The Suspect's Daughter

by Donna Hatch

  With no apparent reason, his eyes sharpened, all traces of that magical grin vanishing like the pop of a bubble. “Is she supposed to return and ‘catch’ us together?”

  Such suspicions shouldn’t have surprised her, but it hit like a slap. Her breath rushed out of her, leaving her deflated. “No.” Her tone came out wounded, defensive, but she didn’t care. “This isn’t some kind of ruse to claim you’ve compromised me so I can try to force you to marry me.”

  “Good. Because it won’t work,” he snapped.

  She turned away to hide the hot tears burning her eyes. “Why must you always assume the worst of me?” She knew the answer but hoped he’d tell her something, anything. It might take the sting out of his words.

  “Women always want something—money, power, status.” More quietly, he added, “Revenge.”

  She turned around. “Always?”

  For a second, uncertainty revealed itself in his expression and posture. After a quick, military turn, he strode to the fountain and stood staring at it, clenching and unclenching his fists.

  Jocelyn stood at a crossroads with so many possible paths toward hidden destinations that she simply couldn’t choose one, especially with her heart wounded from his latest attack. His was a self-defensive maneuver, of course, but it smarted.

  Or did he truly find her so undesirable that he couldn’t bear to consider a life with her?

  Chapter 25

  Grant stared at the ripples on the surface of a decorative pool below a fountain in the Fairleys’ conservatory, battling against the magnetic pull of Jocelyn, the comfort she offered, her sweetness, her obvious affection.

  Why would a nice girl—a genuinely unselfish, kind girl—care about a cynical, fragmented man like him? Either she truly didn’t care, and he had not yet discovered her motive, or she was naïve enough to believe he had anything to offer her. A name. The status of marriage. Which, despite appearances, might be all she sought. Surely she hadn’t run out of suitors and had set her sights on him out of desperation.

  His very core screamed at him to return to her and immerse himself in the beauty and grandeur of a woman’s touch. Of her touch.

  But he’d sworn off such pleasures.

  He strode to the far end of the room by the door leading back to the house proper. Perhaps a little distance would diminish temptation. It didn’t work. Jocelyn’s intake of breath shot through Grant, even at this distance.

  Her skirt rustled as she approached. Very softly she said, “What happened to you? Who hurt you?”

  He squeezed his eyes shut, grappling with the desire to tell her everything, to show her his wounds. She might pour her healing warmth over them. Was he willing to take that chance? Then what?

  A gentle hand rested on his back, so warm, so long-absent, so welcome. “Who was she?”

  Clenching his fists, he focused on trying to breathe.

  Her voice rippled over him. “You can tell me anything. Your secrets are safe with me.”

  Safe. With her. Was he really?

  She stepped closer and lay her head and both hands against his back. The warmth created an ache deep in his core, and yet, also as a calming sensation.

  “Tell me,” she whispered. “What was her name?”

  “Isabel.” He swallowed. The name burned his tongue.

  “Where did you meet Isabel?”

  He clenched his jaw but it came out anyway. “At an officers’ ball.”

  “Was she beautiful?”

  “She was more than beautiful—she was mysterious and exotic. Every man there practically threw themselves at her feet, but she smiled at me. Me.”

  He bit back the rest. The story remained his alone. No one knew the full truth. To share that much of his soul with another person, especially a woman, left him shaking in fear. Fear. Grant, who’d faced war and death and danger, who scrabbled in the streets with cutthroats, was afraid. Afraid of revealing his worst pain.

  Jocelyn stepped closer until the full length of her rested against his back. Heat seeped into him, bringing with it a sensation he could only identify as safety. Fear dissolved. He wasn’t alone. Years of loneliness faded away as if it had guided him to this single moment.

  Still softly, as if applying balm on an open wound, she asked, “What happened at the ball with Isabel?”

  He sawed his teeth together, but the story fought its way out and the last of his defenses crumbled. “We danced and laughed and I thought I’d never found a more perfect woman. I wanted to marry her that night, but as a lieutenant, I didn’t have much financially to offer her. And I didn’t want to rush her.” A caustic laugh tore out of his core. “I begged her to let me see her again, and she agreed. I courted her, and her father—or at least the man I thought was her father—encouraged me. I thought she loved me. And I loved her. I was happier than I’d ever been.” Again came a laugh—harsh, angry, wounded.

