Marrying the American Heiress: A Victorian Historical Romance (Brides of Scandal Book 2)

by Diana Bold

  If this was to be the end, he preferred not to look into his father’s face when he pulled the trigger.

  “Go ahead,” he said, his voice breaking with heartache and disillusionment. “Kill me if you must. But my death won’t change anything. Dylan knows the truth. As do Lady Natalia and Lord Basingstoke. You can’t kill us all.”

  Silence echoed behind him, and it was the loudest sound he’d ever heard. His heart hammered in his chest as he reached for the doorknob, very aware that each breath he took might be his last.

  His father was right. He’d been a fool to come here alone. Why hadn’t he realized that if his father had murdered once, he wouldn’t hesitate to do so again?

  The report of the gun shattered the silence.

  Michael flinched, but it only took a second to realize he hadn’t been hit. Then he turned and gazed upon a sight that would haunt him for the rest of his life.

  The earl had turned the gun on himself.

  Warren lay crumpled on the floor. A pool of blood seeped from the remnants of his shattered face.

  “No,” Michael whispered, his legs threatening to buckle beneath him. “Oh, God.”

  He crossed the room and sank to his knees beside his father’s body. Pressing his face against the earl’s chest, he listened in vain for a heartbeat.

  He couldn’t believe his father had chosen death over the scandal and shame of a trial.

  Mere seconds passed before the door to the room burst open and the earl’s valet rushed in. The servant’s gaze dropped to the earl, then flew back to Michael in stunned horror. “You killed him, sir. You killed the earl.”

  Michael held up one hand, sick with grief. “No. He did this to himself.”

  The valet stared at Michael as though he were the devil. Several other servants rushed into the room, and Michael realized how incriminating his presence here must seem.

  “They were having a terrible row,” the valet told the butler, as the old man shouldered his way to the front of the crowd. “Heard them all the way down the hall, I did.”

  “Send for the magistrates,” the butler ordered. “Make sure Lord Sherbourne doesn’t leave the house until they get here.”

  Michael wanted to tell them the truth, to explain his side of the story. He hadn’t shot his father. No one who knew him would ever believe that he had. But his vision blurred, and he couldn’t seem to manage a coherent thought. He pressed his hand to the spot where his father had stabbed him, and crimson welled between his fingers. He reeled with dizziness and sagged against the desk. Then his world went black.

  Chapter Thirteen

  In the days after Michael left, Emma spent far too much time at her window, staring down the road toward London. She still couldn’t believe he’d left her in the country by herself.

  Although she’d told him she might not wait for him, she knew she’d wait forever if she had to. But that didn’t mean she’d forgiven him.

  In fact, she intended to have quite a talk with her exasperating husband when he returned.

  She couldn’t bear that he didn’t trust her enough to share the things that hurt him. Didn’t he see they would be happier once he learned that she was on his side?

  Her first impressions of Sherbourne Hall had not changed with familiarity. She’d explored every inch of the place and only Michael’s Egyptian collection managed to keep her from going mad with boredom.

  The servants proved taciturn and set in their ways. They had no plans to alter their schedule for something as trifling as Emma’s comfort. She’d learned the hard way that breakfast was at seven sharp. If she happened to sleep in a wee bit, she had to wait for lunch.

  The housekeeper had informed her that if she wished a bath, she had to take it in the evening. The servants were far too busy with other chores to accommodate her in the morning.

  Even Emma’s attempts to speak with the cook about the menu had been met with stony noncompliance. The old woman told her that the menu had been chosen by the former Countess of Warren. The implication was obvious. If the menu was good enough for the former countess than it was certainly good enough for an American upstart like Emma.

  She’d learned to adjust. Thus far, she’d managed to keep from throwing a complete and utter fit, but her patience was wearing thin. She’d been born to manage a large household staff and longed to put her husband’s servants in their place. Unfortunately, she had no idea whether they were acting on Michael’s orders. She didn’t want to rock the boat until she knew for sure.

  So… She looked out the window, and she waited.

  Then, on the third day after Michael’s abrupt departure, she spied a rider coming down the road on a pale horse, his black cloak flying behind him in the wind. Despite her anger, her heartbeat accelerated. Michael had concluded his business in London far more hastily than she’d expected.

  Perhaps he’d missed her as much as she’d missed him.

  She checked appearance in the mirror, then raced down the stairs. By the time she reached the front door, the rider was already dismounting. Her relief turned to confusion when she realized it was Julian—not Michael—who’d come to call.

  “Hello, Emma.” Her husband’s friend strode up the front steps and grasped her hands with daring intimacy.

  She stared up into his handsome dark face and was stunned by his troubled expression. This grim stranger was not the laughing man she’d come to know.

  “Julian.” Her mind raced to find a reasonable explanation for his strained appearance. “Has something happened to Jane?”

  He shook his head and tugged her back into the house. “Jane is fine. But I have an urgent matter to discuss with you.”

  Emma’s pulse accelerated as she directed Julian to a small reception room. If nothing had happened to Jane, she could think of only one other possibility.

  “Is it Michael?” Her voice rose as she shut the door behind them. “Has something happened to him? Is he all right?”

