by Anne Gracie
There was a short silence. “But we saw her,” Mrs. Wilks said.
Her husband gave her a nudge and said, “But none of us at Wainfleet ever believed it was you who done her in, Master Adam. I mean, me lord.”
“Thank you, I appreciate your loyalty,” Zach said. “It’s a mystery, but I’m sure we’ll get it sorted out.” He sounded more confident than he felt.
There had to be an explanation for the dead body—one that had nothing to do with him or Cecily. It must have been some other dead woman. Cecily should be in London by now, safe in Gil’s hands.
“Now,” he said when they’d finished their dinner, “tell me what’s been happening on the estate. And more to the point, what needs to be done. I noticed there hasn’t been any plowing or any spring planting.”
The Wilkses exchanged glances. “No point, is there?” Wilks said. “Mr. Gerald said he’d get rid of most of the tenant farmers, knock down the cottages and make it all into one big estate. Reckons there’s more money to be made that way.”
Zach frowned. “What about the tenants?” Some of those families, like the Wilkses, had been part of the estate for generations.
Wilks shrugged. “Find work elsewhere, I suppose.”
“In them big-city manufactories,” Mrs. Wilks said darkly. “And livin’ in a slum, no doubt. I’ve heard tell they squash whole families into one room.”
Zach listened as they confided their worries about the future.
There was logic in changing the way the estate was managed—farming methods did need to be modernized, land drained—the whole estate was crying out for revitalization. But he had no intention of tossing loyal, hardworking tenants off land they and their forefathers had farmed for hundreds of years. Their work, their rents had allowed his family to prosper for generations; it was not for Zach to abandon them now.
He realized now that he loved Wainfleet; he’d just buried that knowledge for the last twelve years.
There was work for him here indeed. A purpose—a good one. A future to build, for himself and for the people of the estate.
Afterward he walked through the house, his footsteps echoing. It was as cold and bleak as he remembered, more so for most of the rooms had been shut since his father’s death and the furniture shrouded in holland covers.
But his memories had been colored by his father’s coldness and brutality.
Like the estate, it too could change; the house could be made into a home. All it needed was the right woman.
He gave the Wilkses what money he had on him—part payment of arrears owed them—then went to pay a call on the former estate manager and start things moving again. No point in anonymity now—the village grapevine would spread the news of his return soon enough, and in any case, the hearing was only a couple of weeks away.
He was not leaving England again; murder change or not, he’d stay and fight for his future—his future at Wainfleet, and his future with Miss Jane Chance.
* * *
“What do you mean she’s not here?” Zach stared at Gil. He had arrived in London a bare half hour earlier. “I know North Wales is a long way, but surely by now—”
“The lawyer’s man returned the evening of the day you left for Wainfleet,” Gil told him. “I spoke to him. He claimed he couldn’t find Cecily, or any sign she’d ever been there.”
“What?” Zach was stunned. “He did go to Llandudno, didn’t he? Not some other village?”
“That’s what he said. Claimed he went to the address you gave, but said that not only was Cecily not there, but that the woman who answered the door—a Mrs. Thomas, right?” Zach nodded, and Gil continued, “Said she’d never heard of Cecily.”
“Rubbish, she went to school with her.”
“She told him she’d lived there all her life, and that no English lady had ever been to the village.” He added, “The woman spoke only Welsh. No English at all.”
“Nonsense! I met her. I stayed with her, twelve years ago. She speaks perfect English.” He ran his fingers through his hair, baffled by the report. “Whoever this fellow talked to, she can’t have been Mary Thomas. Or if she was, it must have been a different Mary Thomas. It’s a common enough name in Wales.”
Gil shrugged. “I’m only saying what he told me. He said he had to use an interpreter to be understood anywhere in the village.”
Zach shook his head, unable to fathom it. “I don’t understand. Llandudno is small—maybe a thousand people in total. How could anyone not notice Cecily in a village that size?”
“He claimed he also checked every house in the same street, as well as others in the village. The story was the same; no English lady had ever come to Llandudno.”
“Rubbish!” Zach thumped the table in frustration. “He’s either incompetent or lying. I left Cecily there, dammit—and when I went back two weeks later with the money I got from selling her jewels, she was still there, settling in with Mary Thomas, as happy as a grig. And she wrote to me from there—dozens of letters—dammit, you forwarded them on to me.”
“I know.”
Zach rose and started to pace. “I should never have trusted that blasted lawyer in the first place. I’ll go to Wales myself and find her!”
“No need, I’ve already sent one of my men,” Gil said calmly. “He left three days ago, so he should have news for us soon. He’s a good man and a native Welsh speaker. I also told him to find witnesses who could swear Cecily was alive after the body was discovered. If Cecily has left Wales—and that seems likely—we’ll need to prove that it wasn’t her body.”
“Thank you.” Zach sat down again, somewhat relieved. “Her friend, Mary Thomas—the one who can speak English—could testify that I took her there, alive and well. And what about the innkeepers where we stayed at along the way? Even the postilions. Surely someone would recall a nervous young woman with a badly bruised face, escorted by a sixteen-year-old boy, even if it was twelve years ago. And send someone to Wainfleet—we need to find out who that body really was.”
