make no effort to prevent their immediate departure with us, no more will be said about charges being laid against you. That will hold true so long as you keep your part in the bargain, but any further harassment of her ladyship will free us to pursue whatever course we choose. Do you agree?”
“You leave me no choice, damn you.”
While Seacourt wrote the required document, Penthorpe went to collect Charley and Melissa, and send orders to the stables. Then, while he and Gideon remained to watch Seacourt and to sign the document as witnesses, Daintry took Susan and the children upstairs to collect Rosemary and help pack portmanteaus for Susan and Melissa, while Rosemary did the same for herself. When they returned, they learned that Catherine was also going to leave, and Daintry feared briefly that the woman and her maid expected to go with them, but when they reached the stables, she saw that two carriages had been prepared, the chaise Susan used to pay calls and the traveling carriage used for longer journeys.
Gideon had arranged for outriders to escort Catherine to St. Ives, where she had decided to take shelter with her relatives before deciding what next she would do; and Daintry, watching her being handed into the chaise, went to her and said, “We are much obliged to you for what you did today.”
Settling herself against the squabs, Catherine smiled ruefully. “I am surprised the words don’t stick in your throat, for you must wish me in Hades. I misjudged him, you know, and myself as well, but when it came to the sticking point, I knew I could not side with him. It was all greed, you know. A dreadful thing to admit about oneself, but after a dismally long year in Yorkshire, Seacourt Head and its charming master seemed too good to be true. They were not true, of course, and I know you will think I ought to have intervened when Geoffrey became violent, but the influence I exerted over him was remarkably small.”
“You did send your maid to me that night, didn’t you? I was not certain if you had, or if she acted on her own.”
“Oh, yes, I sent Hilda. Geoffrey had made no secret of the fact that he hated you after that business at the Assize Court, and I had seen him watching you that night like a hawk watching a rabbit. When he did not come to me as he nearly always did, I was afraid he had gone to your room, so I sent Hilda to see. But I own, I never admitted to him that I had so much as suspected a thing, for there was never anything to be gained by taxing him with the dreadful things he did. He only became angry, and today I saw that he could be as cruel to me as he has been to Susan. I knew then that with her gone I’d end up either taking her place as his most convenient victim or being cast off altogether.” She paused, then added thoughtfully, “Don’t let her trust him too far in this divorce business, will you? He will not keep his word.”
Daintry was still thinking of the warning when Hilda came out of the house, escorted by servants with Catherine’s baggage, and Susan, Rosem
ary, and the two little girls were helped into the traveling carriage. Charley objected at first to being told she was not to ride Victor home, but when Gideon told her not to be childish, she subsided at once and announced that she would help keep Melissa entertained since they would be going by the road, which would take much longer.
“It will, too,” Gideon admitted as he, Penthorpe, and Daintry mounted, “but your sister is in no condition to ride and neither is Melissa. We’ll ride a little ahead of the carriages, I think, so we won’t be suffocated by the road dust.”
Shalton and Clemons rode behind them, the latter leading Victor, and the cavalcade proceeded down the drive to the main road. Caught up in her own thoughts, Daintry did not realize for some time that neither of her companions had spoken.
Gideon watched the road ahead, but Penthorpe was clearly in a brown study. She thought she knew what he was thinking about and considered for a moment whether she ought to speak her own mind or wait to see if he would speak his. Realizing that even now his strong sense of propriety would make it difficult, if not impossible, for him to do so, and remembering how quickly he had silenced her suggestion earlier that he might not be happy married to her, she had very nearly decided to take the bull by the horns when Gideon said abruptly, “I forgot to tell Shalton something. You two ride on ahead. I must speak to him.”
Glancing at him, she saw that he was giving Penthorpe a commanding look. When he had dropped back, the viscount said quietly, “Ride a little ahead with me, will you, please?”
She saw that he was struggling with himself, for he kept glancing at her, then looking away, seeming not to know how to begin. Knowing exactly how he felt and taking pity on him, she said, “It is perfectly all right, sir. You need not say a word.”
He shot her an apologetic look. “As plain as that, is it? Dash it all, I’m as great a knave as those louts who were holding you prisoner. Can’t think what got into me, my dear, but I am prepared to … to … that is—Oh, dash it!”
“I am happy to release you from our betrothal, sir. That is to say, although I am very sensible of the honor—”
“Oh, dash it, Daintry, cut line! You’re making me feel worse, and if that’s your notion of the way one ought to end a betrothal—Look here, are you absolutely certain? I don’t know what I’ll do if you aren’t, for I’ve every intention of seeing Susan and Melissa safe before I do anything else, but—”
“That is exactly what you must do,” she agreed “Lady Catherine said we would be fools to trust Geoffrey to honor his agreement, and I think she was perfectly right. Indeed, I shouldn’t be at all surprised if he came roaring over to Tuscombe Park in the morning to demand that Papa send Susan and Melissa right back to him. And I’ve got the most lowering conviction that Papa would order Susan back, too.”
“That will not happen,” Penthorpe said firmly. He was smiling now, and he glanced back at the carriage. “No sense in telling her yet all that I mean to do, but I’ll tell you this much. Seacourt won’t ever hurt her again. Gideon,” he called. “Come up here and wish me—No, dash it, that’s not the thing a fellow ought to say.” He looked at Daintry, his eyes dancing. “Got carried away. Hope you won’t be offended, but I daresay this will be the best thing for everyone concerned, you know. Ah, here you are, Gideon. You must excuse me, old boy. I’ve remembered a few things I want to say to Lady Susan. I’ll just drop back now and ride beside her carriage for a time.”