  Julian sank into the nearest chair and stretched his long legs out in front of him. “I hardly know where to begin. Christ, I still feel as though this is all my fault. I should never have let him go see the old bastard alone.”

  “What old bastard? What are you talking about?”

  “The Earl of Warren is dead.” Julian stripped off his dusty riding gloves and ran one hand through his sweat-dampened dark hair. “Shot once in the head. Michael was in the room at the time, but he claims the old man committed suicide. He’s being held under house arrest, pending an investigation.”

  “Michael claims it was a suicide?” Emma sagged into the chair facing her guest. “Dear God. You don’t actually think Michael killed his own father?”

  Julian’s news stunned her to the depths of her soul. Oh, this was so much worse than she’d imagined.

  “I don’t know.” Julian looked away and shook his head. “And I don’t care. Believe me, the earl deserved far worse.”

  Emma stared at him, speechless. Julian obviously didn’t believe Michael’s story but was determined to stick by him nonetheless.

  “Think about what you’re saying.” She leaned forward and touched his hand, urging him to look at her, to tell her this was some sort of thoughtless joke. “You know Michael would never hurt anyone. Surely, there’s been some kind of mistake.”

  “The evidence is stacked against him.” Quiet sympathy filled Julian’s voice. “The servants heard a violent argument before the earl’s death. Michael was found kneeling over the body just moments after the shot was heard. There are several witnesses.”

  “This is ridiculous.” Emma struggled to take it all in. “Who are these witnesses? No one who knows Michael would accuse him of murder. None of this makes any sense.”

  Julian shrugged, at a loss for words. “I’m sure nothing will come of the investigation. They’ll never dare try to pin a murder on him. But the scandal is bound to have lingering effects.”

  “I don’t care about the scandal. I just want Michael to come through
this with his freedom.”

  Julian gave her a keen stare. “Perhaps Michael has misjudged you.”

  His words stunned her. Did Michael believe she’d abandon him when he needed her most?

  “When can I see him?” she asked, determined to disabuse her husband of those ridiculous notions as soon as possible.

  Julian had the good grace to look embarrassed. “He doesn’t want you to come to London. It’s for your own for protection. Can you understand that?”

  Emma sighed in exasperation. “No, I most certainly do not. He needs me by his side, now more than ever.”

  “Perhaps you’re right,” Julian agreed. “But I’m not certain the magistrate will let you see him. I had a devil’s own time getting in myself.”

  “I’m his wife, the new Countess of Warren. They must let me in. I refuse to take no for an answer.”

  Julian gave her an admiring look. “I do believe you’ll succeed, Emma. God knows I wouldn’t want to be the one to stand in your way.” Giving her one last searching glance, he stood and turned for the door. “Forgive my brevity, but I need to inform Dylan of the situation. He and Natalia should still be at her father’s country estate.”

  Dylan.

  Until this moment, Emma had been too shocked by Michael’s actions to even wonder why Michael had argued with his father in the first place, but now the mysterious conversation he’d had with his brother seemed a very important piece of the puzzle.

  “Wait, Julian,” she called, determined to know the truth. “What did Dylan tell Michael on the day of our wedding?”

  Julian paused, one hand on the door. “I don’t blame you for asking, but I don’t believe it’s my place to say.”

  “Damn you. I’m so damned tired of men and their ridiculous secrets.” She couldn’t shake the feeling that none of this would ever have happened if Michael had confided in her from the beginning.

  Julian’s shoulders shook with silent laughter. “Go to London, Emma. Ask Michael yourself. I think it would do him good to tell you. Just try not to judge him too harshly. Trust me when I say he had every reason in the world to do what he did.”

  * * *

  The magistrate ordered Michael confined to his huge bedroom suite until the authorities decided whether he’d killed his father. Apparently, enough doubt remained for them to think twice about throwing the new Earl of Warren into Newgate.

  Michael paced the perimeters of his lavish cell, still too numb and heartsick over what had happened to give a damn about the legalities.

  The events of the afternoon he’d confronted his father replayed themselves in his mind, a constant torment. Despite everything, he still couldn’t believe his own father had tried to kill him.

  He looked in the mirror at the blood-stained bandage on his shoulder and shuddered when he thought of the rage on the earl’s face when he stabbed him. How had everything gone so wrong?

  He shouldn’t have confronted his father in private. How stupid he’d been not to anticipate the earl’s reaction when faced with the loss of everything he held dear. He should’ve done it at their club. The earl would have been too worried about someone overhearing their conversation to contemplate murder.

  Of course, it was possible he’d have waited until Michael left the club. Or hired someone else to do it.

  The guilt and regret would haunt him until the day he died. But deep down, he knew the earl had taken his own life to enact the ultimate revenge.

  During those endless moments when he’d been so sure his father was going to shoot him in the back, the earl had realized that too many people already knew about his crimes and that the best way to hurt Michael was in turning the gun upon himself. Warren had also probably known Michael would blame himself.

  He’d probably found it amusing to think Michael might hang for his death.

  Michael wondered why he’d walked the straight and narrow his entire life, if everyone seemed so willing to believe the worst of him now.

