by Laura Landon
That was why his rejection hurt so much. She more than cared for him.
She loved him.
Her heart stopped with the same suddenness as the thudding of the mallet on the wall. Everything in the room was alive, and Claire wondered if she’d uttered her most secret thoughts aloud. But it wasn’t that. She knew it when she looked at Barnaby and his eyes were riveted on the spot the major had just hit.
He hit it again.
The sound this time wasn’t like a hammer hitting a barrel filled with dirt, but a hammer hitting an empty keg. It was hollow—the sound ringing, then echoing as if there were nothing inside to stop it. The major dropped the mallet to the floor and ran his hands over the spot he’d just hit.
Barnaby stepped closer. “What is it, Major?”
The expression on Barnaby’s face was so intense Claire wondered that he didn’t climb up the other side of the ladder to help investigate.
The major didn’t answer, but deftly moved his fingers over a square area. Claire stepped closer, her heart thudding in her chest. If they found it, she couldn’t let him have it. Alex’s life depended on it.
She looked around the room, searching for something to use to take it away from him. But there was nothing.
She turned her attention back to where he still worked. He ran his fingers over a large spot, then lifted a flap in the wallpaper about two inches in diameter. He looked closer at the circle, then glanced down at Barnaby.
Claire’s heart thundered faster.
“Linscott, there’s a key in the left top drawer of Hunt’s desk. Get it.”
Barnaby ran to the desk and opened the drawer. With the key in his hand, he ran back to the major and handed it up.
Claire watched in silence as the major inserted the key in the opening and turned. With a slight pull, the secret square opened, revealing a safe in the wall that had been impossible to see by just looking.
The major reached inside and removed the contents item by item: a small box, a larger envelope, a thin ledger, and some loose papers. Last to come out was a book. A Bible.
The major climbed down the ladder and took the contents of Hunt’s safe to the desk, where he laid them out.
Claire didn’t think she could stand the suspense. Couldn’t stand knowing the necklace was there. Couldn’t stand to think she might not be able to get it.
The major sat down in Hunt’s chair, and Barnaby stood behind him. Claire took another step closer, her knees trembling, her eyes riveted on the contents.
The major picked up the small box first and opened it. It was the right size for the necklace Hunt had stolen. When he opened it, Claire expected to see the necklace that was responsible for Hunt’s death and Alex being in danger.
The major emptied the jewels on the top of the desk and looked at the contents of the box. The jewels were beautiful and without a doubt worth a fortune, but looked more like Huntingdon heirlooms: two rings, a diamond necklace, and a string of pearls. There were two or three brooches and a beautiful diamond pendant. But she could tell from the look on the major’s face that the Queen’s Blood wasn’t there.
Claire’s heart lurched in her chest. The necklace wasn’t there. Their only means of freeing Alex wasn’t there.
Chapter 26
Claire sank down on the nearest chair and watched while the major went through the other items. He opened the ledger next, although Claire hardly cared what Hunt had written down in the book. How could she? Nothing else scattered on the desk would save Alex. Even giving Roseneau every Huntingdon heirloom they could get their hands on wouldn’t save him. Only the Queen’s Blood would.
Claire watched with a growing sense of despair while the major gave the ledger a quick glance, then set it aside to search the large envelope.
Claire could tell it didn’t contain a necklace, but only papers. He pulled them out and laid them on the desk in front of him. From where she sat, they all looked like legal documents, probably deeds to properties Hunt’s family owned. He scanned each document, then laid it to the side when he was finished.
All but one.
She saw his reaction, the quick intake of breath that lifted his shoulders. A frown darkened his face as he read the paper. When he reached the bottom of the page, he shoved his chair back from the desk and stood. Barnaby stepped to the side to get out of his way.
The look on Barnaby’s face said that he was as confused by the wild glare in the major’s eyes as she was.
There was a look of utter disbelief on the major’s face. He walked to the window with the paper in his hand, and for several long seconds he didn’t move. Only read the document again and again.
Claire kept her gaze riveted on his tense body, waiting for some clue as to what he’d found.
He closed his eyes, as if he needed to block out the words he’d just read, then he slowly held out the paper.
Barnaby took it and read the words. His face turned white and his hands trembled.
“Bloody hell! What does this mean?”
The major shook his head, then moved his gaze to where Claire sat in the chair watching them.
Barnaby waved the paper in the air. “This can’t be right! Tell me it can’t!”
But the major didn’t tell him it couldn’t. Instead, he crossed back to the desk and opened the large book . . . the Bible.
Claire frowned as he lifted the cover and scanned the first page, then the next. He found what he was looking for on the third page, on the right hand side, in the lower third of the page. Claire could tell because that was where his gaze remained. That was where Barnaby’s gaze stopped. Then they both lifted their gazes from the page and stared at her.
The expression on Barnaby’s face was the same as it had been the night he’d come to tell her Hunt was dead. The major’s was different. Just as stark and threatening, but now filled with confusion and questions.
“Claire?”
Barnaby walked toward her, his movements slow and hesitant, almost as reluctant as someone on his way to the gallows. The news, whatever it was, was not good. She could see it on his face.
