by Lisa Bingham
“As I told you before, my father never blamed you.”
The air pulsed in silence.
“He should have. I may not have encouraged Nigel to do all that he has done.” She shifted to look at him over her shoulder. “But I did nothing to discourage him, either. Until now.”
Sullivan waited, listening to the quick clacking of her heels on the marble tile. He heard Greyson’s murmured farewell, the creak of the door, the rumble of the carriage. Then the stillness of the evening returned.
Crossing to the desk, Sullivan sank onto the chair and placed the papers on the blotter in front of him. For some time, he didn’t bother to read them. The Countess of Lindon had wrapped them in clean paper and secured them with a daub of wax.
His thumb traced the raised pattern on the seal. Countess. It was a title that should have belonged to his mother.
Sullivan’s eyes lifted to collide with those of the painted visage. Somehow, he had a hard time imagining Julie Perry Sutherland being burdened with such a ponderous prefix to her name. Yet he sensed she would have worn such a responsibility as easily as she’d worn her smile.
But it wasn’t to be. Not after fate, in the form of her elder sister, stepped in to change the future.
Rubbing his palms over the smooth, cool paper, Sullivan pondered the irony of his situation. If these were the records he’d asked for, he held the proof he needed to destroy Nigel Sutherland once and for all. The woman who had given it to him had been the same woman who had helped to rob his father of his birthright.
Lifting the packet, Sullivan bent the seal in half, cracking the brittle wax. If Estella had not agreed to help him, he would have continued with his scheme. But he would have lacked one vital piece of evidence. A name. The one name his father had been unable to provide him with. The identity that had remained hidden for decades.
Thirty years ago, Nigel Sutherland had arranged for Richard Albert to be accused of treason. He had manufactured evidence, notified the authorities, then helped to try the case. But it was the original informant, the public official Nigel had bribed and paid to steal the classified documents whom Sullivan sought.
He began to skim the pages, quickly at first, then more slowly, then with growing disbelief. He had asked Estella for one particular shred of information, but she had provided him with more, much more. In his possession, he found evidence linking Nigel to murder, fraud, conspiracy, political bribery, and theft, with dates beginning as early as the turn of the century.
Sullivan’s pulse quickened, his mouth grew dry. If he were to give these to the authorities, Nigel Sutherland would not see the light of day save through a prison window. He would be lucky to escape a firing squad. Yet, the one name Sullivan sought continued to elude him.
Damn it, he couldn’t see Nigel locked in jail and allow his original accomplice to roam free. Someone had joined with him to frame the Sutherland heir. Someone had been willing to risk death to commit treason. But who? Who?
He skimmed the papers, sifting through them, barely registering the horrible acts they outlined, the unspeakable crimes of greed and exploitation.
Then, just when he feared his search had been in vain, he found what he sought near the bottom of the pile. A copy of the stolen papers which had resulted in his father’s exile. A scrawled bank draft dated thirty years before.
And finally the name of the traitor he sought.
Reginald Wilde.
Two horsemen brought their mounts to a stop on the hill above the cottage. The house was dark save for a few weak beams of light that seeped through the ground-floor curtains.
“We shouldn’t have left Rich—”
“He’ll be fine, Gregory. He was sleeping peacefully when we left. The woman at the tavern agreed to nurse him while we were gone.”
“Still …”
“He wasn’t strong enough to come with us, despite his protestations. We need our wits about us. He’ll be safer there. Should we be caught, Nigel still won’t know of his existence.”
Gregory reluctantly conceded.
“You brought the deed?”
“Yes.”
“You have the copy of the signet ring like Sully requested?”
“Yes.”
“Well, then. We’d best make haste. This is one meeting where I don’t intend to miss our entrance.”
Nearly an hour had passed since Lady Sutherland had taken her leave. Greyson and Smee hesitated outside the door to the studio.
“What has he been doing in there for so long?”
Greyson assumed an attitude of injured dignity. “I am not in the habit of prying.”
