The Notorious Widow

by Allison Lane

  Catherine blushed. Her new understanding of Jasper’s past finally explained why Harold had considered Mrs. Telcor a tool of the devil for her blind devotion.

  But she had little room for thought just now. Sarah’s delighted prattle raised new images of Rockhurst. Did he really love children enough to spend hours every day bringing joy into Sarah’s life? The girl had blossomed since his arrival, setting aside the last of her melancholy. Hopefully it would not return when he left.

  But common sense suggested that his interest in Sarah was feigned. He had been annoyed by Laura’s efforts to attract him. The nursery was the only place in the manor where he could avoid her. She could only thank fate that he had made the effort to hide his motives from Sarah.

  “It was while we were talking about bird nests that I asked him about his house,” continued Sarah, breaking into her thoughts. “Can we visit his abbey, Mama? He invited us.”

  “Perhaps,” she hedged, taking back every kind thought about the man. He should not have issued an invitation he could not mean. Now Sarah would be hurt if they did not visit the wonders he had described.

  Adding the incident to her other complaints – not least of which was that kiss she couldn’t forget – she headed for the village.

  * * * *

  Miss Mott’s footman was reluctant to let Catherine in. Only when she made it clear that she had to see Mrs. Stevens did he step aside. The housekeeper’s reaction wasn’t much better. It required several protestations of innocence before the woman would even speak with her. But they finally settled down in the housekeeper’s parlor with a pot of coffee and a tin of biscuits.

  “I heard a most disturbing story yesterday,” Catherine began. “In order to determine its truth, I must discover everything I can about the day my husband died.”

  “He was a good man,” said Mrs. Stevens. “I can’t believe he was involved in anything odd.”

  “Of course not, but someone claims that Jasper Rankin caused the accident that killed him. Since Harold had not intended to go to Exeter that night, he must have learned something from Mrs. Green that demanded my father’s attention and threatened Jasper.”

  “Surely not.” Mrs. Stevens was clearly shocked. “That accident was caused by the Frenchman. Dear Mr. Parrish said so before he died.”

  “Did he?” Catherine frowned. “I know there were rumors to that effect, but no one told me anything Harold said. In fact, Dr. Lebrun swore he’d died without regaining consciousness.”

  “No.” She shook her head vehemently. “Not to distress you, dear, but I had the tale directly from Mr. Berens himself, and who better to tell it, him being the one to find the wreckage and all.”

  “I know, but why tell you?”

  “Mayhap you didn’t know, being in mourning at the time, but after Mrs. Green passed on to her reward – and blessed she was to finally cast off her mortal pain – I went as housekeeper to Mr. Berens.”

  “I thought he only used day help.” She tried to hide rising excitement. Perhaps Mrs. Stevens would know Harold’s dying words.

  “He did, but finding that accident changed him.” She paused for a long swallow of coffee. “Terrified, he was, expecting the Frenchman to attack him next. I rarely saw him after he hired me. At night he flitted from window to window, peering into the dark for any glimpse of the ghost. He slept only by day, drawing both shutters and draperies tight and demanding that a footman remain in the hall outside his room, armed with a poker.”

  “What good would a poker do against a spirit?” She was having trouble picturing the confident Mr. Berens huddled in his house in terror.

  “None, as his end proved.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “The ghost struck him down, then burned the place to the ground in warning.” She glanced over her shoulder and shuddered.

  “Surely not!” But her mind was working at top speed. Berens would never fear a ghost, but he may have expected a more tangible attack. One that would arrive in the dark to escape detection from his neighbors.

  “I saw the Frenchman myself that last night,” Mrs. Steven swore. “Muffled in a great black cloak with a cowl pulled low over his eyes. He was riding an enormous black horse. I locked the door tight and checked every last window, but I’d a done better to drag Mr. Berens away. He might still be alive.”

  “It wasn’t your fault,” Catherine said soothingly. “Did Mr. Berens ever repeat what my husband said?”

