“Who is it, Betsy?”
Martin raised his brows. Flustered, wiping her hands on her apron, Betsy backed and waved them in.
“It’s Dexter, Conlan.”
An old man in the armchair by the hearth squinted, blinked, then his face cleared. “Yer lordship? Be it really you?”
“Indeed. It’s me.”
“Praise be!” Conlan struggled to his feet and bowed. “Welcome home, m’lord—and I thank the Lord I can finally tell you. It wasn’t you I saw.”
“How can you be so certain?” Martin asked, once they’d all sat and Betsy had closed the door. “I can understand you being unsure if it was me or not, but how can you be certain it wasn’t me? There’s no way even you could have distinguished features at that distance.”
“Aye, you’re right there, but it wasn’t features that told me.” Conlan sat back in his chair, gathered his resources. “Let me tell it like it was, then you’ll see how it happened.”
Martin nodded the permission Conlan waited for.
“I saw the figures on the Edge, wrestling, fighting, then I saw the young gen’leman shove old Buxton over. I knew it was Buxton ’cause of that yellow-striped waistcoat of his. I ran and fetched Simmons and Tucker, and Morrissey, too. Others joined us as we ran to the cliff. Tucker asked who’d thrown Buxton over. I said ‘twas a young gen’leman looked like you. Well—you were the only young gen’leman we had round about, and we all knew what you looked like, even from a distance. And I’ll still take my oath on it—the gen’leman who threw Buxton over looked just like you. At the time, that’s all I said—all I really knew, clear in my mind. And then we found you, and it fitted. You’d done it. Even though you said otherwise, what was we to think with you standing there with the rock in your hand and Buxton dead at your feet?
“So we hiked you to your Da, and he acted swift—that was a shock, I can tell you. We never expected he’d up and send you away like that. But it was done . . . we all went home.” He nodded to the window. “I sat right here, and heard the carriage rumble past as they took you south.”
Conlan sighed. “I tried to sleep but there was something nagging at me. Wouldn’t let me go, kept forcing me to see it all again and again in my mind, see the gen’leman force Buxton to the lip and over. Buxton was no fool—he hadn’t been walking close to the lip. The other had to force him back, and o’ course he didn’t go easily . . . that’s when it all came clear and I knew we’d got it wrong.”
Martin frowned. “How? What did you remember?”
“It was the quirt the gen’leman was carrying. He used it on Buxton. I saw it clearly—saw the gen’leman’s arm rise and fall, saw Buxton put up his arms to shield his head. That’s how the gen’leman forced him to the lip, then he pushed him over. I saw the gen’leman standing there, looking down at Buxton with the quirt still clutched in his hand.”
Conlan sighed. “So you see, I knew ‘twasn’t you. Couldn’t’ve been.”
Amanda glanced at Martin’s face, saw a lightening of the darkness that had always—as long as she’d known him—been there. She turned to Conlan. “Why did that convince you it wasn’t his lordship you saw?”
Conlan blinked at her. “The quirt. He never used one. Not ever. Not even when he was first on a pony. We’d all known him since he was a babe—we’d seen him riding for years. No quirt. According to Smithers, used to be head groom at the big house, he never even owned one.”
Conlan turned to Martin. “So I knew then, and you may be sure I told everyone who’d listen. In the morning, I went up to the big house, but they wouldn’t let me see your Da. I tried to tell them, but there was a great to-do going on. I spoke with old Canter—he tried to speak with your Da but seems they’d been forbidden to say your name. Canter tried, but his lordship wouldn’t listen.
“I told myself I’d done my best, but I couldn’t let it go. I went into Buxton village and spoke with Sir Francis, but he said as how your Da was the magistrate for this district, and he couldn’t see his way to interfere. He told me your Da no doubt had his reasons and I should leave it be.”
Conlan paused, then said, “And that’s where it’s laid. I’ve been waiting ten year to tell you to your face. I thought you’d be back—that your Da would change his mind, ‘specially when your Ma died. But you never did return.” He lifted wondering eyes to Martin’s face.
