by kps
A spill of yellow light from beneath the door indicated that Bentley" was still awake; not that it mattered, she would have thought nothing of disturbing his rest. Not bothering to knock, she opened the door and entered, surprised to find him sitting up in bed, looking alert and sober despite the half-empty bottle on his nightstand.
"Finished with your tete-a-tete already, m'love?" His knowledge of her affair and the bland acceptance in his voice came as a shock. It seemed there were more than a few things she'd misjudged.
"You knew, then? Why didn't you say anything?"
"Why should this time be any different from the others?" Bentley answered drily, raising his half-full glass in a mocking salute before he tossed its contents down his throat. "It was in my best interests to keep it to myself."
He studied her set, angry expression and jeered, "Had a lover's spat, haven't you, dear? I thought there had to be a reason for this visit."
Cathy approached the bed, reminding herself that Bentley's cooperation was essential to the success of her plans. She settled on the edge of the bed and was quiet for a moment as she considered the best manner in which to phrase her request.
"He means to put us out, Bentley. Your future, as well as mine, is at stake." She had to tie his security into the plot or he would be too weak to join her. "We'll be penniless," she lied,
"and that would mean returning to the hand-to-mouth existence we led before we came here. You don't want that, do you?"
"Of course not ... but I thought you had him twisted around your finger," he complained. "If he's lost interest in your considerable ... charms, there's not much I can do to change his mind."
"But I can ... I can see that it's changed, permanently. Will you help me?"
"I guess," Bentley committed with a shrug of his shoulders. "Can't say I fancy having to work for a living after all this time." Then he grinned. "Never liked it when I had to!"
"I'm glad you remember how little aptitude you have for labor, darling. It will help steel your nerves to carry out your part. If my plans work out, Devlan Cantrell will be nothing but a broken body at the bottom of the cliffs within two days' time. We will drug his wine at dinner on Sunday. If the servants notice, they will assume he's had too much to drink. I'll cause a scene after dinner that allows me to stalk out of the house in a fury, presumably to cool my anger with a stroll in the chill night air."
"And my part?"
"To follow minutes later with my woollen cape. Minutes, Bentley. I don't want to catch my death of cold waiting for you," Cathy emphasized. "Then, on the pretext that I've twisted my ankle, you will come running back to beg Dev's assistance in seeing me safely to the house.
He'll be so fuddled by then, he won't stop to wonder why you needed help. Once he is at the edge of the cliff and beginning to feel the full effects of the drug, it will be child's play to push him over. Simple enough, isn't it?"
"It appears you've thought of everything. What about this wife of his, though? Why won't the estate go to her?"
Cathy smiled unpleasantly. "Because she will no longer be his wife. The papers dissolving their marriage are lying in the top drawer of the library desk, unsigned as of this moment; but once he's dead, we'll have the time to forge his name to the document, and everything will be mine!"
"Ours, darling ... don't you mean everything will be ours? I don't intend to be your accomplice in murder without benefiting from the spoils." Bentley smiled at her, then reached again for the bottle of bourbon.
Feigning a flustered attitude, Cathy amended her statement. "Of course I meant ours!
Haven't we always shared?" She leaned forward, allowing the blue silk robe to fall partly open, enough to give him a tempting view of her full, pendant breasts. She gazed into his eyes, stroking his arm while she continued in a honeyed voice to soothe away any doubts he might have. "We've always trusted each other. I am sure without that, the last six years would have been impossible. Surely you don't want to lose what we've worked so hard to gain?"
"No, I don't," Bentley agreed. "Our little partnership has been totally satisfactory to me. I just wouldn't want us to end behind bars because we'd acted in haste."
To bolster his confidence in her, Cathy snuggled closer, but he brought the glass up to his mouth, effectively rebuffing her overture. Cathy shrugged, staring at the bourbon bottle as though she were satisfied his drinking was the reason he wasn't interested in her offer. It wouldn't hurt to let her go on thinking that, Bentley silently decided, though the real reason was that her touch would have made him reveal his true feelings about her. Better to let her think she'd duped him, at least until he'd thought of a way to spoil her plotting. "We'll talk again tomorrow," he insisted. "I'll want to know every detail before we proceed."