  He took several breaths but they failed to still the rage shaking him. The lush foliage around them filled with life and beauty mocked the cold bleakness inside him as memories stabbed at him, turning every tender, passionate moment in Isabel’s arms to the sinister lies they had been. But she’d appeared to love him so convincingly, that even when he sifted through the memories, seeking clues, none appeared. Either she’d been perfectly focused on her role of seductress to devastate his heart and soul before she led him to his death, or he was completely unlovable.

  Jocelyn’s arms wound around his waist as she held him from behind. He rested his arms on top of hers and found his voice again.

  “One day, she asked me to meet her in the woods that night. I thought she’d prepared another lover’s bower. I was so giddy I could hardly think. I got permission to go on a personal errand and left. Alone.” Whistling and practically skipping his way to meet her, he’d been so sure of himself, so sure of her love. “She was waiting for me. With friends.”

  Men stepped out of the shadows to beat him nearly senseless while she watched, smiling coldly. Isabel’s beautiful face, twisted in hatred, haunted his memory. Even then, he couldn’t believe she’d used him, couldn’t believe she’d betrayed him—worse, couldn’t believe she’d lied about loving him.

  He swallowed. “After they overpowered me, she leaned over and said, ‘This is for my father, General Lavier.’ Lavier was a target I’d eliminated two months prior to that. She’d hunted me down to take revenge. But killing me wasn’t enough; she had to destroy me first by cutting out my heart as effectively as if she’d used a knife.”

  He stopped, overcome by memory, by the desolation that arose each time he thought of it. Jocelyn stood motionless against his back, her arms around him, her head resting on him, sniffling softly in the silence.

  “She cut my face with her father’s ring. They dragged me off to prison and delivered me to their torturer…” Devastated by Isabel’s duplicity, sickened by the knowledge that she had never loved him, he’d nearly succumbed to the welcome embrace of death. He tried to swallow but choked. “If Barnes hadn’t disobeyed orders to search for me, I would have died there.”

  Finally, Jocelyn spoke, her voice rough with emotion. “I’m so sorry, Grant.” She shuddered.

  Footsteps neared, along with loud, off-key humming. “Jocelyn, sweeting,” Jocelyn’s aunt, Mrs. Shaw called out.

  Jocelyn stepped away and turned her back, wiping her cheeks.

  “We should get back to the others now.” Mrs. Shaw pushed the door open the rest of the way and entered, beaming. Her smile dropped as her gaze flitted between them. She reached for Jocelyn but dropped her hand.

  Grappling to restore his composure, Grant refused to look at Jocelyn. Swiftly, he rebuilt his casual façade to eliminate traces of any undesirable emotion. He offered Mrs. Shaw a tight smile. “Yes, we should.”

  Aunt Ruby’s gaze darted between Grant and Jocelyn, her expression collapsing as if years’ worth of planning had failed. “Is everything all right?”

  “Fine. We should return.” He held an arm
out to Jocelyn. “Miss Fairley?”

  Still facing away, Jocelyn drew a shuddering breath and turned, her expression serene but her gaze focused on the floor. Her hand rested on his arm so lightly that he glanced down to be sure it was actually there.

  In silence they left the room. In silence, they walked along the corridor. In silence, they returned to the drawing room. During that long walk, Grant almost cursed out loud. He’d revealed the most personal part of himself. No one needed to know that much about him. He’d be less vulnerable if he were naked. Every muscle screamed at him to run, to escape, to find safety in solitude.

  Clark hovered nearby and Grant gestured to him. “Send for my coach.”

  As the boy rushed off, Grant escorted the ladies to the drawing room and strode directly to the host. With each step, he forced all those memories back into their prison and locked the doors.

  He approached Mr. Fairley who was still engrossed in the game. “Sir, thank you for the invitation. Good night.”

  Fairley turned to him in surprise. “Leaving so soon?”