“Suppose she hurt him.”
Greyson snorted at the unlikelihood of such a preposterous suggestion.
“Perhaps you should rush in without an announcement.”
“Nonsense.” Greyson girded his courage and tapped on the door. A beat of silence followed. Two. The men fidgeted nervously.
“What is it?”
The gruff reply caused Smee to wilt in obvious relief. Even Greyson’s stoic facade cracked.
“It is nearly midnight, sir. You asked me to fetch you once everyone arrived.”
Greyson motioned for Smee to return to the kitchen, not wanting the master to think that they hadn’t trusted him—or, worse yet, that they’d fussed over his safety like a pair of old hens.
Smee scurried away as fast as his stout legs could carry him. No sooner had he disappeared than the studio door opened.
“They’ve come?”
“Yes, sir. I was able to round up most of the old staff of Lindon Manor. Just as you requested.”
“Very good, Greyson. Follow me.”
Sullivan strode through the abutting rooms to the kitchen, his stance as purposeful as a king’s. Just as he had hoped, the kitchen was now crowded with men and women alike—short, tall, rich, poor. They served the Sutherlands as cooks and grooms and footmen. There were former servants present as well. Those who either had their services terminated by Nigel Sutherland or had left him of their own volition.
They were a humble lot, most of them struggling to eke out a daily living. All had one quality in common: a fierce determination to see matters put to rights once and for all.
When Richard entered, they stood, en masse, and eyed him with wary suspicion, a suspicion that disappeared as soon as he advanced to the table and joined the other two figures who waited.
The strangers had already attracted a great deal of attention. One was tall and grim with golden brown hair, another a giant with a pronounced limp. Now a third stranger had joined them, claiming to be the long-lost son of Richard Albert Sutherland III.
Sullivan faced the group, his mien hard and purposeful. He did not introduce his brothers yet, but merely plunged headlong into persuading these people to help them.
As he opened his mouth and began to outline his plan, his audience’s judgmental attitude softened, then disappeared altogether. How like his grandfather, their original employer, he looked. Not to mention the son—he had Richard Albert’s bearing, his command.
Attention bounced from the man claiming to be Richard Sutherland IV to his companions and back again. Soon, a breathless wonder settled over them, a sparkling excitement. There was no disguising those square jaws and rake-hell stances.
Brothers.
Attention slowly returned to Richard Albert Sutherland IV. A respectful hush cloaked their weary shoulders, bolstering them with hope. For as they heard him speak with his father’s voice, saw the gleam of his mother’s eyes, noted the glitter of the Lindon signet on his finger …
They knew they were confronting the true Sutherland heirs.
Chapter 22
Sullivan Arthur Cane Sutherland did not go back to bed. After meeting with his brothers and the townspeople who had agreed to help them, he returned to the bedroom. For long, silent hours, he sat in the chair, watching Chelsea sleep.
He was struc
k by the ironic similarities of their situations. He had adopted a false name to protect his family. She had adopted a false name to protect herself. Both of them had been caught in a situation not of their own making. But where he had yet to see the consequences of his own actions, Chelsea had made a life for herself. She had cloaked her true beginnings in anonymity and had been willing to risk all she had gained in order to help an old woman.
Sullivan’s fingers unconsciously closed over the keys in his pocket, rubbing the intricate designs. To his infinite surprise, now that he knew the unorthodox upbringing Chelsea had been exposed to, he didn’t care. The past didn’t matter.
He loved her so much. He had never really understood the meaning of that phrase before. He had assumed that he knew what it meant to care for a woman, but he’d been wrong, so utterly wrong. His emotions were heightened, taking on an edge that he had never encountered before. His protectiveness was sharper, his sexual appetite keener. His fear …
His fear was a living thing, gripping his heart with icy talons. Never before had he considered the true risks he was taking. By this time tomorrow, his plan would be complete. One way or another. He would have to live with the consequences, or perhaps die trying.