Carried away by triumph, Cathy was careless enough to let it show on her face. "Of course-you'll feel more confident if you've memorized your part. I'll see you after breakfast then."
She rose and tucked the robe around herself before strolling leisurely to the door. Once there, she paused to turn back and offer a last note of reassurance. "Two days from now, I'll be a grief-stricken, but very rich woman ... can you doubt that I'll be able to carry it off?"
Then she slipped away, leaving Bentley to stare at the door that had closed softly behind her.
He really couldn't doubt her ability to act. Hadn't this woman convincingly portrayed the role of Cathy Harper for the past six years? The smug mention of her skills brought back a flood of memories now. The charade had begun six months after the real Cathy had died of pneumonia in the rundown Memphis boarding house where they'd been staying.
Looking back on the time when he'd first met Cathy Morton, Bentley remembered what an easy mark she'd been. For years he'd knocked around, using his skill at cards to keep himself.
There had been times when he was flush, other times when he'd had to pledge the last of his belongings for a stake to gamble with. In the spring of 'sixty-six, he'd been in North Carolina, enjoying a temporary spell of luck gambling and socializing with the cream of Raleigh's local society. Young Jack McLenore, the indulged second son of an entrepreneur who'd profited by the recent war, had invited him down to the family's estate in Bath Town. He'd been about to move on to greener pastures when Jack had introduced him to Cathy. Her welcome reaction to his flattery had made him extend his stay, especially when Jack had made him aware that the lovely Cathy was also the heiress to a very large fortune. Most of the young men who would have courted her had either been killed fighting for the South or had been captured and interned in the Northern camps. Cathy's mother, a loyal Southern lady, had refused to move to the family's estate in New York, and Cathy was left with no eligible males in attendance.
The idea of becoming a gentleman of leisure and living on another's income was so appealing that he'd thrown himself into the courtship with a zeal that surprised even himself. From the beginning Mrs. Morton had objected to his suit, even denouncing him as a no-account fortune hunter to her daugher, but Cathy had no intention of becoming an old maid. Her mother's objections to him only served to strengthen her will to have her own way, and finally she had suggested that they elope, telling him that "Mama would come around once they were actually man and wife."
Mama hadn't come around, though, and he'd been forced to take Cathy on the road with him, to bide his time until she came into her inheritance. It seemed that once they were married, Lady Luck had deserted him completely. Their accommodations slipped from good to fair, from bad to worse, and finally, in a crowded; clapboard building in Memphis, raging fever and chills had taken Cathy's life.
A month later he ran into Jack Mcl.enore aboard a riverboat bound for St. Louis. In the ensuing conversation, he learned that his mother-in-law had died in a fire that had swept through the estate of Seahaven, destroying the main house and most of the outbuildings.
Jack asked 'Bentley to extend his condolences to the absent Cathy, apparently too far into his cups to wonder why she wasn't with Bentle
y, and then congratulated him on the inheritance Cathy was due to receive. Bentley had been too despondent to inform him of Cathy's death and spent the night drinking in self-pity because a fortune had slipped through his hands.
It would take five long months of continual losses before the ill fortune that had dogged his footsteps finally bottomed out. His luck changed one day in Chicago, when, in a two-bit whorehouse near the river, he discovered a bedraggled blonde who looked almost exactly like his dead wife. It was as though he'd found the pot of gold at the rainbow's end! The girl's name was Maggie Biddles, and he'd had to clean her up, especially her language; but when he got through, no one but Cathy's mother would have known the difference. And Cathy's mother, let her rest in peace, was no longer alive to denounce the whore masquerading as her daughter.
Erasmus Paisley was startled when they'd appeared at his office three months later. Bentley smiled at that memory. It was the first and only time he'd ever seen the talky old gent speechless. It didn't matter that Cathy's eyes had been violet, while Maggie's were a cool green or that Cathy had been a touch taller and more slender. To Erasmus, Maggie BiddIes was Cathy Morton Harper. He hadn't known the girl well enough to note any differences, and when Bentley presented their marriage certificate, Maggie's identity as Cathy was confirmed.
