Pouring himself another glass of whiskey, this time after taking time to admire the clarity of the amber liquid, a smug smile on his mouth, he sat down and contentedly sipped his drink. With Manchester dead and Morgana in his possession, he could arrange for a tragic accident to happen to Jacko—he wasn’t about to run the risk of facing another incident like tonight’s. And as for Ben ... He smiled. Newgate was such a dangerous place—who knew what could happen to a young man so unfortunate as to be incarcerated there? Sometimes people even died in Newgate.
Of course, he didn’t expect Morgana to tamely fall in with his plans. She needn’t know anything, and although she was bound to suspect that he had something to do with the sudden demise of all the men in her life, he was confident that after a few months of his most assiduous and, if necessary, brutal care, she would be quite amenable to forgetting all about Manchester and would be willing, nay, eager, to marry him. A quiet wedding, a leisurely honeymoon in Europe, and then this winter, at the height of the season, he would appear on the London scene with his bride at his side, the missing and long-thought-dead Devlin heiress! No longer would those haughty peers look down their aristocratic noses at him—he would be one of them, lifted to those highest circles of society by the blue blood of his lovely bride.
He spent several more pleasurable moments dwelling on the bright future that was going to be his before his thoughts turned to the Earl and Countess of Devlin. But even thinking about Stephen and Lucinda and the fact that they already knew Morgana was alive didn’t dampen his gleeful mood. In a matter of hours, Morgana would be safely beyond their reach and would remain so until he was ready to put the final phase of his plan in action.
A short distance down the hall from where he sat happily contemplating the success that would soon be his, Stephen and Lucinda were in Stephen’s room, and there was nothing particularly happy about either one of them. Stephen was clearly shattered by the news that not only was Morgana still alive, but she was married to Royce Manchester! Lucinda, her hazel eyes snapping with rage, was furious about the stunning turn of events, perhaps most of all for having let herself believe that Stephen’s plan would work. But while Stephen could only envision their eventual exposure and disgrace, Lucinda was not about ready to let that happen!
Stephen was sitting despondently in a chair, oblivious to Lucinda’s rantings as she stormed about the room, his mind dwelling painfully on the stark ruin that stared them in the face. There was no way out. His scheme to murder Morgana had obviously failed, and he dared not seek out Clara to discover what had gone wrong. And nothing, he thought with weary despair, could have gone more wrong than to have Morgana married to Royce Manchester! He was ruined! If only, he mused bitterly, I had not been so squeamish and had disposed of the child myself! But he had not, and now he was going to pay for his lack of fortitude. Aware of the horrible scandal that would eventually break over their heads, he felt a shudder of hopelessness rack his body. Stephen could not even bear to think of the stares and whispers, the icy condemnation, that would follow him, and he winced when he considered that more than likely, he would end out his days in prison for what he had done. No. He would kill himself before he would suffer such an ignoble fate!
Lucinda suddenly stopped her wild pacing and glared at her silent husband. “Have you even heard a word of what I’ve been saying?” she demanded angrily.
Stephen looked at her, feeling strangely detached from everything. “No,” he answered quietly. “But it doesn’t matter anymore. We will be destroyed once Manchester introduces her to society—I suggest that in the meantime, you make whatever plans you feel are necessary for you and Julian.”
Lucinda stared at him, and her lip curled contemptuously. “I suppose you’re simply going to give up? Hide your head and hope that everything will just go away? Well, it won’t, my addlepated, bird-witted coxcomb! We have to do something!”
His mind already made up about what he would do, her insults rolled smoothly off his back, and with an odd calmness, he replied, “No, not we—you have to do something. Leave me out of it.”
Lucinda took a deep, furious breath. “All right!” she hissed. “I will take care of it—just as I have taken care of things in the past.” She sailed from the room, leaving Stephen to stare indifferently at the door that slammed shut behind her.