Gideon looked hard at him, and Penthorpe added insouciantly, “Oh, yes, and by the by, I’m afraid I’ve been given my congé, old boy. Lady Daintry informs me that we shan’t suit.” With another grin at Daintry, he turned his horse away to wait for the lead carriage.
“Is that right?” Gideon said a moment later.
She did not want to look at him, so she just nodded, saying carefully, “I daresay Papa will have a conniption fit and I shall be utterly sunk beneath contempt for breaking my word of honor to him, but under the circumstances I could see nothing else to be done. Penthorpe loves Susan, not me. I’ve known that for some time, of course, but since my father was determined that I should wed him, and since Susan is married to Geoffrey—What if he does not get a divorce, sir? Even with that paper he signed, I cannot be sure in my own mind that he will do as he promised.”
“No, I am very sure he will not,” Gideon admitted, “but that signed declaration will be enough to make certain she can get a divorce in Scotland, where just the fact of having been forced to accept Lady Catherine’s presence in her house will be grounds enough for her suit. Anglesey’s seduction of Lady Charlotte Wellesley was enough to gain one for his wife, after all.”
“Will the divorce be dreadfully expensive?”
“Not nearly as expensive as an English one would be.”
“Aunt Ophelia will frank her, I’m sure.”
“That is not necessary, you know.”
She smiled at him. “You mean that Penthorpe will bear the expense. I do know he would be happy to do so, but I think Susan would prefer to manage that herself and not hang on his sleeve.”
“You would feel better under similar circumstances, my sweet, but I am not at all convinced that your sister’s sentiments resemble yours at all, let alone to that degree. She is a much more dependent sort of woman, you know.”
She sighed. “That’s true, sir, but indeed, I cannot think she would want Penthorpe to frank her divorce from Seacourt.”
“You may be right.” He fell silent, and she could think of nothing to say to him. She was free of Penthorpe, but she still feared she did not know her own mind, and she certainly did not know his, for she had expected him to declare himself the moment he knew she was free, and it seemed he had no intention of doing so. After nearly a quarter hour of silence, she remembered that he still did not know she had discovered the origin of the feud. She said, “I found your grandmama’s novel most interesting, sir.
“Yes, you recommended that I read it, as I recall. In the letter you sent when you returned it to me,” he added when she looked bewildered. “Had you forgotten?”
“Good gracious, I suppose I did say that in that letter, but since I also wrote about going to find Charley and Melissa, I had completely forgotten. But you truly ought to read it, sir.”
“Why? As I recall the matter, Lady Ophelia said it was dreadful—kittenish and cute. Not my style of thing at all.”
“But you ought to read it,” she insisted.
He turned suddenly and smiled at her. “Why? You can tell me about it. I am sure that would be much more entertaining.”
“It might be entertaining, but I would find it difficult, sir, for in point of fact, in that novel lies the answer we have been searching for, the key to the Tarrant-Deverill feud.”
“The feud doesn’t matter anymore,” he said, squinting his eyes against the setting sun. “I hope Lady Catherine is able to reach St. Ives before darkness falls.”
Daintry did not care if Lady Catherine ever got to St. Ives. “Why doesn’t it matter?” she demanded. “We have been searching for the answer for months and since it was all your grandmother’s fault, my father won’t do a thing to end it, which means your father must do so, but I daresay he will not—” She broke off, realizing he was smiling at her again. “What is the matter with you, Deverill? Did you even hear a word I said?”
“Every single one,” he said, “and there is nothing the matter with me. Nothing at all.” He began to whistle softly.
She stared, wondering what ailed the man, but he continued to squint into the sunset, and to whistle. She remembered his reputation, that he was a recognized flirt, and wondered if all the time she had thought he was falling in love, he had merely been toying with her, believing there was no danger of her taking him at his word since she was betrothed to another man. But that could not be, for when he had thought Penthorpe dead, he had said quite clearly that he intended to marry her, and his affections had seemed well engaged before they had gone to London. Until Penthorpe reappeared, on
ly the feud had stood in his way, but then he had backed off. Had he lost interest since then?
She had not precisely encouraged him, ever, to believe his suit would prosper, and she had certainly never told him that she loved him. In fact, she had insisted that she was not really interested in marrying anyone and that, were it not for her father’s demands, she would prefer to remain single. Maybe he thought that was why she had cried off today. She wished he would stop whistling and talk to her. As the thought flitted through her mind, she had a sudden mental image of Davina, and said tartly, “Do stop that awful whistling, and talk to me!”
“Certainly,” he said. “What does your father think about the troubles at the Mulberry mine? Has he suggestions to make about what we should do with the miners who are out of work?”
It was not at all what she wanted to talk about, but since she could scarcely demand to know if he still wanted to marry her, she was obliged to accept a subject of his choosing. That one occupied them until the cavalcade came to the toll road leading to St. Ives, where they parted from Lady Catherine. Not until they rode on again did it occur to Daintry that Gideon had asked for her opinion as well as for her father’s on a number of issues, and that he had listened respectfully to what she said. She remembered, too, that he had not scolded her for going alone to find Charley and Melissa but had seemed to assume that she had reason for doing so. Surely no other man would have done that.
They went on talking, but her thoughts continued to divert her attention until finally, after she had twice asked him to repeat himself, he said, “My sweet life, this is the outside of enough. I seem to recall being informed that men do not listen, that they constantly ask women to repeat themselves, but in fact I find that is not the case at all. Pay attention.”
“I beg your pardon,” she said contritely. “My mind seems to insist upon woolgathering, which is dreadfully rude, I know, but indeed, I cannot seem to help it.”
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