She nodded, her eyes locked on his. “And so he struck back—it was you he was trying to kill when he shot Reggie.”
“Yes.”
“Do you think he’s realized? That it was Reggie and not you he shot?”
“Possibly. But even if he had, he had to leave, let us go, and he can’t risk coming after me here.”
Amanda frowned. “Why not? He presumably knows the place—”
“And, very likely, everyone here knows him.” When she didn’t look convinced, Martin continued, “If he was seen and recognized . . . killing me would accomplish nothing if he was caught. If he could kill me and get away with it—it was worth a try. Now, however, he’ll most likely reason that there’s still a good chance I won’t be able to clear my name, or even if I do, that, after all these years, there’ll be no evidence to link him with Buxton’s death.”
Martin grimaced. “As, indeed, will very likely be the case.” He took her arm, twined it with his and turned her along the gallery.
She let him steer her while she juggled facts, slotted more pieces into her mental jigsaw. “But,” she eventually stated, “the best and surest way to clear your name socially, especially after all this time, will be to prove that someone else was the murderer.”
He hesitated, then nodded. “The most effective way but not, perhaps, the only way.”
She looked into his face. “Did you give any undertaking? About resolving the scandal?”
“Not in words, but it was understood.”
“Well, then!” She closed her fingers on his arm, let her determination ring clearly; she wasn’t about to let anyone or anything come between them now, certainly not a murderer. “I suggest we start looking for one of your maternal relatives who fits the bill—one who was here, who knew Sarah, and so on.”
He halted in a wide swath of sunshine. “There might be other options.”
She studied his face, then raised both brows. “You aren’t, by any chance, imagining I’ll agree to you letting the matter rest, opting instead to live your life in the shadows?”
His gaze remained somber. “Whoever it is, they’ve a family depending on them—innocent people will be harmed by their fall.” He held her silent with his gaze, drew breath, then went on, “Sarah’s dead—nothing can bring her back. As for Buxton, righting the injustice there worries me less, but—”
“Wait!” She waved her hands. “Go back. You’re worried about harming the murderer’s family by exposing him?”
When he merely raised a brow—a sign she could interpret perfectly well—she suddenly saw the problem Lady Osbaldestone in her wisdom had foreseen. Saw the hole—the pit a surfeit of protective commitment could bury a man in—and knew she had to address it, overcome it, here and now.
She locked her gaze with his. “Your family disowned you wrongfully. I know you will not, could not bring yourself to ever turn your back on any other as they did you. You’ll make whatever sacrifice is asked to protect your family, all of its members. Am I right?”
He frowned, shifted.
“However,” she pressed on, “no matter the situation, no matter what arguments you propound, nothing can ever change the fact that your principal goal must be to protect the future of your house. You’ve been reared and trained to put that above all else”—she dragged in a breath—“and the future of your house lies with you”—she jabbed his chest—“and me, and our children.”
His eyes abruptly narrowed; she blushed, waved dismissively. “That’s not the issue here.”
The hardening of his expression suggested that their potential offspring was very much an issue with him; she realized, changed tack. Gestured. “Just think—this murderer has already shot Reggie mistakenly. What if he decides he needs the certainty of your death and again tries to kill you, but kills me, or one of our children—or both!—instead?”
His expression told her she’d overplayed her hand, that he knew precisely which string she was pulling. She kept her eyes wide, hands splayed, palms up, and held his gaze; whatever else, that string was an extremely strong one.
He exhaled. Glanced away.
She caught his hands, twined their fingers, felt his tighten, lock. Held his gaze when he looked back, her expression open, without guile. “The future of your house is you and me and our children. Sacrificing your own future to protect others of your family is one thing. Sacrificing us is another.
“No one would ever expect it of you. It’s not something anyone can ask. Some may be hurt, but we’ll be there—you and me and the others who’ll help us—we can help them through whatever comes. But you can no longer shield the murderer.” She looked into his eyes, then quietly added, “Aside from all else, he isn’t worthy of your care.”
They stood there, handfasted, gazes locked. The sun washed over them, warming, bringing the promise of growth and abundance, of future happiness. About them, the house seemed to stretch, as if waking from a long sleep. From somewhere downstairs came Allie’s voice and a clattering jangle of cutlery.
Martin drew in a long breath, briefly squeezed her fingers. Glanced away through the window.
She waited, praying. What more she could say?
“He’s a member of the family who was here over Christmas and New Year that year, then returned for the Easter gathering.” Martin looked down at her.
She smiled brilliantly, joyously. “Can you remember . . . ?”
He shook his head. “There are more candidates than you suppose. That side of the family’s extensive, and many visited frequently. Every Christmas and New Year, every Easter, and at least twice every summer, there were huge house parties held here. We regularly slept more than seventy.”
“So who would know? Allie?”
“No.” After a moment, he said, “I’ll need to check in my father’s study.”
She knew he hadn’t been in there yet, knew he would want to check alone. She smiled. “I need to look in on Reggie, then talk to Allie.”