  “Yes, sir. But I…enjoyed myself this evening.” And then it hit him; he truly enjoyed dinner with the Fairleys, surprisingly so. “I appreciate your hospitality.”

  Fairley stood and offered a handshake. “Then I bid you good night. I hope you will call upon us again in the future. You are always welcome here.” Warmth and sincerity rang in both his eyes and his expression.

  This man was no murderer. If Grant had any doubt, the certainty hit him now.

  “Thank you, sir.” Grant sketched a bow. Though his muscles bunched to run, to make a quick escape, he bowed to Jocelyn. “Good night, Miss Fairley.”

  All the blue in her eyes resembled shattered marbles. “Good night, Mr. Amesbury.”

  He collected his coat and hat, and strode as evenly as possible to his waiting coach. Outside, a crow took flight. Perfect. That’s all he needed, a little morbid mood-setting and he was ripe for a stupid gothic. He must be the brooding hero. Only he was no hero.

  As Clark opened the coach door, he said, “I found out that one of the footmen Jackson caught leaving was just going to visit his mother who is ill. He goes to see her twice a week and takes her medicine. And the pretty maid he wondered about? When she sneaks out it’s to meet her lover. He’ll follow her the next time she leaves, just to be sure. So that really only leaves the stable boy as a possible suspect. Jackson will keep a closer eye on him.”

  Grant nodded, only half listening. Jackson would send a full report to Barnes so Grant didn’t need details. What he did need was a good stiff drink. Or to go bang his head against a wall. Repeatedly.

  Cole might know what to say. Loathe as he was to accept Cole’s advice, perhaps that was exactly what Grant needed. Besides, his brother had a well-stocked wine cellar.

  “Take me to Tarrington House,” he called up to the driver.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Grant stared out of the coach windows, but the darkness, broken only by the occasional lamp, created a mirror. He eyed his reflection. His mother wouldn’t have recognized him. Oh he looked more like her son in his present clothing and with his new haircut than he had in years, but everything else about him had changed. The scar. The darkness in him. The attitude he’d adopted toward the world in general and women in particular—until recently. Even the way he moved.

  Would she be saddened by his changes?

  Inside Cole’s house, the butler informed him that the earl and countess were out but were expected to return soon. Grant wandered to the drawing room. A harp stood in the corner. The pianoforte sat in the other. He ambled to the pianoforte and ran his fingers along the keys. Memories of lessons ran through his mind, the way his mother’s eyes shone when he played. Then, a new image, one of sitting next to Jocelyn as she played, the comfort of her closeness edged into his thoughts.

  She’d listened to him as he described his reaction to loud noises, as he’d confessed his acts of violence. She never withdrew, or shuddered, or expressed revulsion. She simply accepted him, his darkness. She’d even held him, from behind so he could accept her touch, as he revealed all the horror of Isabel’s betrayal. But now. Now, he felt revealed, exposed, defenseless.

  He strode to a sideboard table and poured himself a port.

  Cole’s voice rang out from the foyer. “He’s here?”

  Grant turned as Cole appeared wearing full evening wear and dancing shoes.

  “Grant.” Cole crossed the room and poured himself a cherry brandy. Then settling in a leather armchair, he eyed Grant. “Sit.”

  Grant drained his glass, refilled it, and sat. “Thank you for the use of your coach and driver.”

  Cole waved it off. “I have more than one, you know. Any of them are at your disposal.”

  Sinking into a chair, Grant sifted through possible ways to discuss his thoughts, casting off everything that came to mind.

  “She’s gotten to you, hasn’t she?” Cole’s remarkably gentle voice drew his focus.

  Grant went still.

  “She’s a fine woman, Grant. And yes, love was scary and it made me feel extremely vulnerable. But it’s worth it. The more deeply you love her, the more deeply you let her in, the happier you’ll be.”

  A terrifying concept, but he’d experienced a taste of what Cole said. Since Grant had started a habit of speaking openly, a sickness he hoped would cure itself soon, he voiced his deepest fear. “But what if I can’t make her happy? What if I don’t have enough to give her?”