Now, after so many years of playing the part, Maggie no longer existed. She had lived a lie for so long, she could not distinguish between who she'd been and who she was. Had the real Cathy been faced with the threat of being turned out into the world, she could not have been more incensed than her false counterpart.
Only ten minutes before she'd entered his room, Bentley had been outside Cantrell's door, eavesdropping on the conversation. He'd heard her cold-blooded suggestion to do away with him, and now she had the gall to ask his help in getting rid of the threat Cantrell had become! Bentley and Cathy were equally unscrupulous, willing to lie and cheat to maintain the easy life they'd adopted-trusting each other only because discovery would mean a prison term for fraud.
The difference now was that Bentley was not ready to add murder to the list of his misdeeds, especially not in league with a bitch who might well claim he'd planned and executed the whole thing himself! When she said she'd get everything, she'd told the truth for once and had merely covered her slip when he'd called her hand. A lot of bourbon had flowed down his throat these past few years, but not enough to make him the gullible fool she thought he was.
Now he tried to think of a way to foil her little plot without endangering himself. Even if he revealed the details to Cantrell, what assurance would he have that the man wouldn't press fraud charges against him? After all, he'd been living off Cantrell's inheritance for years. If he took off suddenly, was there a chance she'd still go through with it and claim he'd fled following the murder? He didn't need a warrant hanging over his head. Bentley took another swallow of liquor, trying to clear the cobwebs away from his thoughts. No, she needed an accomplice. Even if she drugged Cantrell, the girl wasn't strong enough to get him out to the cliffs.
Suddenly he had his solution-Paisley! The man had disliked Maggie from the first, almost as though he'd sensed she was an imposter. But only Bentley was able to prove that fact, and it would be his ace in the hole. He still had Cathy's death certificate carefully tucked away. He would exchange his testimony against Maggie for his own freedom from prosecution. Even if they couldn't get her for attempted murder, she'd be exposed for the fraud she was. Paisley would balk at first, but Bentley expected he'd come around if it meant getting rid of Maggie.
He'd be able to convince Cantrell-of the benefits to be gained by such a course of action.
Under the guise of a weekend spree in the city, he would seek out Paisley and make the best deal he could. If all went against him ... well, he'd still be able to make a quick exit. If the venture went well, though, all Maggie would inherit would be a stiff sentence in the Women's House of Correction.
The most appropriate part of her sentence, though, would be served after she was released.
She would be Maggie BiddIes again, a common whore whose only role would be feigning passion for the customers who'd laid out cold, hard cash for the use of her body. Bentley grinned to himself as he poured himself another drink. That prospect, if anything, was worthy of a toast! "To your future, Maggie BiddIes," he whispered, raising his glass high,
"and to the profession you never really left!"
Thirteen
In the cold light of the morning following her discussion with Bentley, nothing had changed Maggie's mind. She was as passionately commited to her revenge as she'd been to the love she'd felt for Devlan Cantrell. Maggie saw herself as a woman of extremes, of strong desires and high, consuming passions. Definitely not a woman to be played with and then tossed aside by some blue-blooded aristocrat.
Bentley had drawn her angry reproach by running off to the city for one of his weekend revels with the "boys," but Maggie had stopped short of calling him the fool he was. She still needed him, at least until tonight's charade was played out.
Later, after she'd sobbed out the story of her husband's horrible revenge against her lover, Bentley would pay for having squandered her money. Her money, she thought, accepting her tendency 'to be possessive of the wealth that would come to her on Dev's death. Had Dev cared for her feelings when he'd mentioned bringing his sweet beautiful Jenny here to be the mistress of Canterbury Hill and usurp every honor that belonged, if not by birthright to her, then by virtue of her tenure?
Maggie stared down the length of the dinner table at Dev. She and Bentley had come down for the evening meal almost fifteen minutes ahead of him, in order to slip the clear, odorless sleeping potion into Dev's wine. Maggie had planned every detail, down to the serving of a dark, heady Burgundy that suited the main course of beef and covered any bitter taste Dev might notice. He'd had a full glass already, and the steward had just refilled the crystal goblet.