Life had become so precious to him. Because he wanted to spend the rest of his days with this woman. His Chelsea.
Rising, Sullivan crept toward the bed. Bending, he pressed a kiss to the top of her head, inhaled her scent, so womanly, so exotic, then placed a peony on the pillow beside her.
Resolutely, he left the room. By the time the first pink rays began to wriggle beneath the lingering storm clouds, he had joined his brothers in preparation for the upcoming campaign.
A wizened old woman, her body the shape of a wrinkled pear, shuffled through the servants’ quarters at Lindon Manor. The Countess of Lindon was a good woman, an honest woman, a charitable woman. Each year, come solstice morn, she allowed the house servants a special treat of an extra hour abed and a cup of tea in their rooms.
Mad Martha, as the gnarled woman had come to be known, was the exception to the rule. Elderly, crabbed, she was basically “out to graze,” as the rest of the staff called it. She performed a few odd tasks about the manor, none that really amounted to much. But it was her joy, her pleasure, to prepare the solstice tea.
This particular holiday, Mad Martha was especially pleased with her task. She made two pots. One a mixture of the finest Chinese blend. The other a stronger-tasting Indian variety, with an added mixture of herbs guaranteed to drag a full-grown man to his knees with stomach cramps and intestinal distress.
Cackling in secret glee, she began to make her rounds, knowing just who remained in favor and who would receive the full brunt of a thirty-year-old wrath.
Come dawn, the majordomo of Lindon Manor took ill. A hearty and healthy man of but forty-five, he experienced sudden overwhelming pains in his gullet and took to his bed. He was soon followed by a cook, three housemaids, a handful of stable boys, and the men known by the rest of the staff as Nigel’s personal guards.
With a score of guests and still a week’s worth of entertaining, Nigel was forced to do what he could. He went into the village at first light, approached the old gentleman who had formerly held the position of butler, and offered him temporary employment. His proposition bordered on a threat; he was not surprised that the man agreed to his terms.
Upon his return, Nigel discovered that yet another cook had taken ill, as well as three more maids and a hostler. Not wanting such news to spread, Nigel put Estella in charge of hiring more locals. By midmorning, the positions had been filled, and he had the eeriest sensation that he had seen all of these people before. In this very house. In their very same positions.
Such a state was possible, since he had fired at least half of the original staff, and very few of them had moved from Addlebury since. Still, to his knowledge, the townspeople had sworn an oath never to darken his doors again. Nigel was delighted to see that once again they’d been forced to submit to his will.
He was whistling beneath his breath later that same morning when Reginald met him at the bottom of the steps.
“There is a man to see you. A Mr. Wilson.”
“Yes, yes. Show him into the study.”
Reginald hesitated, then asked stiffly. “May I ask who the gentleman is and what business he has with you?”
Nigel, who had summoned the solicitor posthaste to see if there were any legal possibilities he could employ to retrieve the deed to Lindon Manor, regarded his secretary in sudden irritation. “No, you may not Just send him in.”
“Yes, sir.” The last word held a slightly bitter inflection.
Nigel stopped on his way to his study to stare out the windows at the verdant lawns below. The day would be perfect for the solstice celebration. The sun hung in the sky like a pat of butter in a blue sea. The flowers of his wife’s rose garden shimmered snow-white amidst a green velvet backdrop.
His lips tilted in a slow, satisfied smile. Yes, it was a beautiful day. In Richard Sutherland’s case, it would be a beautiful day to die.
Sullivan Cane looked up from the crudely drawn map of the Lindon Manor floor plan and surveyed the half-dozen people who had intently followed his instructions.
“Any questions?”
One by one, his comrades-in-arms shook their heads. Greyson and Smee, Littleton the baker, Bretmer the blacksmith’s apprentice, and Rothel and Lowe, two farmers from the north end of the valley.
“You’re sure that Sutherland will not remember you from the village?”