  “Give her what you can and trust her to accept you as you are. Then, the next day, give her more.”

  Grant studied his hands, turning over the possibilities. Did he dare? He stood. “It’s late.”

  “Can I offer you a ride home?”

  Shaking his head, he said, “Walking helps me think.”

  “Good night.”

  Within moments, Grant collected Clark and started the walk home. Whistling, Clark trotted along next to him. As they turned a corner, someone moved in the shadows. Grant stepped in front of Clark, putting his hand out to keep the boy behind him. He reached for the pistol he’d tucked into the inside pocket of his evening coat. The shadowy figure stepped into the circle of lamplight and took on a feminine form. Maggie.

  Glaring, he approached her. “I thought you said my half crown was enough that you wouldn’t have to work for a week.”

  She bit her lip provocatively and smiled. “I’m waiting for you, Mr. Grant. Oooh.” She eyed his clothing. “Why Mr. Grant, yer all dressed up like a fine gentleman. Shall I pretend I’m a fine ladybird, savin’ meself for ye?”

  Clark’s curiosity about the girl almost burned a hole in the side of Grant’s head, but he ignored the boy. “The offer stands. I’ll bring you to Mrs. Goodfellow’s.”

  “I’m not going there.”

  “Didn’t she treat you well?”

  “She was kind. But I ain’t goin’ t’ work fer no rich man in ’is house.”

  “Why, Maggie?”

  She let out a sound of derision, and then turned it into a bitter laugh. “’Cause I jes love what I do now. And I won’t stop until I’ve had ye.” She touched his arm, stepped closely and put a hand on his chest. She lifted her chin up. “Kiss me, and I’ll give you a little taste of what I have for you.”

  Wordlessly, he shook his head.

  She whispered, her eye imploring, “I’ll please ye, I will.”

  He whispered, “No.”

  “I’ll make a special for ye, only five bob.”

  He touched the side of her cheek. “I’ll give you fifty bob if you let me take you to Mrs. Goodfellow’s. And stay there until you get a job.”

  “Fifty?”

  Grant peered down into her young, but world-weary face. “Fifty.”

  She chewed her lip.

  He gripped both of her thin shoulders. “Did you used to work in a big house, Maggie?”

  She nodded.

  “Did the man of the house hurt you?”

>   Head lowered, she nodded again. Grant suppressed a savage urge to hunt down that man and tear him apart. He kept his voice as steady and gentle as possible. “So you left? And now you let other men hurt you like that?”

  Defensively, she said, “I tried to find another job but I ’ad no references. I tried to work in a shop but they all turned me ’way. I got so ’ungry and I didn’t know what to do. A gentleman offered to take me ’ome and…it wasn’t so bad—better than when the master….” She trailed off, swallowed, and continued. “The gentleman, ’e fed me and gave me money so I could eat th’ next day. It’s easier than workin’ my fingers to nubs all day and getting chilblains, all the while knowin’ come nighttime, the master might…” Her face crumpled.

  Fisting his hands, Grant held onto his rising temper and focused his energy on sifting through possible solutions. “What were your assignments at the big house?”

  “Lots o’ stuff—washin’, cleanin’, but mostly I was the cook’s assistant. I can cook—I’m right good at it.”

  Grant glanced at Clark who stared at him with open-mouthed shock. “Cook for me, Maggie. I usually eat at a pub, but there is a small kitchen in my rooms. I’ll hire you. But no more whoring, do you understand? I’ll dismiss you if you do.”

  She opened and closed her mouth. Then, seemed to draw herself up. “Yes. I understand. I will serve only you—not other men, too.”

  Firmly, Grant said, “I am only asking you to cook for me. Nothing else.”

  She studied him warily but nodded. “Sure, sure.” She shrugged. “I already offered meself to you anyway so if you change your mind, I’ve no right to complain.”

  “I won’t change my mind. You’re safe with me. Come.” He tugged her elbow and started walking.

  She went willingly with him. Every few steps, she turned a searching gaze his way. Moments later, she said, “I thankyee.”

  He shook his head at the absurdity of fate. “First pickpockets, now prostitutes.”