Nearly vibrating with fury, Lucinda raged around her own room as she considered the quickest and easiest method by which to get rid of Morgana. She would have to do it herself, she thought savagely, she dared not involve anyone else, and this time Hester’s brat would die! Nothing was going to prevent Julian from inheriting what was rightfully his! Nothing!
Events seemed surprisingly normal the next morning at Lime Tree Cottage, considering all that had happened over the past few days, and after breakfast, declining Royce’s warm invitation to come for a drive with him, Morgana left him with Jack and Zachary and sought a few moments of quiet walking through the glorious garden at the rear of the house. For a bride of less than twenty-four hours, she was strangely pensive, and while marrying Royce resolved quite a few conflicts within her, she was increasingly troubled about the reasons for their hasty marriage. She didn’t doubt that he enjoyed making love to her, and she wasn’t so foolish not to realize that he had some measure of affection for her—but she couldn’t help wondering about his motives for marrying a young woman of her station and circumstance, especially since he had never mentioned one word of love! Had the scar on her hip played any part in his reasons for marrying her? Was there something more that he wasn’t telling her? Sighing, she pushed away her unprofitable thoughts and tried to focus on something more pleasant.
It can’t be denied either that the attempt on her life preyed on her mind, and the fact that Jack had recognized the one-eyed man’s voice last night hadn’t helped to still the persistent fear that she would wake up soon and discover herself firmly in the power of the one-eyed man. Just knowing that he was here in the area frightened her, and coupled with the knowledge that someone wanted her dead, it was no wonder that she was not precisely the glowing bride one would expect.
Royce and the other two men left a short while later to drive into Tunbridge Wells to assess the results of last night’s doings, and she was walking alone in the garden when Chambers approached her, a slight frown on his face. “Madam, this just arrived for you,” he murmured uncertainly. “John Bullard said a groom from the local stables delivered it to him and insisted that it be taken to you immediately. Said it was a matter of life and death!” His eyes troubled, he handed her a plain white envelope.
A feeling of premonition slid icily down her spine, but not willing for Chambers to see her agitation, she smiled serenely and, after taking the envelope, waved him on his way. Selecting a stone seat embraced by a bevy of spicily scented flowers, she sat down and, with trembling fingers, opened the envelope and took out the single sheet of paper.
Her gaze immediately fell to the signature, and her breath caught sharply in her throat at the sight of a crude drawing of a skull with one eye blacked out. The one-eyed man! Numbly she read the curtly worded note, hardly able, at first, to take in the terrible things it promised if she did not meet him near the small bridge just a half mile from the gatekeeper’s cottage at five o’clock this evening. The one-eyed man swore to kill Royce, and Morgana never doubted that unless she met his demands, Royce would be a dead man! Her initial reaction was to confide in Royce, but before she had taken even one step toward the house, she remembered that Royce and the others had driven to Tunbridge Wells, and in that same split second she realized sickly that telling Royce was the last thing she could do. If Royce knew of the threats against him, he would prevent her from meeting the one-eyed man... .
Morgana knew the one-eyed man did not make idle threats and that if she wanted Royce to live, she had no choice but to meet him as he had demanded. She didn’t come to that decision lightly, but when she had exhausted every avenue of escape that she could possibly think
of, it all came down to this: Did she dare risk Royce’s life? There was one and only one answer to that terrible question, and fatalistically she knew that nothing would stop her from waiting at that bridge at five o’ clock this evening. Every nerve in her body rebelled against that idea, but with a dull sort of apathy, she accepted that it was her fate that in order to save the man she loved most in the world, she would have to return to the person she hated most in the world.
She had always suspected that this time with Royce was only a dreamlike interlude, that it would have to end someday. Deep inside of herself she’d known that, known that the joys and sweet memories of these wonderful weeks would have to last her forever. If she felt any surprise, it was only that the one-eyed man had waited this long before ripping her world asunder.
