And she’d stopped him when he mentioned the sponge. The thought of her wanting him to plant his seed deep in her body had made him wild with passion.
No, he thought, clearing his mind. Not completely. There was still something hidden, something that held her back. Soon, he thought, he’d know. He would see it in her eyes the moment she recognized the Englishman from the description Hoolihan had provided. He stopped suddenly, uncertain if he wanted to know what she was keeping from him. Don’t be a fool, he told himself firmly. Whatever it was couldn’t be that bad.
She held me tightly, keeping me deep within her, keeping my seed deep within her. “God, I’m thinking like a randy goat,” he said aloud, and watched a pigtailed Chinese eye him oddly as he passed.
He found her drinking tea with Agatha Newton in the drawing room. She sucked in her breath when she saw him. Joy filled her face, and she jumped to her feet, rushing to him.
“Good afternoon, love,” he said, giving her a quick kiss. “Hello, Aggie. Any interesting gossip?”
“Oh Lord, isn’t there always?” Agatha grinned at him. “I’ll be sure to pass along that Mr. and Mrs. Delaney Saxton are still on their honeymoon.”
“That,” he said, squeezing Chauncey, “is nothing less than the truth.” But how much longer will it last? What will she say, how will she react when I confront her?
“Well, I can see that my presence is the last thing you two want at this moment.” Agatha rose and shook out her burgundy skirts. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Chauncey—that is, if your husband will allow you out of his sight.”
Chauncey flushed, smiled, and murmured something unintelligible.
“Give my best to Horace, Aggie,” Delaney said. He released his wife and walked with Agatha to the front door. She paused a moment, planting her bonnet firmly over her gray hair. “You’re a lucky man, Del,” she said. “Very lucky.”
“Yes,” he said, grinning down at her, “yes, I know that.”
“Just don’t forget it, young man,” she said, poking him in the stomach. “Lucas,” she called out, “fetch my man for me! He’s likely ogling the new maid at the Butler’s house!”
Delaney returned to the drawing room. Chauncey was standing in the middle of the room, her eyes narrowed on the carpet, her shoulders slumped.
He took her into his arms. “Do you know, I like that yellow silk gown. You’re the only woman I know who looks almost as delightful with clothes as without.”
“I . . . Thank you, Del. I wasn’t expecting you home so early.”
“I enjoyed your greeting.”
“Well, I was surprised.”
He gently pushed her back and studied her face a moment before saying baldly, “My men found Hoolihan.”
She sucked in her breath. “Hoolihan,” she repeated blankly.
“Yes. I had quite a long chat with the fellow. Indeed, sweetheart, although he didn’t know the name of the man who’d hired him, he gave me an excellent description. He is English, of course. I imagine that he followed you here after his failure to eliminate you in Plymouth.”
Paul Montgomery. He’s going to describe Paul Montgomery! She jerked away from him and planted herself behind a chair, her fingers gripping the back until her knuckles showed white. Oh God, what am I going to do? “Tell me,” she said tersely.
He did, carefully and precisely, his eyes never wavering from her face. She knows who he is, he thought. She knows.
“Tell me his name, Chauncey,” he said.
She looked at him wildly. She couldn’t tell him, not like this! Not without . . . Without what, you fool? Without making him love you first, without giving yourself a chance to make him understand. She felt trapped, helpless and afraid.
“Hoolihan is going to help us find him,” Delaney said after a long moment. “It would help, sweetheart, if you’d tell me who he is.” The silence was thick between them. He had to push her. He said very calmly, “If you don’t tell me, Chauncey, I’m putting you on the next ship back to England.”
“No! Please, Del, you can’t!” She gulped. He would do just as he said, she knew it. “Very well,” she said. “His name is Paul Mont . . . Montsorrel. He is . . . was my father’s solicitor. I’ve known him since I was a child.”
“Why would he want you dead, Chauncey?”