  Mrs. Stevens shook her head. “Not exact-like, though he was telling the tale to a friend the day I took up my duties. It was definitely the Frenchman, furious because he wasn’t getting the respect he deserved. He swooped to the attack again and again, according to Mr. Parrish, shouting that his name was Jacque or Josh or something like that, and he was a high-ranking lord – as if we didn’t know he was a duke.”

  Josh … ranking. Catherine stifled a gasp. Jasper Rankin. If Berens had understood Harold’s meaning, he would have known his danger and shifted the blame to the Frenchman to protect himself – he had been a close friend of Carruthers. But Jasper had taken no chances.

  She didn’t dare start new speculation by displaying interest in the fire. Rockhurst could question Mrs. Stevens if necessary. She would concentrate on Harold.

  “We should let the duke rest in peace,” she said, accepting another biscuit. “I am more interested in Harold’s last night. Mrs. Green summoned him. Have you any idea why?”

  “Nay, Mrs. Parrish. She didn’t say.”

  Catherine slumped in exaggerated disappointment. “I was hoping you might have overheard part of their conversation – not that you listened,” she hastily added when Mrs. Stevens stiffened with indignation. “But your duties would keep you close. I know you acted as butler because the staff was so small, and you had charge of her cordials and nostrums.”

  “Well, yes, I did hear a snatch or two – they weren’t keeping their voices down. Mrs. Green claimed that something had been bothering her for some time. I didn’t hear what because I had to take Cook to task for setting out broken biscuits for the dear vicar.”

  “He would not have minded,” Catherine said, smiling in recollection. “He was like a small boy when it came to sweets.”

  “That he was.” Mrs. Stevens also smiled. “Later I heard him praying with her – she’d had another spell that morning and knew her time was at hand. But that’s all.”

  “Did you know what had been troubling her? You were as much her companion as her housekeeper after Mr. Green’s death.”

  Mrs. Stevens was quiet so long, Catherine thought she would refuse to answer, but she finally spoke. “There was one matter she’d fretted over. Maybe she decided to reveal the tale rather than take it to the grave, particularly since she knew she’d soon be beyond his reach. And if you are right about the accident, it might fit. It concerned Jasper Rankin.” Taking a deep breath, she began talking.

  An hour later Catherine hurried toward Seabrook, anxious to find Rockhurst.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Though he would rather have paced, Blake forced himself to sit quietly in Rankin’s study. Nervous energy made him jittery, but he had to project confidence despite his reservations. His evidence was mostly conjecture, yet there was no time to look for more. Too many people knew his purpose by now. Delaying would give Jasper a chance to strengthen his defenses. So he must bluff.

  “Lord Rankin is not hearing cases this week,” a toplofty butler had informed him half an hour earlier. “He is suffering a malaise of the spirit and requires calm. If you are in urgent need of a magistrate, Squire Hawkins will help.” The tone had implied contempt for the squire’s elevation to the post.

  “Rankin’s malaise will worsen if he refuses to see me,” Blake had countered sharply. “My problem concerns his heir. If I take the matter elsewhere, the name of Rankin will be blackened from here to London and beyond.”

  The threat had worked. The butler had escorted him to the study, though he’d grumbled under his breath in a most unbutlerly display.<
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  Blake didn’t care if his demands disrupted the household. It was past time for Rankin to exert some control over his son.

  Once the butler left, Blake had made a single circuit of the room, searching for clues to Rankin’s character. This would be his one chance to win the viscount’s support, so he must play his cards very carefully – not that he would ignore Jasper’s crimes if Rankin refused to cooperate, but the man’s help would make forcing a public confession easier.

  The study offered little information about the viscount beyond what he already knew. Mrs. Telcor had suggested that he reveled in poor health, a charge supported by the butler’s protests and by the many well-thumbed herbals stacked on the shelf nearest the desk. Catherine had claimed that his family name was important, a fact borne out by the ornate stand supporting a large Bible that was open to reveal generations of Rankin births, deaths, and marriages. Someone had transcribed the names onto an artistic family tree that hung on the wall above.