Slipping her fingers from his, she stretched up and kissed his cheek. He accepted the caress but immediately turned his head. Met her eyes, then bent his head and touched his lips to hers.
In a simple, achingly sweet kiss.
“Join me when you finish with Allie.”
Martin opened the door of his father’s study, a square room with windows looking west along the cliffs. Allie had yet to penetrate this far; the room was dim and dark. Crossing to the windows, he pulled aside the curtains, stood looking down, watching the river glint as it wended eastward.
All about him was quiet . . . watchful. Was it fancy that made him feel his father so close, as if his presence still permeated this room a full year after his death? Drawing breath, mentally girding his loins, he turned.
Took in the mahogany desk, the admiral’s chair behind it, the leather worn to a smooth shine. The blotter, a few marks upon it, the pen sitting in an inkstand long dry. There were no papers left lying on the desk. Everything had been tidied away. Not by him, by the solicitor.
He didn’t even know where his father had died, or how, only that he had. Martin recalled the date, realized it had been exactly a year later that he’d first set eyes on Amanda.
The thought of her, of all she’d said, melted his inertia. Sent the past retreating to a manageable distance. Put the present into perspective.
Walking to the desk, he drew out the chair and sat. Scanned the account books and ledgers lining the room, noted new volumes, none unexpected, none out of place. His lips twisted—naturally not. Looking down at the desk, he ignored the dust and reached for the first drawer on the left.
Pens, pencils, various odds and ends—and a piece of scrimshaw he’d given his father as a gift years ago. Martin considered it—knowing his father’s propensity for rigidity it seemed odd he’d kept it there, where he would have seen it every day . . . frowning, he slid the drawer closed and opened the next.
Letters, old ones, yellowing with age—quite a pile. Curious, he lifted them out, shuffl
ed through them . . .
They were all addressed to him. In his father’s hand.
He stared. Couldn’t imagine what . . . wondered when they’d been written.
There was only one way to find out. Reopening the top drawer, he found a letter opener and slit the first packet. He glanced only at the date, then opened the others, placing them in chronological order. The missives spanned nine years; the first had been written four days after he’d left—been banished.
Drawing a breath, he steeled himself, and picked up the first sheet.
Martin, my son—I was wrong. So wrong. In my arrogance and . . .
He had to stop, look up, force himself to breathe. His hand was shaking; he put the letter down—rose, paced to the window, wrestled with the latch and threw the sash up. Leaned out, welcomed the rush of cool valley air. Breathed deeply. Steadied his whirling wits.
Then, returning to the desk, he sat, picked up the letter and read every word.
Reaching the end, he stared at the door as the past as he’d known it disintegrated, then re-formed. He closed his eyes, for long moments sat absolutely still, imagining . . .
What the break must have meant to his mother.
What that, and the guilt and anguish poured out in the letter, must have done to his father. His righteous, always so concerned over doing the correct thing—being seen to have done the correct thing—father.
Eventually, he opened his eyes and read the rest of the letters. The last included an enclosure from his mother, written just before her death. In it, she pleaded with him to forgive them both and return so his father could right the wrong he’d done. Her words, more than any, left him shattered.
He was still sitting in the chair behind the desk, those letters and others before him, the shadows lengthening on the floor, when the door opened.
Amanda looked in, hesitated. Emotion hung heavy in the room, not threatening, yet . . . closing the door quietly, she crossed to Martin’s side.
He heard her, glanced up, blinked—he hesitated, then put out one arm and drew her near. Leaned his head against her side. The arm around her tightened.
“They knew.”
She couldn’t see his face. “That you weren’t the murderer?”
He nodded. “They realized within a few days, and sent off posthaste after me. But . . .”
“But what? If they knew, why were you banished all these years?”
He dragged in a shaky breath. “They’d arranged for me to go to the Continent, where all wealthy, titled scoundrels go when England gets too dangerous. But I decided if my father was effectively disowning me, then I didn’t need to follow his instructions. Instead of going to Dover and then to Ostend, I went to Southhampton. The first boat to sail went to Bombay. I didn’t care where I went as long as it was far from England. From here.”
“They couldn’t find you?”
He flicked the pile of letters. “They sent couriers and others to search, but they never caught up with me because they were looking on the wrong continent. If they’d tried India, they’d have found me—I wasn’t incognito.”
With one hand, she smoothed his hair. “But surely someone in London who’d visited or had dealings with India—”
He shook his head violently. “No—that’s the worst part.” His voice sounded raw. She felt him draw breath. “They waited here—for me. It was like a form of penance—instead of living their lives as usual, going down for the Season, visiting friends, the shooting and hunting, they stayed here, in this house. From the day I left to the day they died, as far as I can tell they were here, waiting for me to come back and forgive them.”
And I never did.
He didn’t need to say the words; Amanda could hear them in his mind. His arm tightened about her; he turned his face to her side, for one moment blindly clung.