She was rubbing her arms, her movements jerky. “Greed,” she burst out. “He was furious when I didn’t allow him to handle my money. Indeed, my aunt and uncle went to him, blackening my name, trying to have me sued for breach of promise.”
“Chauncey,” he said very quietly, “Hoolihan said this Paul Montsorrel indicated to him that you knew too much. That doesn’t seem to have anything to do with greed.”
“No, no, it doesn’t,” she said numbly. “But I can’t believe he would try to kill me!”
“Tell me the rest of it. Now.”
If I tell you all of it, I’ll be on my way back to England before the end of the week! “Very well,” she said. “I . . . I discovered that he was cheating my father. Indeed, I shouldn’t have been a pauper upon my father’s death, but he’d stolen all the money.” It was the truth. And it didn’t make sense. “Why, Del? Why would he want me dead?”
“Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
She flung her hands before her as if to ward off his words. “I don’t know.”
She knew what his next question would be. “Just how did you discover what he’d done, Chauncey? And upon discovering it, why didn’t you have the man arrested?”
“I couldn’t prove anything, nothing! I wanted only to leave England and him and all the awful memories.”
He knew her well enough to realize she was mixing truth with lies, but he didn’t know which was which. Jesus, would he ever unravel all of this mess? One thing he did know: Chauncey wasn’t a coward or a frightened, timid female. If she’d believed this Paul Montsorrel guilty, she’d never have left him unpunished. Montsorrel. Indeed, was that the man’s real name? He sighed deeply and ran his fingers through his hair. He simply had to gain her trust.
When Lucas returned from the post office the next morning, bringing him a letter from his brother, Alex, he realized trust had nothing to do with anything.
22
Alex’s bold handwriting blurred a moment before Delaney’s eyes. One meager paragraph, he thought in ironic amusement, perhaps only a hundred words. Those words written by his brother could have been about anything: Nicholas, his nephew, as black-eyed as his father; or Leah, his lovely niece; or . . . Stop it, you bloody fool! You wanted to know the truth! But he’d wanted Chauncey to tell him. He forced his eyes downward and read yet again that meager paragraph that had suddenly changed his life.
“Incidentally, Del, Giana received a letter from her mother shortly after I wrote to you. It seems that that Englishman, Sir Alec FitzHugh, indeed left a daughter. What’s more, he left her penniless! I believe the plot thickens. Then, like Cinderella, the girl received a huge inheritance from a Sir Jasper Dunkirk. Funny thing is that the young lady left England very soon thereafter. The duchess says the girl’s aunt and uncle Penworthy were screaming breach of promise for their son. It would be interesting to know, the duchess suggested, just why Sir Alec’s solicitor, Paul Montgomery, had turned colors so quickly and maligned the young lady himself, since he’d known her all her life and was supposedly loyal to the Jameson FitzHugh family. Further, she wondered where all the money you’d faithfully sent had gone.”
Paul Montsorrel. Paul Montgomery.
“Jesus,” he said softly. “Elizabeth Jameson FitzHugh.” His first thought, oddly enough, was whether his marriage was valid. Chauncey hadn’t provided her complete name.
He reread Alex’s final words. “I have already written to the duchess and assured her that you’ve been sending money like a regular trooper, supposedly to Sir Alec. I doubt not that she’ll see to that damned bounder Montgomery.”
Delaney slowly lowered the letter to his desktop and calmly folded it back into its
envelope. So many damned twists and turns! But Chauncey knew that Paul Montgomery was swindling her father. Then why had she come to San Francisco? Why had she so assiduously sought him out?
“You stupid ass,” he said to himself, “she believed that you were the guilty party! Montgomery must have convinced her of it.” She’d come to San Francisco to get her revenge upon him. He made an effort to close off all the myriad implications of her act, at least for the moment. Montgomery was the immediate problem. Certainly he had to realize that she would discover the truth eventually. Why murder? My father died from laudanum. He froze. Dear God, had the man murdered Sir Alec? Certainly Sir Alec must have wondered where all the money was going. Had he confronted Montgomery?
I discovered he was cheating my father.