It was time to pick an argument. Luckily Dev had been gone for most of the day Sunday, riding off in the morning and not returning until late afternoon. "Where were you yesterday, Dev?" she inquired now, in suitable irritation. "You didn't bother to inform anyone you were leaving. Cook was quite put out all the day, not knowing whether to expect you for luncheon or even dinner!"
Seated half the length of the table away, Bentley looked up, glancing at her before he turned to watch Dev's reaction. His hand shook, spilling a little of the Burgundy as he raised his glass to drink. Dev was frowning, his full, tawny brows drawn together as he stared at Maggie. "I wasn't aware I had to account for my where-abouts, ma'am," he retorted, curt and icy in his own irritation.
"It's just a matter of common courtesy, Dev. You needn't snap at me so! You may not be aware that good help is hard to come by or to keep." She had managed to sound hurt and indignant, as though she were only concerned with the smooth running of the household and not jealous of his unannounced absence. "I suppose you just happened to be out riding and met Anne de Lorimere or one of your other-"
"My, my," Bentley interrupted, grinning at Dev and winking, "you've gotten her dander up now, Devlan. Didn't you know Cathy likes to keep tabs on all her paramours?" His thin, hollow-cheeked face, with its sandy, muttonchop whiskers, sported an amused expression.
"Well, you may not have heard the latest, Bentley, but I'm no longer one of that considerable number," Dev answered churlishly, cutting into the center of his filet to find it too rare. He threw down his knife and glared at Maggie. "Apparently your concern hasn't extended to the performance of Canterbury's servants, cousin dear. I don't care for bloody raw meat, and your cook well knows it! The least you could do, as mistress of the house, is see that the meals are properly prepared."
Maggie was staring in open-mouthed shock that seemed quite real. She'd thought the argument would be harder to incite, but Dev was in the proper mood to play right into her hands. She was only slightly put off by his cutting remarks, knowing full well that he would pay for the
m in a very short while. She was flushed with righteous anger now as the part she played took hold. "Bentley is, and always has been a cad," she snapped, casting a chilling look his way, before adding, "But you ... you could show more concern for my feelings. After all we've been to-"
Again Bentley spoke up, cutting off her impassioned plea to Dev's feelings with, "All you've been is a convenient slut, my dear, so that your cousin didn't have to go in search of anyone to satisfy himself!" He smirked and added an aside to Dev, "Never ceases to amaze me how my dear wife can play the innocent young thing once she's lost someone's affections! Tiring attitude, don't you agree, old man?"
"You have my sympathies, Bentley," Dev answered, and a gasp came from Maggie's end of the table.
Her eyes wide and feverish-looking, about to spill over with tears, Maggie stood up and threw down her linen napkin. "I've had enough of this!" she shrieked in a wavering, hysterical voice. "You're both bastards; damn it, all men are! All you care about is using women, gratifying yourselves like ... like pigs before you cast them aside. Yes, that's right-rutting, selfish pigs, and I tell you I won't take it any more, I won't!" She put her hand up to her throat in distress.
Bentley looked slyly at Dev, who seemed bored by the display of temperament. He drank more of his wine, and as he stared down at his plate, an amused, inebriated giggle bubbled from his throat. "Well, all I got to say is … if we're all pigs ruttin' after you, m'dear, that makes you a sow, doesn't it?" He giggled again, slapping the table in delight at his own wit.
"A sow without any little piglets!" He looked up at her and held his glass high in a toast.
"Oink, oink, oink!"
Maggie screeched at the top of her voice, grabbing for her own glass. She tossed it at him in a fury, staining his white dress shirt with dark, blood-like splotches.
"You'll be sorry for this, both of you!" she screamed, then ran sobbing to the door, to pause there and toss out a final threat. "See if you're still laughing when the police find me at the bottom of the cliffs!" Tears coursed down her face, and she covered it with her hands, sobbing dramatically as she ran down the hall. A moment later the door to the gardens slammed with a reverberating crash.