“They didn’t know where I was—they couldn’t have called me back.” Martin patted Conlan’s shoulder. “Thank you for telling me.”
He rose; he had to get out of the small cottage. Out where he could breathe. Think. Try to comprehend. His smile felt strained as he took his leave of Conlan and Betsy. Amanda sensed his tension; she chatted brightly, easing their way out of the door.
Martin waved to Dan but kept walking, striding. Amanda’s skirts shushed as she hurried to keep up, then her hand clamped on his arm and she yanked. Hauled.
He halted, swung to face her.
“Slow down!” She frowned at him. “You heard—you’re not guilty!
He looked down at her. “I always knew that.”
“But you never were guilty as far as these people are concerned.” She searched his face. “Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”
“Yes. It does.” He spoke through his teeth, then exhaled, looked over her head. “Only . . . I don’t know what it means.” He passed his hands over his face, then cursed and swung away.
Amanda was right beside him. “What do you mean?” Hustling along, she peered at his face. “What do you mean you don’t know?”
“I mean—” His whole world was disintegrating before his very eyes. “I—” He couldn’t find words to describe the tectonic shift in his thinking. With an oath, he grabbed her arm and towed her past the horses. Stopped by the stone wall of the cemetery. Turned her to the cliffs.
“Look at Froggart Edge. It’s much the same time it was that day, the same season. The light’s the same. Imagine me standing up there. Now imagine Luc there. Would you—could anyone possibly confuse us?”
Amanda stared. Then she looked at Martin. “You thought it was Luc?”
“I couldn’t think of anyone else Sarah would have given herself to, but Luc never carried a quirt, anymore than I did.”
They sat on the stone wall, side by side, and he explained.
“Luc knew her, too, not as well as I did, but . . . well enough. He was always startlingly handsome—I could imagine it happening. And Luc had been at Hathersage for Christmas, and he’d driven up from London ahead of me that day. I knew he was at the house before me—he would have heard of Sarah’s death as I did, as soon as he arrived. He had the opportunity to do what had been done, and I thought he had the motive they gave me.” His lips twisted. “And as much as they called me wild, Luc was wilder.”
Amanda nodded. “I know. You forget. I’ve known him since birth. But why didn’t you realize, if Conlan said the murderer looked like you—”
“I thought he’d made a mistake, one others had made often enough.”
“Confusing you and Luc?”
He nodded. “We’re alike enough now, but then . . . it was easy at a glance to confuse us. Only . . . it wasn’t until I heard Conlan describe the scene just now that I realized about the light.”
Amanda looked up at the escarpment. “It was as it now is on that day?”
“Yes. A clear sky with weak sunshine bathing the entire Edge. Quite aside from the quirt, I can’t believe Conlan would have missed the difference in coloring—not in that light.”
“Which means it isn’t Luc.” Amanda turned to Martin. “So who . . . ?” Her voice trailed away; she felt her eyes grow round. “A gentleman who looks like you.” She grabbed Martin’s arm. “The highwayman!”
The frown in his eyes told her he’d already made the connection, and would have preferred that she wasn’t so perceptive; she ignored that. Her mind was racing. “That’s why he was waiting at the crossroads—he was waiting, not for Reggie, but . . .” She frowned.
“How could he have known you were on the road north?”
“I don’t know, but I seriously doubt Reggie was his target.”
“Reggie said the shot came immediately he leaned forward.”
“And the ‘highwayman’ didn’t check his victim, so we don’t know whether he realized he shot the wrong man.”
“But why does he want to shoot you?”
“To stop me from investigating the events surrounding Buxton’s death—and Sarah’s.” Martin was silent for a moment, then, jaw firming, he jumped down from the wall. “Come on—there’s someone else we need to speak with.”
Mrs. Crockett stared at him for a long moment, then stood aside. “Come in. Can’t say as I’m surprised to see you.”
Amanda glanced at Martin; unperturbed, he ushered her past him, then followed her into the cottage’s small parlor. Mrs. Crockett waved them to a sofa; she returned to a rocker that was gently rocking.