Gil nodded and pulled out his notebook and pencil. “Give me the details and I’ll send men to make inquiries. It’ll cost you, but you won’t mind that.”
Zach gave him the information, and sipped his cognac as Gil wrote everything down. Perhaps the situation wasn’t quite as bad as he’d thought.
Gil tucked his notebook away and regarded Zach thoughtfully. “It might be wise to make contingency plans in case you need to leave the country. Do you want me to make the arrangements?”
Zach snorted. “I’m damned if I’ll slink away and let my greedy little tick of a cousin take over my inheritance. Do you know, he’s got the estate tangled up in legal tape and nobody can do anything—none of the servants has been paid since my father died. The whole place is stagnating. And he plans to butcher it.”
“So you’ll stay and risk going to trial for murder?”
“I’ll stay.” Zach gave him an ironic half smile. “I’ve risked death for my country a dozen times and more; it’s worth it to risk my neck for the sake of my own future, don’t you think?”
“And once this is all over—and assuming all goes well and you’re a free man again—and you’ve settled things at Wainfleet, are you planning to return to your old life abroad?”
Zach gave him a cool look. “Don’t be disingenuous, Gil, it doesn’t suit you. You know perfectly well what I’m planning.”
“The girl?”
Zach nodded. “If she will have me.”
“Delighted to hear it, though professionally, I shall feign disappointment.”
Zach rose and added coal to the fire, stirring the glowing coals thoughtfully with the poker. Gazing into fires always helped him to think.
It was a dammed odd thing, the lawyer’s fellow not finding any sign of Cecily. No doubt the man was a fool and went to the wrong village. Welsh village names could loo
k incomprehensible to the uninitiated.
Zach’s every instinct was to go to Wales and find Cecily himself, but there was no time. Gil had said he’d sent a good man and Zach trusted Gil. Not long to the hearing.
Long enough to make himself known to Miss Jane Chance, not as a gypsy, but as his true self? A man who could offer her the kind of future she wanted? He might not be as rich as Cambury, but at least he had a house and a title, and he would spend his life ensuring she was never cold or hungry or frightened again.
It wouldn’t be a damned cold-blooded arrangement either.
Long enough to get her to be willing to . . . what? Break her betrothal to Cambury? No, much as he wanted it, he couldn’t ask her to do that, not while he was still mired in this mess.
Until the murder charge was sorted out, the best he could hope for was to convince her to see him as a possibility. And for that, he needed to talk to her, explain why he’d let her believe he was a gypsy . . . And that he was shortly to be plunged into a murder scandal.
And then to ask her to trust him, and to wait.
Not the easiest of conversations.
He gave the coals one last stir and straightened, finding himself face-to-face with the portrait of Gil’s ancestor that was mounted over the mantel. Damned ugly fellow. No resemblance to Gil at all.
The gold frame was stuffed with invitations. Still brooding on his problems, his gaze passed vaguely over them. Noting one was for a party that had been held weeks ago, he pulled it out and tossed it in the fire, then found another old one and burned that too. “Don’t you ever go to any of these things?”
“No, and don’t change the subject. You could always establish your identity—that’ll be quite straightforward, and no need to attend the hearing if we do it properly—and cross to the Continent before you can be arrested.”
“What, and skulk in Paris or somewhere until you find the evidence to clear me?” Zach snorted. He wasn’t going anywhere. Not while Jane Chance was still free and unmarried.
“I don’t believe I mentioned any skulking. I am trying to save you from stretching your neck.”
Zach shook his head. “Stop worrying. I know it looks black but I am, after all, innocent. I’ll stay and fight the charge.” He scanned the invitations and consigned another expired one to the fire. He watched it curl and blacken, then flame up.
In the morning he’d talk to Jane, tell her the truth—all of it, murder charge and all. Throw himself on her mercy. Ask her to trust him. To wait.
Unless Cecily was found in time, all hell would break loose next week, and rather than leave it for the gossips and scandalmongers—for Lord knew how garbled it would be once the tale reached her—he had to tell her the truth himself.
And apologize for the deception.
* * *
He went to Berkeley Square the next morning and waited for her in the park. At just after ten o’clock, out she came, radiant in a blue pelisse, laughing and scolding RosePetal, who was straining at the leash as usual, with William clumping along behind her.
Zach’s heart leapt at the sight of her. He stepped out onto the path ahead of her, and waited.
She saw him and stopped dead. The laughter died from her face. RosePetal too had seen him and was doing his best to choke himself on his collar in his eagerness to greet Zach. Not Jane.
She said something to William—he couldn’t hear what—turned around and marched back the way she’d come, her back straight and stiff, pulling an unhappy dog behind her, as if she were dragging a loaf of bread. A very heavy loaf of bread with four feet that resisted every step.
William shot Zach a smug look and followed.
Woman, dog and footman disappeared back into Lady Beatrice’s house. Only the dog appeared regretful, giving longing, martyred looks back at Zach as he was dragged into the house.