  Little else was obvious. Nothing in the study revealed Rankin’s interests or his feelings for his son. Aside from the herbals, the shelves contained only a standard set of the leather-bound books sold to gentlemen who wanted an instant library. He might be trying to appear more educated than he was, or he may have acquired them because libraries were the current mode, like Egyptian furniture and racing curricles. The desk was bare. Was Rankin tidy and methodical, or too intent on his various ills to work?

  Movement drew him to the window. A groom trotted hurriedly down the drive. Rankin had probably sent for Jasper. Thus he had agreed to a meeting.

  Returning to his seat so he could present a relaxed, assured façade, he waited. The clock struck three, the butler brought wine, and still he waited.

  Catherine had accosted him the moment he’d returned from interviewing Squire Hawkins that morning, as lighthearted as he’d ever seen her. She had uncovered information that implicated Jasper in another death. Even more important, Mrs. Stevens’s tale proved that Jasper’s revenges dated back to childhood and explained his attack on Seabrook and Parrish.

  Mrs. Green had summoned Harold Parrish shortly before her death, having decided to share her information while she still could. Her fear of heavenly judgment finally outweighed her fear of earthly retribution, so she had described the day she had come across ten-year-old Jasper killing a cat.

  Not just killing it, Blake emended, recalling Catherine’s white face as she repeated the tale. He had tortured it first and was systematically dismembering it when Mrs. Green arrived.

  “It scratched me,” he’d explained with a shrug. “I am the heir. Nothing is allowed to hurt me.”

  “No one has absolute power or absolute privilege,” she’d tried to explain. “Not even the king. You are heir to your father’s title, but that position carries many responsibilities, one of which is to protect those lower and weaker than yourself.”

  His response had been crude, then he’d launched a garbled version of history purporting to prove that lords exercised unrestricted authority over their possessions and were guaranteed freedom from every annoyance. Finally he’d added a threat she’d never forgotten. “Anyone who bothers me must be punished. Even you.”

  The menace in his voice had reminded her of Mrs. Carlton’s broken leg, suffered in an unexplained fall the day after she’d scolded Jasper for throwing rocks at her geese. She’d never mentioned the boy again, though she’d complained about him often enough before. So Mrs. Green said nothing about the cat. A month later, Mrs. Telcor had been praising Jasper’s kindness and maligning Lord Rankin’s disinterest in his son. Mrs. Green had agreed that Rankin’s neglect was disgraceful. She’d agreed that Jasper’s current tutor was slothful. Then she’d added that the boy needed a better understanding of his future responsibilities and firmer discipline to prepare him for assuming them. That night her own cat had turned up on her doorstep, mangled. Heeding the warning, she had never discussed Jasper again.

  The story explained much. Harold Parrish had long tried to help his parishioners – a thankless job, for Jasper preyed on them with impunity. The moment he’d heard Mrs. Green’s story, he had seen a chance to act. Here at last was a witness to Jasper’s motives, someone who could offer proof positive of the patterns obvious in his behavior. So he’d fetched Seabrook. He’d probably intended to visit the hardest-hit victims after Seabrook listened to the widow’s tale.

  But Seabrook’s stubbornness had allowed Jasper to overhear part of these plans. Both had to be intimidated into silence.

  Blake had wanted to comfort Catherine when she’d finished her tale, but it hadn’t been necessary. She’d been fighting mad rather than grieving.

  “We have to stop him,” she’d said, skirts swirling as she strode about the room. “Three men dead by his hand, and God alone knows how many more.”

  “I agree, but we can’t charge him with murder,” he’d reminded her. “There isn’t enough evidence.”

  “Why? Mrs. Stevens saw him.”

  “Do you expect me to go before the assizes and claim that Jasper murdered Mr. Berens? Jasper’s motive would be an accident that Berens himself claimed was caused by a ghost. My evidence would consist of a housekeeper who saw the ghost in the yard and checked to make sure every door and window was locked.”

  She’d sagged. “You don’t believe me.”