“Well.” She faced them across the hearth. “I have to say I thought it was you who’d done the old man to death, given they’d found you with the rock in your hand. You could of done it easy with that temper of yours—damned righteous, just like your Da. And it’d be just like you to fly to Sarah’s defense. But then Conlan said otherwise, and there’s no one hereabouts had sharper eyes than he, not then.”
She started rocking, her gaze drifting from them. “Truth was, I wasn’t agin seeing old Buxton dead, not after what he did. The sins of the fathers was all on his head, and rightly so. But”—she paused in her rocking, refocusing on Martin—“there was one thing I knew you didn’t do, and that was take advantage of my Sarah.”
Her voice had grown fierce. “I tried to tell them it wasn’t you, but they saw it as all of a piece. Everyone knew she was yours if you wanted, anytime you’d thought to crook your finger.” She shook her head. “But you never saw her that way, not that I ever saw. You never had brother nor sister—she was a little sister to you.”
“Yes.”
“Aye.” Mrs. Crockett drew her shawl tighter. “Nitwits, the lot of them, thinking it was you. I knew. I saw the bruises.”
Amanda felt the room—felt Martin—grow still. Then he asked, softly, “Bruises?”
Mrs. Crockett’s lips worked, then she blurted out, “Whoever he was, he forced her. I saw the marks—aye, and the change in her. All laughter and smiles, then the next day it was all I could do to get her to look at me. Cried all night, she had. I didn’t know, not then. But she was never one to make a fuss, my Sarah, and with a father like she had, well, no wonder, was it?”
She rocked faster, shot a fiery glance at Martin. “If you’d been here, like as not I’d’ve sent word—seen if you could talk her round, but she wouldn’t say naught to me, no matter what I knew.”
“She was forced.” Martin’s voice was even. “You’re sure?”
Mrs. Crockett nodded. “As I’m sitting here. On the second of the year, it was, two days after the ball at the big house.”
When both Martin and Mrs. Crockett remained silent, Amanda prompted, “You said you knew it wasn’t Martin.”
Mrs. Crockett looked directly at her. “Stands to reason, don’t it? If he”—she nodded at Martin—“had wanted her, all he had to do was say. He wouldn’t have needed to hold her down.” She sent another glance at Martin; her lip trembled, her voice softened as she added, “He wouldn’t have hurt her, either—there were enough lasses round here, even then, would have sworn to that. But my Sarah had bruises, big black bruises, all the way down her back. The blackguard had thrown her down on rocks to have his way with her.” Mrs. Crockett jerked her head at Martin. “Wasn’t him.”
Martin stirred. Amanda could feel his suppressed rage vibrating through him; he was tense as a coiled spring. But his voice remained even when he asked, “Did she say anything, drop any hint over who it was?”
Mrs. Crockett shook her head. “Never. You may be sure I’d have remembered if she had.” After a moment, she continued, staring at the fire, “I still remember how she gathered her courage and faced her father when it had to be done. She tried to make him see reason, but him?” She snorted. “Locked her in her room, he did, then the beatings and the preachings began.”
Amanda broke the ensuing silence. “Did he truly force her to take her life?”
“He took her life—he might not have tied the knot, but he made damned sure she did! He left her no choice—none.” Mrs. Crockett hugged herself, and rocked back and forth, back and forth. “If only she’d kept a diary . . . but she never did.”
They left the old woman rocking in her chair, and stepped back into the present, into the sunshine and light.
Amanda held her tongue on the ride back to the house. Allie took one look at Martin’s face, then instructed them to ready themselves for luncheon; she served them in the parlor, now spick and span. Her eyes met Amanda’s frequently, but she forbore to voice her questions.
She did, however, inform them that Reggie had eaten earlier and was now napping in his room. “Looks a lot improved, and no sign of any fever.”
Relieved on that score, at the end of the meal, Amanda pushed back her chair. “Come, my lord earl, and conduct me around your family portraits.” Rising, he raised a cynical brow at her; she opened her eyes wide. “Isn’t that what gentleman do to impress potential brides?”
He studied her as he neared. “You’re as transparent as glass.”