But she couldn’t focus on Barnaby. She could only stare at the man to whom she’d given herself last night. The man she’d trusted with her secret. Now he stood in the sunlight before the window, his features frozen as if chiseled from granite. His high cheekbones and angled jaw rigid and firm. His dark, thick brows framing eyes so deep a gray they almost seemed black. As they had last night. At the peak of his passion.
It was on him she focused. On him she drew the strength she knew she’d need to face whatever Barnaby intended to confront her with. On the man with the ruggedly handsome features and bronzed skin. With the broad chest and muscled arms. The man she knew she loved. The man she wanted to run to now and have wrap his arms around her and hold her. She knew she could face it then, whatever Barnaby was going to tell her. But he didn’t come to her. And she couldn’t go to him.
“Claire?”
She nodded her head and moved her gaze to where Barnaby stood. His features were strained, his complexion drained of all color. She clenched her hands in her lap and waited.
“Did you find the necklace?”
She asked the question even though she knew they hadn’t. She’d seen what they’d found. But asking somehow drew the attention away from the paper Barnaby held in his hand.
“We found . . . this.”
He held it out to her, and for a long moment, she simply stared at it.
She looked past her brother to the major. His gaze didn’t waver but locked onto hers while she reached for the paper. She finally took it from Barnaby and held it in her hand. Then slowly lowered her gaze.
She didn’t know what she’d expected. Her eyes read the letters, but her mind refused to decipher their meaning.
CERTIFICATE OF MARRIAGE
There was no elegant scrolling or ornately painted designs like on the marriage certificate she and Hunt had signed in the lengthy ceremony after their marriage.
The paper seemed rustic and plain in its simplicity.
MARCH 16, 1838
Claire stared at the date. It meant nothing to her. She’d been barely ten years old then. And nothing remarkable had happened then except her mother had died and left her alone. Her gaze moved to the bottom of the page. To the bold script of her late husband’s.
BRANDON DURRANT, 10TH MARQUESS OF HUNTINGDON
It was Hunt’s title. Hunt’s name. But how could his name be here?
Claire scanned further down the page. To the last line. Where a small word denoted the role of the signer. Such a small word with such an enormous meaning.
MARY ELIZABETH SMITHSON
Bride
Claire stared at the words. She read them over and over, thinking perhaps they’d change. They didn’t. The magnitude of their meaning loomed larger before her, enveloping her in a vast pit of darkness.
She fought to escape, but it was as if a blanket of cold spread over her, freezing her, preserving the ice that ran through her veins.
She was sure she should do something. Was certain something was expected of her, a specific reaction that was appropriate to this situation. But for the life of her, she couldn’t imagine what it might be.
How did one react when they found out the man they’d been married to wasn’t one’s husband after all?
She rose to her feet and separated herself from Barnaby and the major. She walked across the room and looked out the window. Everything seemed normal outside. How could that be?
“Claire?”
The major’s voice broke through the haze of confusion and roiling turmoil racing through her mind. He was close, she could hear he was, but he didn’t touch her.
She wanted to laugh. Perhaps he knew she didn’t want to be touched. That she’d shatter if he did. That she’d crumble into a million pieces with even the smallest gesture.
Except she knew she wouldn’t. There was too much anger in her to fall apart, too much rage and hurt. She could thank Hunt for that. For conditioning her to be such an expert at pretending her life was perfect when it was far from it.
“Claire? Do you know what the paper means?”
She jerked her head upward and leveled both him and Barnaby with the most livid glare she could muster. “Yes, Major. I’m well aware of what the paper means. It means it’s quite probable I’m not—”
“Excuse me, my lady,” Watkins said from the doorway. “But you have a visitor.”
“Tell whoever it is your mistress isn’t receiving,” Barnaby said in a gruff voice.
“Begging your pardon, sir, but I think this is important. The lady says she’s . . . the Marchioness of Huntingdon.”
Sam saw Claire stagger slightly and reached for her, but she held out her hand to stop him. She stepped away and anchored her hand against the wall as if she needed its support to steady herself.
None of them moved for several long seconds. Then, as if she’d regained control of her shattered emotions, she squared her shoulders and turned around. She looked first to her brother, then to him.
Sam fought the knot that formed deep in his gut and twisted painfully. There was a haunted and faraway look in her eyes. Her face was void of color. But when she brought her hands around in front of her, she looked unnaturally relaxed and composed.
“Watkins, show the . . .”
She swallowed hard and sucked in a shaky breath, the first visible sign of how difficult this was for her.
“. . . marchioness to the morning room and have tea served. Tell her I’ll be with her momentarily. See that she is made comfortable.”
“Yes, my lady.”
“You don’t have to go,” Linscott said when Watkins left the room. “I can take care of this.”
Her eyebrows shot up in dainty arches, then she smiled a placid smile. “She’s not some dust that can be swept under the carpet, Barn. She’s Hunt’s widow. She’s the Marchioness of Huntingdon.”
“And what the hell are you?”
A gaping silence filled the room. Barnaby had asked the question even Sam hadn’t wanted to consider. And for the first time in all the years he’d known Hunt, he hated him for what he’d done to her.