  He’d never felt so alone.

  They’d allowed him one visitor; Julian, of course. It would have been impossible to keep the Earl of Basingstoke away.

  His friend had come as soon as he’d heard, but Michael sensed that despite his unqualified support, Julian thought he was guilty.

  Julian promised to get Michael the best solicitor money could buy, then offered to fetch Dylan and Emma. Michael had told him not to bother. No one could help him now.

  Still, he wished his lovely little American wife was here beside him. He longed to lie down in the circle of her arms and rest his head upon her chest.

  If he could only sleep, perhaps things would seem clear. He hadn’t slept in the two days since his father’s death, and his wound was beginning to fester. The walls were closing in on him, and he feared he was losing his mind.

  * * *

  Emma arrived in London late in the afternoon on the day after Julian informed her of Michael’s predicament. She’d chafed at the need to wait, but it had started raining soon after he’d left, and she’d known the futility of rushing off across the country at night.

  Even though she’d waited until morning, the roads had been a terrible quagmire. The trip to London had taken twice the time it should have. With every passing moment, her fear for the man she loved grew. She couldn’t accept the thought of losing him. Not now, when so much remained unsaid between them.

  Exhausted, she directed her driver to take her straight to the house on St. James Square. As Julian had warned, two constables guarded the house, though when she told them who she was, they didn’t dare prevent her entry.

  She was the Countess of Warren now, after all.

  Though she had been up all night worrying about her husband, she insisted upon seeing Michael first thing. Clearly unhappy, the sergeant agreed to allow her to visit with the prisoner.

  The prisoner. Absolutely ludicrous, to hear Michael referred to in such a way.

  She waited for the sergeant to open the door, then sighed and closed it firmly behind her.

  Michael had been pacing the room, but he stopped when he saw her. His face registered no emotion whatsoever. She lifted her chin and met his gaze, trying to determine whether he was pleased to see her.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked, and the answer she’d sought seemed clear. “I told Julian not to let you come.”

  Emma advanced toward him, determined to stand her ground. He looked terrible, drawn and haggard, his golden hair mussed. She doubted he’d slept at all during the last seventy-two hours. The blood-stained bandage that covered his bare chest and shoulder alarmed her.

  “You’ve been hurt!” Julian had left that part out. “What happened? Are you all right?”

  He seemed surprised by her concern. “It’s nothing. I’ll be fine.”

  “It’s nothing?” Her voice rose incredulously. “That’s what you said when I asked you what was troubling you before you left. Obviously, you were lying then, too.”

  He flushed and looked away, unable to meet her gaze.

  Anger warred with concern and created a maelstrom of emotion she could no longer control. “Well, that nothing ended with your father’s death. You have been accused of murder! Now I find you here, seriously injured, yet you still won’t tell me anything.”

  She advanced on him, determined to get some answers. “I’m your wife, Michael. Not some nameless stranger to be put off with meaningless platitudes.”

  “Christ, Emma.” Michael put up a hand as though to ward her off. “Don’t you understand that I’m only trying to protect you?”

  “Protect me from what?” she demanded. Then suddenly, she knew. “From you?”

  “Yes… No… God, I don’t know.” He closed his eyes, obviously at the end of his strength.

  If she weren’t so angry, she might have taken pity on him and ceased this line of questioning, but something told her that if she didn’t push him now, while he was weak, she’d never crack the impenetrable fortress around his heart.

>   She took a deep breath. “How did you get hurt?”

  His hand went to his chest, and he fingered the dried blood on the bandage. For a long moment, she thought he wouldn’t answer, but then he sighed and met her gaze. “My father,” he admitted. “We argued, and he stabbed me with a letter opener.”

  Dear lord.

  She swallowed, reminding herself this was what she had wanted. She’d asked for the unvarnished truth. No one had promised her it would be pretty.

  “Were you arguing over me?”

  “No, it had nothing to do with you.”

  “Thank God.” Relieved, she released a shuddering breath. She’d feared she was to blame for this fiasco.

  Michael reached out and pulled her into his arms. “You mustn’t blame yourself. This terrible thing would have happened even if I’d never met you.”

  She lifted her hands to his shoulders, then stilled and stared up into his flushed face. “You’re burning up. Why didn’t you tell me you had a fever?”

  “I’ve had other things on my mind.”

  She frowned, then shepherded him to the bed. “Sit down. Let me check your wound.”

  He did as she requested without argument, which only increased her dread. Fevers were dangerous.

  How long had his gone untended?

  She peeled away the bandage and winced when she saw the ugly gash his father had inflicted. She glanced up and found her own despair reflected in his fever-bright eyes.

  How could a father do such a thing to his own son? She dropped her gaze, knowing he wouldn’t appreciate her pity.

  As she suspected, the skin surrounding the wound was red and inflamed, an unmistakable sign of infection.

  “Didn’t they allow you to see a doctor?”

  He shrugged. “One of the servants saw to it. No doubt the magistrates are hoping that it will kill me. That would save them the trouble of trying to press murder charges against an earl.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” she told him tightly. “You could never murder anyone. Everyone knows it.”