So Chauncey had read the papers in his desk and knew he was innocent. He thought about her nearly uncontrolled outburst over the fire at the warehouse. Had she been responsible? Her revenge against him? But she discovered the truth. Very slowly he opened the bottom drawer in his desk and pulled out the box containing all the records and correspondence. He examined the lock closely; she’d done a good job of it, but it had been picked. The papers inside were neatly in place, but he knew. He knew she’d read them.
She hated you so much she was willing to marry you to gain her revenge.
That hidden part of her, always puzzling to him, always elusive, was now explained. He closed his eyes a moment against the pain, anger, and utter outrage he felt. He rose very slowly from his chair, placed the box under his arm, and walked upstairs to their bedroom.
Chauncey was seated before her dressing table, Mary braiding her thick hair into a fat plait to be wound atop her head.
“Leave us, Mary.”
“Oh, Mr. Del! Certainly, sir.” It was the time of reckoning; Mary knew it. She sent her mistress a quick encouraging smile. Very quietly she left the room, closing the door firmly behind her.
In the mirror Chauncey saw the box under his arm, and grew very still. She’d been so careful. He couldn’t know!
“Good morning,” she said in a bright voice, turning on the brocade stool to face him. “It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it? Not a bit of fog. Lucas was telling me that during the summer—”
“Shut up,” he said very calmly.
She searched his face. It was closed to her, expressionless, but she felt the fury radiating from him.
“You know,” she said dully.
“Yes, I know. Perhaps I know more than you do, wife.”
She flinched at the emphasis he’d placed on “wife.” Sarcastic and cold. She rose and clasped her arms over her breasts. His eyes, always filled with humor and tenderness for her, were narrowed and glittered like molten gold. “Del, please, you must listen to me. You can’t really understand, you can’t—”
“I’d suggest that you keep your tongue between your teeth, Chauncey, and listen to me instead. You know,” he continued in an even, detached tone, “I never could really understand why you chased me so assiduously. Indeed, from the moment you arrived in San Francisco, you were searching for me. Tell me, why did you decide to go to such lengths as to talk me into marriage?”
She found herself wringing her hands, and quickly flattened her palms against her dressing gown. “I understood that you were going to marry Penelope Stevenson. I couldn’t allow that. The money from both families was too much. I couldn’t have . . . ruined you. But, Del—”
“Ah, perfectly understandable,” he interrupted her, his tone one of polite interest. “You staged that charming accident with your mare, only it backfired on you. You let that much slip, remember? I was very flattered, I suppose, that you would go so far to get into my house, to be close to me. I just had no idea how deeply the waters ran.” He raised a stilling hand. “No, I am not finished yet, wife. Let me tell you that I am not quite a fool, though through your eyes I may appear to be the most gullible creature alive. But had you faked an injury, I would have seen through it, so even your concussion and cracked ribs worked in your favor. After all, what is a little honest pain compared to the prize you wanted? Remember your nightmare? I held you in my arms, wanting nothing more than to ease your fear and make you happy. Ah, and think of our wedding night. Did your skin crawl when I, your sworn enemy, touched your body? Took your innocence? Because I was your sworn enemy, was I not?”
“Yes.” I have to make you understand! “I wanted to tell you everything, I swear it! Please, just listen to me for a minute. It all began in London when I was living with the Penworthys. I overheard my aunt tell my uncle that my father hadn’t died of natural causes, but rather committed suicide. I went to see Paul Montgomery to demand the truth. It was then he told me about you and what you had done to my father. Of course I believed him! I’d known him all my life!”
“Did you come here to kill me or just ruin me?”
“I never wanted to kill you, I couldn’t! I am not that . . . kind of person.”
“Ah, my dear, perhaps not. But you are the most cold-blooded bitch it has ever been my privilege to encounter. No, please do not try my patience further with your protestations. You did set fire to the warehouse, didn’t you? I can see the answer in your eyes. How very . . . driven you were, to risk your own life to hurt me.”