The four locals shook their heads, and Rothel added, “Doubt he’d recognize me own mother, I do, and she served as his nanny fer a time. ‘E ’as a way of seein’ right through you, ’e does.”
“As long as he continues to do so,” Sullivan warned. “Very well, gentlemen. Assume your new identities and move into position. Come noon, we will begin.”
Bars of sunlight threaded through the portieres from the slit of space where they had not been drawn together properly. The greedy warmth spilled onto the floor, heating the air with a humid, cloying warmth and robbing the room of its oxygen.
Stirring in the bed, Chelsea knew she should rise and open the curtains to allow the morning breezes to sift into the room. But she was loath to move when she felt so deliciously weary. So satisfied. After all, she hadn’t really had much sleep to speak of.
Her lips tilted in a serene smile. A satisfied smile. She reached out, seeking, stretching across the cool linen sheets in search of the man who had filled her evening hours with such delicious dalliance.
To her dismay, she found no warmth, no dipping of the mattress. But there, upon the pillow, she encountered a velvety petal, a delicate blossom.
Flower. His first word. His first—
Her eyes opened. She grew still. Her heart lurched within her breast as her fingers came away sticky. Wet.
Crimson and white.
“So good of you to finally awaken, my dear.”
The dark, silken tones brought a fresh pang of dread, and Chelsea recoiled as she focused on the stains. A scream lodged in her throat. Blood. The snow-white petals were spattered with blood. Swallowing an instinctive cry, she gripped the sheets and dragged the covers to her neck. Slowly, as if she would shatter by moving too quickly, she rolled onto her back.
Nigel sat in the chair opposite. The same chair she had used to draw the delicate underthings onto her body in order to torment the man she loved.
A burning heat flooded her cheeks as she realized the floor was scattered with frothy silk and lace unmentionables. The delicate chemise lay only inches away from the toe of Nigel’s boot.
“How lovely you are this morning,” Nigel drawled, resting his elbows on the armrests. A red-brown wash covered the knuckles of his right hand. In his left, he held a glinting blade. “How flushed, how eager. How satisfied.” The last spat from his lips.
Chelsea couldn’t speak. She re
garded the man who had broken into her room in horror, sure that he meant to punish her for what she had done. Just as he had punished Jaime.
Richard! She searched the room for evidence of the man she’d come to love so much. What had he done to Richard? Dear sweet heaven, he had threatened to hurt him. Gasping, she strove to wipe away the streaks, sure that it was Richard’s blood. Nigel had killed him. Killed him! It was her fault. She had done this to him. She should have forced him to leave.
Nigel clucked in disapproval when he saw her cringe and rub at her skin. “Silly child. I haven’t harmed him,” he said, reading her thoughts in the uncanny way he’d always had a knack of doing. “Yet.”
A shiver racked her frame at that chilling word.
“The man seems to have the instincts of a cat. He must have awakened hours ago. Leaving you alone. All alone.”
He surveyed the room in casual disdain. “Pity. I really had anticipated a meeting with the chap, face to face this time.” He wiped the knife on the fabric of the chair until the metal sparkled as if newly washed, then tucked it into the top of his boot. “As it is, I feel certain the time will come soon enough.” He speared Chelsea with a look that contained a shard of barely concealed malice. “I know that he’s planning a confrontation tonight at the Solstice Masquerade. I intend to let him go through with his little charade. Just this once.” His lips quirked. “It amuses me. To think that for the next few hours he will plot and plan and maneuver. All to no avail. Because he cannot best me.” He rose to his feet and moved toward her, stealthily, like a cat preying upon a bird.
“However. In exchange for my largesse at not killing the man immediately, I will demand a forfeit of you, my dear.”
Chelsea shrank back, despising herself for being unable to respond to his threats. She wished she could rail at him, attack him, anything to stop him. But from the moment she’d awakened to find him here, watching her, she’d been flung back into the past. She’d become a shivering child. Impotent against his strength, his cunning, his calculated charm.