  He’d pulled her close enough to drown in her eyes. “I do believe you, Catherine. I am as convinced as you that Jasper started that fire. He probably struck Berens on the head first so he couldn’t escape.”

  “But the windows—”

  “Maybe Mrs. Stevens was wrong. Or maybe Jasper broke one to get in – the fire would hide a broken window. But I can’t prove it. Besides, we are not trying to send Jasper to the gallows. We want a confession.”

  “But he has to pay something.” She’d trembled.

  “Because he killed your husband?”

  “In part, though it helps to know that Harold died trying to help others. But if he deliberately killed Berens, what’s to stop him from killing someone else?”

  “What, indeed?” he repeated now, as footsteps approached the door. Jasper might consider murder a tidy solution to a growing number of problems.

  Blake rose as Lord Rankin entered the study. The man did not appear ill. Nor did he appear cooperative. Anger blazed in his eyes, reddening his face. His fists were clenched.

  “How dare you drag me from a sickbed to complain about a young man’s prank?” he demanded, throwing himself into his desk chair.

  The question removed all doubt about which approach to use. Abandoning the notion of appealing to the father, he addressed the magistrate. “I said nothing about pranks, Lord Rankin, though a man of twenty-six is too old to indulge in juvenile behavior. I wish to present evidence of a crime. It is your duty to hold the accused until the next assizes.” He resumed his seat.

  “You needn’t preach duty to me, Rockhurst,” growled Rankin. “I have been magistrate of this district for thirty years.”

  “And Jasper has been terrorizing it for twenty.” He met Rankin’s angry face, confident that his own was set in implacable certainty.

  “Pranks,” snorted Rankin. “You, better than most, should know that young men will sow their oats. I read the London papers.”

  So Rankin knew about the turkeys he’d smuggled into Lady Horseley’s bedchamber last year. Not one of his better ideas, as he was the first to admit, but he’d wearied of her attempts to malign him. In the end, she’d seen the humor of it. He had repaired the damage, and they had declared peace. He acknowledged the irony of decrying Jasper’s behavior as juvenile when the lad was his junior by four years.

  “I am not discussing pranks,” he repeated. “I am discussing crimes – deliberate damage to property and deliberate injury to people and animals.”

  “Then why have I heard nothing before?” Rankin drummed his fingers on the desk top.

  “Because everyone knows you have turned a blind
eye to his shortcomings since childhood. The tutors at Harrow recognized them, as did his fellow students. You must have received letters when he was sent down.”

  Rankin frowned, but his eyes revealed the disbelief he must have cultivated to protect his family name.

  “Locally, he intimidates the victims into silence,” continued Blake. “They know that disclosing his deeds will draw retaliation.”

  Rankin’s expression grew troubled. “How do you come to know of them, then?”

  Blake softened his tone. “Until recently, his victims were unwilling to fight back. Most are from the lower classes and know their word will never stand against his. Many are your dependents and thus will one day be under Jasper’s thumb.”

  Rankin flinched.

  “And though his actions are deliberate, they are designed to look like high spirits or carelessness. He is arrogant enough to believe that he is immune from censure.”

  “Arrogance is hardly a crime.”

  “Not in itself. But his conceit has twisted history to convince him that he is above the law.”

  “Nonsense,” sputtered Rankin. “I admit I’ve had to chastise him for the friends he keeps, but he hasn’t a malicious bone in his body.”

  “Hasn’t a malicious bone? Tell that to the cats he tortured and dismembered in childhood,” snapped Blake, angry enough to reveal his loathing. “Tell it to the merchants he ruined, the tenants he punished, and the girls he seduced – not because he wanted them, but merely to hurt their loving families. Tell it to the innocents his lies besmirched and the friend whose eye he put out. And tell it to the men he murdered.”

  “I-I-” Rankin’s hand clutched his chest. His face had gone from purple to white.

  Cursing himself for succumbing to temper, Blake poured wine for his host. He hadn’t believed the man was truly ill, but this was more than shock. And it was not at all what he wanted. Causing a fit that killed Rankin would elevate Jasper to the peerage, making it a thousand times harder to defeat him.