It wasn’t until she was sitting at her dressing table, the note lying folded in the center of the table, thinking desperately of some lie to tell Royce that would insure she would be gone before he came looking for her, that it occurred to her that there was a way out she had not considered. She could kill the one-eyed man! It was worth a try, and if she failed ... She swallowed with difficulty. If she failed, it wouldn’t matter anyway—her life would be over whether the one-eyed man killed her in a rage for daring to strike at him, or kept her alive and separated her from Royce.
Her decision made, she immediately began to consider how she was going to accomplish the act. A knife was the weapon with which she was most proficient, and it would be the easiest weapon to conceal on her body, and not willing to think upon it further, she went in search of one particular lethal instrument. The cottage had come equipped with a weapons collection, artfully displayed in a small room near the billiard room, and entering that room a few minutes later, she wandered about, checking all the various deadly instruments to be found there. It didn’t take her very long to find precisely what she was looking for—a nicely balanced dagger from the seventeenth century. The slim, deadly weapon fit her hand nicely, and with a fierce smile of satisfaction, she slipped the dagger inside the small reticule she had brought with her in which to hide it.
If Royce and any of the others noticed that she seemed oddly subdued when they returned from town shortly after noon that day, no one commented on it, and when she mentioned having a headache just before four o’clock that afternoon and stated that she wanted to lie down quietly for a few hours, no one was very surprised. A concerned expression on his handsome features, Royce escorted her to the stairs. “Would you like me to keep you company, sweetheart?” he asked softly.
Realizing miserably that this could be the last time that she ever saw him, she felt a lump swell up painfully in her throat, and her eyes misted. Hungrily she stared at him, memorizing the sweep of his long black lashes, the intense brilliance of those amber gold eyes, and the chiseled planes of his beloved face. Helplessly she reached out to brush back an unruly lock of tawny hair, and her voice unnaturally husky from the emotions she was concealing, she muttered, “No. Just let me lie down quietly until it is time to dress for dinner.” She forced a smile to her lips and managed to say lightly, “And if you disturb me before then, I shall be quite cross with you.”
He grinned. “Very well, my dear. You have my word on it—I shall let no one, including me, into your room until then.”
It was what she wanted to hear and yet she lingered, not able to tear herself away from him. Royce was watching her intently, almost as if he knew that something was very wrong, and aware that it would be fatal to arouse his suspicions, she turned and was on the point of going upstairs when there was the sound of approaching horses. Curious, she stood there, one foot on the bottom stair, Royce still by her side, as Chambers appeared and walked sedately across the wide hall to answer the knock on the door.
After a brief moment of low conversation, Chambers said over his shoulder as he ushered two gentlemen into the wide hallway, “Sir, it is your cousin come to visit from London.”
The two fashionably attired men were strangers to Morgana, but she had barely noticed the older man before her disbelieving gaze fell upon the classically sculpted features of the tall, young, dark-haired man standing just behind him. A small, shocked gasp escaped from her as she stared mesmerized into features that bore an amazing resemblance to her own! Clutching the banister as if it were the only thing that kept her standing, she watched as his gray eyes met hers and his face reflected the astonished consternation that she knew was on her own face. Her voice rusty and thick, she demanded, “Who are you?”
Like a man in a daze, he took two steps toward her and said almost numbly, “I am Julian Devlin. Who are you?”
CHAPTER 30
Royce had known that Morgana was going to come face-to-face with either Julian or Stephen eventually—he just hadn’t expected it to be under these circumstances, and he cursed himself roundly for not having foreseen just such an awkward incident as the one that was rapidly unfolding in his foyer. Unlike the other occupants of the spacious hallway, he recovered himself immediately and, with magnificent aplomb, murmured, “I think that I can answer both of your questions—Morgana, I’d like to introduce you to a gentleman I believe is your half brother, Julian Devlin. Julian, this is my wife, Morgana Manchester.”
George, who had been as transfixed as the others, visibly started at Royce’s words, and fumbling for his quizzing glass, quickly positioned it and stared intently at Morgana. “Apparent she’s a Devlin,” George finally stated, “but she ain’t Julian’s sister, even on the wrong side of the blanket, and if she was Morgana, she’d be his cousin, not his sister, but she ain’t Morgana—Morgana Devlin died at birth! Fact!”