It was disappointing, but Zach understood; she thought him a gypsy, after all, and had told him to leave her alone. He went back to Gil’s and considered his options.
He had to speak to her. She had to know she had choices other than Lord Cambury. Well, of course she had choices—practically any gentleman of the ton would be happy to offer for her, despite her lack of fortune.
But she needed to know he was a choice too—a real one—or he would be if—when!—he beat this blasted charge. He couldn’t let her throw herself away on a wealthy windbag who saw her as something to add to his collection of beautiful things.
Since she refused to talk to him, he had no option but write to her and explain. He sat down at Gil’s desk, selected a fresh sheet of writing paper, sharpened a quill, dipped it in ink and began to write.
Dear Miss Chance,
Forgive this mode of—
No, don’t start by groveling. Bad idea. He tossed that aside and started again.
Dear Miss Chance,
Since it is impossible to communicate with you any other way—
Oh, yes, perfect way to start if you want get her back up. Idiot. He screwed it up and selected another sheet of notepaper.
Dear Miss Chance,
I do not blame you for avoiding me—
Not true, he did blame her. It was infuriating. He started again.
Dear Miss Chance,
There are several matters I wish to draw to your attention—
Now he sounded like a clerk, writing to her about drains or something.
Dear Miss Chance,
Please, give me a chance to explain. There are matters—
Oh, good, now he was back to groveling. A groveling drains clerk.
Dear Miss Chance,
I am in trouble, but—
No, it sounded like a begging letter. He wasn’t after her pity.
In the end he penned her a brief and straightforward message:
Dear Miss Chance,
My situation has changed and I must talk to you. As you may have already guessed, I am not in fact a gypsy, but a well-born Englishman of distinguished lineage. I wish to apologize for the deception, and explain my reasons for it. I ask for nothing but a few minutes of your time. Please meet me in the square opposite your home.
Yours, very sincerely
Zachary Black.
He had the letter delivered by hand and waited in the square. A light, slow drizzle started. Zach adjusted the angle of his hat and pulled up the collar of his coat, and waited. He knew she was home—he’d seen her glance out of the bay window a short time after his note had been delivered.
The drizzle settled in. Zach didn’t care about the rain; she knew he was out here, and he was going to make his point, rain or not. Actually he didn’t mind the rain at all; it underlined his point.
He’d waited about twenty minutes before William emerged from the house bearing an umbrella. He marched straight up to Zach with a grin from ear to ear. “With Miss Jane’s compliments,” he said, and tossed Zach a handful of paper torn into tiny bits. They fluttered to the ground like blossoms. “Get the message, gypsy?”
Zach did. He looked down at the sodden remnants of his note. The ink was spreading on the tiny pieces of paper in slow blots, like moldy blight on blossoms. Had she even read it?
He glanced back at the bay window. There was no sign of her now, but he knew she’d be watching.
He swept off his hat and stood, bareheaded in the rain for a moment, then made her an elegant bow. He thought he saw a movement inside. He smiled as a fresh idea occurred to him.
“Don’t you get it yet, gypsy?” William said. “No use lookin’ over there. It’s good-bye and good riddance to you.”
Zach laughed. “Do you know, William, I think you might just have tempted fate.”
Chapter Eighteen
All the privilege I claim for my own sex . . . is that of loving longest, when existence or when hope is gone.
—JANE AUSTEN, PERSUASION<
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The fool! What was he doing standing in the rain? Jane stood well back from the bay window and glared at the arrogant figure standing so tall and careless in the square opposite, seemingly indifferent to the rain.
He took off his hat—no, swept it off—and the rain soaked into his thick, dark hair. Even from here she could see it curling a little, clinging to his forehead in dark clumps, looking like a victor’s olive leaf crown.
He looked straight at her, as if he could see her standing there, and he couldn’t, she was sure he couldn’t—and then he bowed with such grace and style she wanted to hit him.
He smiled . . . and a warm shiver rippled through her.
She folded her arms crossly and tried to ignore the spreading warmth inside her. He was too good-looking and confident for his own good. Certainly for her good.
She would not see him. Under any circumstances.
How dare he come back! She hadn’t seen him for days. Nearly a week. She’d thought herself safe, at last. She hadn’t missed him at all. Not a bit. Not in the least. Had hardly even thought of him. Much. In any case, thoughts didn’t count. And what she’d been thinking was relief. Yes, relief.
It was the dreams that were the problem. She could control her thoughts—to a point—but in dreams, she had no control at all.
In the past couple of nights, Daisy had had to wake her several times, saying, “Another nightmare, lovie?”
And Jane, hot and sweaty and all twisted up in her nightgown, had agreed.
But they weren’t nightmares, so much as . . . enticements. Like the fairy tales of old where some beautiful, magical being enticed away an otherwise sensible girl . . . and she was never seen again.
Her eyes dwelt on the tall figure standing in the rain, bareheaded and imperious, acting as if he owned the place, as if the rain couldn’t touch him, as if she had no choice but to see him. He was getting soaked, the fool. Why wouldn’t he leave?
He couldn’t possibly see her from here.
That faint, entrancing smile . . .