“It was an accident, Del! When I was standing in the warehouse, I knew you couldn’t be guilty, but guilty or not, I couldn’t do it because I loved you! I couldn’t hurt you. I thought the match was burned out, but it fell on those awful fireworks!”
“And then”—he placed the box carefully on a tabletop—“then you read the correspondence. Yesterday, I would gather. I wondered at your . . . sweetness and enthusiasm, my dear. You became a positive wild thing in my bed. No, don’t interrupt me, Chauncey. I don’t believe I could stand hearing how you really wanted to make love to me, to prove to yourself and to me that you’d forgiven me what I’d never done!”
“But it’s true!” She crossed the few feet between them and clutched at his lapels. “Del, please, I know that what I’ve done makes it difficult for you to trust me now, but I believed Paul Montgomery! I—”
He took her hands from his coat and shoved her away. “All you had to do was ask me, Chauncey, confront me.”
“Confront you! And if you had been guilty, what would you have done? Admitted everything to me and begged my forgiveness? Marched to jail? I doubt that, Del! More likely you would have had me removed permanently!”
“Yes,” he said slowly, “I suppose I would have had you killed, killed just like Montgomery probably murdered your father.”
Her eyes widened with shock, and she whirled away from him, holding her arms tightly around her body. “Oh God, no!” Her voice was a thread of sound, anguished and disbelieving.
“I deduced it only a while ago. I couldn’t believe that Montgomery would want you dead simply because you would discover that he’d swindled your father. No, it had to be something more. I don’t understand why you didn’t figure it out, my dear. Your mind, I have discovered, is quite creative.”
“It didn’t occur to me,” she said, raising her head. “It still seems impossible.” Her eyes were dazed, haunted. “He killed my father all because of money? A man he’d known for years and called friend? An ‘uncle’ who never forgot to send me gifts at Christmas?’
“And now this man wants you dead. It seems believable enough to me. He has to be pretty desperate to have followed you from England. With you gone, my dear, he could return to London and live quite well his ill-gotten gains. I imagine he isn’t too happy that you married me, for if you had been killed in Plymouth, your aunt and uncle, not I, would have inherited all your money. Doubtless he would have managed to get his hands on a goodly portion of your funds before turning over the rest to the Penworthys. But regardless, he would have been safe. At least he would think himself safe. My brother, Alex, has already written to the Duke and Duchess of Graffton telling them of Montgomery’s perfidy. Odd, isn’t it, that he would lose aft
er going to all the trouble of removing you?”
It is just as I thought it would be, Chauncey realized, staring fixedly at her husband but not really hearing his words. He hates me now. He wants to hate me.
“I did what I believed right!” she burst out, her hands fisted at her sides. “What would you have done, damn you?”
Delaney stroked his jaw, studying her flushed face. “I already told you what I would have done,” he said matter-of-factly. “I would have confronted you—something, my dear, that you didn’t have the guts to do. Had I believed you guilty, I would have killed you.”
“I am a woman! What did you expect me to do? Challenge you to a duel? Damn you, Delaney! I sought to ruin you, as I thought you had my father. Only I couldn’t figure out how to do it. Your holdings are too dispersed.”
“But you hated me enough to take the risk of riding out in the night to the warehouse, knowing that someone wanted you dead. Your notion of revenge, my dear, is chilling. Even if you had burned all the goods and the warehouse to the ground, I wouldn’t have been a begger—surely you realized that. After all, you are my wife, privy to the knowledge of where my money is. As your loving husband, I kept nothing from you.”
“Yes, I know that. But I felt so guilty.” Her voice broke. “I was falling in love with you, yet I knew that I had to revenge my father. Even then, you won. The damned fire was an accident. Can’t you believe that?”
Suddenly he started to laugh, a rumbling sound deep in his chest. “How deflated you must have felt,” he gasped, “when I told you I’d never had any intention of marrying Penelope! By then you were stuck with me as your husband. Poor Chauncey! Tell me, wife, what were your thoughts then?”