“Major,” she said, walking to the center of the room.
Her voice was strong, her words clipped. Sam was glad. He would much rather she strike out in anger than revert inward in quiet solitude.
“Have you gone through all the papers?”
“Yes.”
“What else is there for me to know?”
“Are you sure—”
She spun on him. “I’ve had enough surprises for one day. I would like to meet Huntingdon’s widow on at least somewhat equal footing.”
“Very well. Why don’t you sit down,” he said, pointing to the nearest chair. He expected her to argue, but she didn’t. She sat with her back rigidly straight and her hands clasped in her lap.
“The marriage papers seem in order. Hunt’s name along with a . . . Mary Elizabeth Smithson’s are also entered in the family Bible we found in the safe.”
“Were there children?”
Sam wanted to hold some of this back from her, but there was no way he could. “Yes.”
“How many?”
“Four. Two sons and two daughters.”
She sucked in a shaky breath, and Sam was reminded again of how difficult this was for her.
“His heir?”
“Jonathan Alexander Durrant, now the eleventh Marquess of Huntingdon. He should be nearing seventeen.”
“And the youngest?”
Sam knew what she was asking. “Claire, don’t.”
“How old is the youngest?”
“Five.”
He heard the strangled gasp and fought the urge to go to her.
“That is why . . . ?”
She didn’t finish her sentence, but Sam knew what she meant. That was why Hunt had never lain with her. That was why after seven years of marriage, she was still a virgin. Damn Hunt.
Damn him!
A pain hit Sam in the gut as if he’d been slammed by a fist. He’d been so wrong. Been so unfair to her. He’d thought it was her fault that she was still a virgin. Sam couldn’t believe that Hunt hadn’t wanted Claire in every way a man wants a woman. He couldn’t believe that Hunt’s life in private was so opposite the life he portrayed in public. And, Sam needed someone to blame. Someone other than his best friend. So he’d let himself believe that she was the one who’d barred him from her bed. But she wasn’t. It had been Hunt.
“It wasn’t your fault, Claire.”
Her angry gaze locked with his. “No, it wasn’t. But you were ready enough to blame me, Major. Weren’t you?”
She didn’t wait for his reaction, but bolted from the chair and walked to the door.
Chapter 27
Claire walked down the narrow hall that led to the morning room with angry, determined steps. For seven years, the woman behind that door had robbed her of every dream she’d ever had. For seven years, someone else had been given all the Marquess of Huntingdon’s love and affection, while Claire was left to live an empty shell of an existence.
Claire braced herself, ready to confront the thief who’d stolen everything from her. A fury unlike anything she’d ever battled raged full force.
“Claire.”
The major’s voice called out from behind her, but she didn’t stop. She marched forward and let him and Barnaby follow her.
When she neared the morning room, a liveried footman scrambled to open the door.
Claire clenched her teeth and stepped inside.
The woman Hunt had loved stood across the room. She had her back to Claire and wore a black gown, a stark reminder that she, even more than Claire, had the right to mourn Hunt. Claire was prepared to dislike her, was prepared to make her pay for every hurt Hunt had ever caused.
Then the woman turned, and Claire looked into eyes drowning in unfathomable sadness. Claire knew it would be impossible to hate her.
Although older than Claire, Hunt’s wife was one of the most beautiful women Claire had ever seen. She’d pulled her golden hair back from her face into a tight chignon, but delicate tendrils had fallen loose from beneath her black velvet bonnet to frame her face.
Her complexion was creamy white, her lips full, her eyes a magnificent shade of green. She had a face painters gave everything they owned for the honor of putting down on canvas.
For several long seconds they looked at each other in silence. Claire saw a depth of loneliness in Hunt’s widow’s eyes that reached deep into her soul. A loss Claire had never felt for the man who’d been her husband. Claire tried to speak but suddenly found herself unable to find the words. The woman across the room smiled tentatively.
“I wondered under what circumstances we would eventually meet,” the real Marchioness of Huntingdon said, her voice containing a hint of reserved nervousness. “But I never imagined it would be like this.”
Claire swayed at the woman’s soft, gentle voice and felt a hand press against the small of her back to steady her. She didn’t need to look to know the major stood next to her.
“You’ll have to forgive me,” Claire said, taking comfort in the major’s strength. “I’m at a disadvantage. Hunt failed to mention your existence to me.”
“I know. I’m sure there’s much Brandon did not mention.”
Claire glimpsed an honest regret in the woman’s eyes she wasn’t prepared to see.
“You must be Major Bennett,” the woman said, lifting her gaze to where the major stood. “Brandon spoke of you often. You’re exactly as he described you. He was very fond of you.”
Sam nodded. The woman turned to Barnaby. “And you must be Lord Barnaby. The marquess told me he’d chosen wisely and repeatedly commented how much he admired you.”
Barnaby nodded curtly, but showed no sign of softening.
“Allow me to introduce myself. My name is—”
She stopped. She smiled slightly, then breathed a heavy sigh when she looked at Claire. “This is not easy. I so wish Brandon would have prepared you.”
“I’m not sure how he could have prepared me to meet his wife. Mary, isn’t it?”