She stroked his head, tried but couldn’t cope with the feelings—the empathy, the sympathy, the sheer frustration that all this—so much sadness—had come to pass. All because of one cowardly man. Whoever he was.
That last occurred to Martin. He disengaged, drawing Amanda down to sit on the padded chair arm. Lifting the stacked letters, he returned them to the drawer, then slid it shut.
What’s done is done—the past is dead and buried.
He couldn’t go back and make his peace with his parents, but he could avenge them—and Sarah, even Buxton—see that whoever had destroyed their lives was brought to justice, then go on as his parents would have wanted and hoped he would.
He refocused. “I came here to find my father’s entertaining ledger. He was a regimented man, exact, precise. He kept a book with all those invited for each family gathering, and marked down who turned up and when. He used to keep it in this desk . . .”
It was in the bottom drawer. He lifted it out, blew off the dust, then flicked through the pages.
“One thing I don’t understand—if they knew, why didn’t your parents clear your name?”
He glanced up, saw her concern for him in her eyes, managed a fleeting halfsmile. “It’s in the letters. My father imagined making a formal declaration—a grand gesture before all the ton. It was the sort of thing he would do, in expiation. But he wanted me there, by his side, when he did it.” He looked back at the ledger. “He died unexpectedly.”
The matter had been too painful a subject, a guilt so deep his father had not been able to face it, not without the promise of absolution his presence would have given.
“How did you hear that he’d died, that you could return?”
“After a few years away, I engaged a London solicitor to watch over my interests here. It was from him I learned of my mother’s death, and more recently of . . . my father’s.”
His tone alerted her; she glanced at the ledger. “What?”
It took a moment before he could say, “I told you my father loved family gatherings. After that Easter, there are no further entries.”
No further gatherings. They’d lived here, all alone, completely cut off from family and friends, as he had been. He sighed, felt the blame and the bitterness, his companions for years, dissipate, flow away; his parents had suffered far more than he.
Jaw setting, he placed the ledger open on the table. “This is the list of all those who attended that Easter.”
They pored over it, then turned back to the list for the previous New Year. Notations against the names indicated when various guests had arrived. Amanda hunted out a fresh sheet of paper and a pencil.
“Give me the name of every male of your mother’s line who was here that New Year, on the second, then again at Easter, on the right date. Don’t judge, don’t exclude—we’ll do that later.”
He picked up the ledger, sat back and obliged. Then they culled the list of those who, due to age or some other reason, could not have been the murderer.
“Twelve.” Amanda considered the list. “So he’s one of these men. Now, what else do we know of him?”
Martin took the list, ran his eye down it. “You can cross off Luc and Edward.”
She took the list back, obliterated Luc’s name, then hesitated. “How old was Edward at the time?”
“He’s almost two years younger than Luc . . . he would have been sixteen, almost seventeen.”
“Hmm.”
“You can’t seriously imagine he did it.” Martin reached for the list.
Amanda whisked it out of reach. “We have to be logical about this. I agree about Luc, but only because in full daylight no one could possibly confuse you. But Edward?” She raised a brow. “Think back—what was Edward like at sixteen?”
Martin looked at her, eyes narrowing, then waved. “Have it your way—leave Edward on the list for the moment.”
Amanda humphed. Edward had the same coloring as Martin, and while she wouldn’t have said they were that similar now, then . . . ? If he’d been anything like the males in her family, by sixteen, Edward would have been nearly full grown. Easy enough to mistake at a distance.
&n
bsp; Not that she seriously believed he’d done anything so horrible, but keeping stuffily righteous Edward’s name on their list, having eliminated Luc’s, seemed—however childishly—satisfying. “Very well. Now we need to check with the others who were here that Easter, and eliminate those gentlemen others can remember being with at the time of the murder.”
Martin looked at her. “How’s Reggie?”
She grinned. “Much better, and quite ready to travel back to London.”
Martin rose. He rounded the desk to join her. “That’s one other thing we know about our man. He was on the Great North Road two nights ago.”
She let him turn her to the door. “Actually, that’s several things.”
He raised a brow at her.
“Our man was someone who knew you were headed up the Great North Road two nights ago—but not why, and not in what carriage.”
After making arrangements to leave the next morning, they retired early to their beds. Arms crossed, coatless, cravatless, shoulder propped against the frame, Martin stood at the bay window of the earl of Dexter’s bedchamber and watched moonlight and shadows drift over the valley. Let the sight sink into him, along with an acceptance that the title, the room, the house, the fields he could see spread out before him, were now his.
His responsibility, his to care for.
Acceptance brought the first hint of peace—a peace he hadn’t believed would ever again be his, that hadn’t touched his soul for the past ten years.
It was within his grasp once more, all because he’d chased a golden-haired houri up the Great North Road. She’d been his beacon, the light that had drawn him first from the shadows, and now further, back into the life he’d been reared to consider his destiny.
Without her, he wouldn’t be here. She’d given his future back to him. Intended to be an integral part of it.