She smiled and linked her arm in his. “Humor me.”
The portraits hung all around the gallery at the top of the main stairs; as they went up, she glanced at his face. “Am I right in thinking that on your return to England, you didn’t pursue the matter of who had committed the crime because you thought it was Luc?”
He didn’t immediately reply. Reaching the landing, he stopped, then turned left. “I didn’t know what to think—not to begin with, not later. Luc and I . . . until that time, we’d been closer than brothers. We grew up together, our mothers were sisters, we went to Eton, then on the town together . . .” He shrugged. “I honestly never came to any conclusion—it was possible, and that’s as far as my thinking ever got.”
“But you don’t suspect Luc now?”
“No—triply no. Conlan’s eyesight’s too good, and as for using force . . .” His lips twisted; he glanced at her. “You know Luc—when it comes to women, the only force he’s ever employed is to hold them off.”
Amanda humphed. “Indeed. So it’s not him. Who else could it be?” They stepped into the gallery.
“The answer is not what you think—but you’ll see.” Martin led her to the portraits.
Allie had been busy; the curtains had been drawn back and secured with their cords. Light flooded in, reflecting off dust motes still swirling in the air, washing over the portaits hanging in regimented rows along the walls.
“We may as well start with old Henry, the very first earl.” Martin led her to a portrait of a crusty-looking gentleman, posed with a bevy of spaniels gazing adoringly up at him. “The story goes he was more fond of his dogs than he was of his countess. That’s her.”
Amanda looked at the neighboring portrait—a severe-looking woman with pinched features and iron-grey hair. “Hmm.”
They progressed along the portraits until they came to one a little more recent. “My grandfather, the third earl.”
A study done in the subject’s prime; Amanda studied it, glanced frowningly at Martin, then at the picture. “He doesn’t look much like you.”
“I don’t look much like him.” Martin met her gaze. “In features, I take after my mother.”
He nodded ahead and they continued, strolling past various Fulbridges, every portrait, especially those of the males, confirming his words. The Fulbridges had a different shaped head, a heavier brow, a less clear-cut jaw. An altogether different cast of features, and even more important, a heavier, more sloping-shouldered frame. They bred true, from the first earl all the way to the last, Martin’s father.
Amanda
stopped before that portrait, not needing to be told, aware of the quietness that stole over Martin, the hooding of his eyes. She studied the man who had banished his own son—as it now seemed, without cause. The portrait showed a stern face and, yes, a righteous stance, but there was no hint of cruelty, no sign of distemper.
Frowning, she looked ahead—the next painting captured her attention. Focused it dramatically. “Your mother?” She stopped directly in front, gaze shifting avidly from one to the other of the three faces shown.
“And her sister.”
“Luc’s mother—I know. She looks so much younger here.”
“They were in their twenties at the time.”
He’d said he took after his mother, and to some extent that was true; the resemblance was clear, but muted by the difference between feminine and masculine forms. But Amanda could now see what he’d actually meant by the comment. She pointed to the man standing between the two sisters, behind the table at which they sat, one on either side. “Who’s he?”
“My uncle, their older brother.”
The man was, if not the exact image of Martin, then a very close replica. Such a good match that it took no imagination at all to see how one could be mistaken for the other, even at relatively close quarters.
Amanda stared at the painting, drank in all it told her, all Martin had wanted her to see with her own eyes. Then she turned and met his agatey gaze. “The murderer’s a relative of yours, but not a Fulbridge. Someone from your mother’s family.”
When he said nothing, she continued, “And that someone is still alive, and doesn’t want you looking into the old murder, because if you do . . .”
After a moment, Martin spoke, his eyes on hers. “That someone was hoping, because I’d let the matter rest for so long, when I returned to London and made no move to immediately proclaim my innocence and search for the real murderer, that the matter was closed and they were safe. Now, however, my interest in you has become public, and the murderer has learned I’ve formally offered for you, and no one who knew the Cynsters would imagine I could have gained the family’s approval without giving an undertaking to resolve the old scandal, so, suddenly, unexpectedly, the murderer finds himself under threat.”