In utter bewilderment, everyone stared at George. “What the devil are you talking about?” Royce demanded sharply, one arm curved protectively around Morgana’s slim shoulders.
George glanced at the fascinated expression on Chambers’s face and said meaningfully, “Think we should retire to some place less public.”
Zachary and Jack, drawn by their voices, stepped into the hall at that moment, and Zachary, his gaze darting from one face to the other, took in the situation instantly. Ignoring Jack’s astonished gulp when he caught sight of Julian, Zachary swiftly crossed to Julian’s side and, grasping his nerveless hand, pumped it vigorously up and down and exclaimed heartily, “Julian! By heaven, this is a pleasant surprise! Come into the salon and let me introduce you to a new friend of mine, Jack Fowler, Morgana’s brother.”
Silently blessing his cousin for his tact, Royce said smoothly, “Of course! Let us all adjourn to the salon, where we may be more comfortable.” Gently urging a dazed Morgana along with him, he efficiently herded everyone toward the salon, stopping only long enough to say to Chambers “Please bring us a tray of refreshments—whiskey preferably!”
Numbly Morgana let Royce guide her to a chair in the salon and sinking down on it, she was unable to tear her gaze away from Julian Devlin’s so very familiar face. Julian was having the same difficulty and the two of them were oblivious to everyone else, each one hardly able to believe in the stunning similarity of their features. Their resemblance to each other was even more remarkable since they were both of the same age and they could very well have been twins except for the differences that existed between Morgana’s feminine features and Julian’s definitely masculine ones.
There was an uncomfortable silence in the room, Royce closely watching Morgana, George absently twirling his quizzing glass as he stared off into space, Zachary’s and Jack’s eyes moving from first Morgana’s face and then to Julian’s while those two continued to look at each other in incredulous disbelief. Chambers’s entrance, with a tray loaded with several different kinds of refreshments, a few moments late momentarily introduced an air of normalcy and there was a flurry of movement and sporadic conversation while everyone was served.
Upon the butler’s departure, silence would have fallen again had not Royce, a glass of whiskey in his hand, said bluntly, “And now George, would you mind explaini
ng your very odd statements earlier.”
“Nothing very odd about ’em!” George retorted smartly, “Told you Morgana Devlin died... .” he thought a bit and then continued, “nineteen years ago this spring. Everyone knew it! Why I even had a wager with Newell about whether Andrew’s get would be a boy or girl! Remember it distinctly! Remember I won because the child was a girl—Morgana!”
George’s words made even less sense than his previous ones, and shaking his head, Royce asked grimly, “Who the hell is Andrew, and what does he have to do with this situation?”
Julian roused himself slightly, and tearing his eyes away from Morgana’s face, he said quietly, “I assume he is talking about Andrew Devlin, the sixth Earl of St. Audries; he was my uncle—my father inherited the title from him.”
“Exactly!” George said happily. “Andrew Devlin, capital fellow! Liked ’im! Everybody did!”
“Are you telling me that Morgana is Andrew’s byblow and not Stephen’s?” Royce demanded with an edge to his voice.
“Already told you she ain’t Morgana, but she couldn’t be Stephen’s, has to be Andrew’s,” George replied testily.
“How do you know that?”
George looked at Royce as if he were rather simpleminded and then, turning to Morgana, asked, “How old are you, gel?”
It never occurred to her to object to his right to question her, and she replied unhesitatingly, “Nineteen. I became nineteen this year, on the ninth of May.”
At her answer, George’s face paled, he took an agitated step backward, stared hard at her, and reaching for his quizzing glass, examined her even more closely from head to toe, almost as if she were some new form of life. Putting his quizzing glass down, he began to pace up and down the elegant room, his brow furrowed and his lips pursed. Obviously he was deep in thought, and everyone watched him, waiting with breathless expectancy for him to speak. Stopping suddenly in front of Morgana, he barked, “Your mother! What was her name?”
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