No one answered from below.
Her breath hurt her chest. She scanned the cliffs, looking for him. Louder, much louder, she shouted, “Jermyn, you promised this wasn’t dangerous.”
Vaguely she heard Kenley say, “She’s gone mad with grief.”
Someone took her shoulders and tried to lead her away.
She jerked herself free and leaned over the edge again. “Jermyn, answer me now!”
Jermyn didn’t appear.
She sank to her knees in the grass. She saw a flash of scarlet below the black cape. A scarlet as bright as the scarf Jermyn wore.
Jermyn…That body below was Jermyn.
She rose slowly off her knees. She couldn’t believe it. This wasn’t possible. Jermyn had promised, he had promised this wasn’t dangerous. He’d said he was familiar with every inch of the cliff. He’d said he’d done this trick before and it was foolproof.
But who was the fool now? The man who’d gone over the edge? Or the woman he’d left alone to mourn?
Why hadn’t she known that she should go to him right away, make up their fight, take the opportunity to make love?
Now she would never see him again. Never see him in this life. Never see him in the sunshine, in the candlelight, touch him in love, breathe in his scent, be with him…
“May God damn your soul to hell, Harrison Edmondson!” She lifted her fist to the balcony.
The women around her gasped at the language.
The men milled about, helpless in the face of her fury and grief.
And everyone moved aside as she stalked toward the house. Toward Harrison Edmondson. Toward revenge.
She didn’t see Lord Smith-Kline get out his telescope and focus on the form below. She didn’t hear him announce, “That’s not Northcliff. That’s a woman down there—and she’s been there for a long, long time.”
Chapter 25
Harrison Edmondson marched along the corridors of Summerwind Abbey, hearing the sounds of lamentation from the crowd outside fade as his little escort led him farther into the main part of the house.
With Walter on one side of him, a hulking young footman on the other side, Biggers at his back, and Merrill roaming the halls, he considered his odds of escape good. Not great, for every snob in the whole bloody ton had seen him knock the little pustule Jermyn off the railing. But he knew that if he waited on a trial he’d hang, so when opportunity presented itself, he would make a dash.
And as they rounded the corner, opportunity appeared. Behind him a door opened. Someone stepped out.
“Who…?” Biggers began.
Harrison turned in time to see Merrill bring a bat down on Biggers’s head. Biggers twirled and went down, unconscious and bleeding at the temple.
“Good man.” Harrison nodded at his valet. Merrill was turning out to be worth the hiring.
The youthful footman gawped at the valet, at Biggers, lying facedown on the carpet, and at Walter, who gestured at him and snarled, “Get out!”
The youngster’s eyes grew wide, and he scuttled away.
“I’ve sent to the stable for a horse, Mr. Edmondson,” Walter said.
Harrison snorted. He hadn’t ridden a horse for ten years. “I want my coach.”
“So many coaches have arrived that I can’t get yours out of the carriage house.” Walter broke into a sweat. He knew damned good and well if Harrison went down, he’d take Walter with him.
It was good to have motivated allies.
“Then give me one of the others.” When Walter tried to object, Harrison exploded with impatience. “For God’s sake, man, tell them I forced you.” He started toward the master’s study, and over his shoulder said, “They’ll believe it when they see Biggers’s body. Merrill, go with him and make sure that my wishes are done. I’ll meet you both at the servants’ entrance in twenty minutes.” He didn’t wait to see them go to do his bidding. Instead he walked briskly toward the master’s study.
He needed money to get to port and buy passage to India in suitable splendor. There he’d hidden a good portion of the Edmondson fortune in his own name. He liked to be prepared; he’d always known something like this could happen. Just not so…publicly.
He set his teeth. He’d always thought he could get away with anything. He’d despised men who got caught committing their crimes. Yet here he was, running like a dog.
The drapes in the master’s study were tightly drawn. The shouting from the servants and the guests was almost undetectable in here. Harrison stood quietly, allowing his eyes to adjust to the dim light. He remembered this room well. Nothing about it had ever changed. The carpet was thick, the furniture heavy, and everything was arranged to impress any unfortunate fool called to report to the marquess of Northcliff.
In Harrison’s youth, his father had sat behind the great desk and expressed his disgust with his sly younger son.
Then when Father died, Harrison’s brother had taken his place and dispensed obligation with a shovel and reward with an eyedropper. Once Lady Andriana had disappeared, even those small rewards had ceased.
But Harrison had spent plenty of time in the study alone in the dark sniffing out its secrets, and he knew them well. Going to the desk, he opened its locked drawer with his private key. He riffled through the contents, and when his hand touched the stack of bound bills, he easily recognized the feel of money—and this was a lot of money. The pile created an unsightly lump in his pocket, but he was willing to bear the discomfort.
Going to the portrait of the third marquess, he took the painting off the wall, set it on the floor, and smiled to see the metallic gleam of the wall safe. He turned back the corner of the old, softly tinted Oriental rug, picked up the key, and fitted it in the safe’s lock. He reached into the dark depths…
And he heard a sound behind him.
He whipped around, fists up.
No one. He scanned the room. There was no one here. Everything looked exactly the same. “Come out!” he said sharply.
No response. The room settled into silence. He let out his pent-up breath. He was jumpy, that was all. This whole ordeal had upset him, and no wonder. It wasn’t every day he killed not one, but two men.
Well. At least he hoped he had killed Biggers. The interfering fool deserved death.
But look. There on the desk. He hadn’t noticed it before. A pistol gleamed in the faint light that shone through the crack in the curtains. His own pistol!
Merrill must have placed it there. But when?
Again he scanned the room, but no one was there.
“Stupid,” he muttered, not knowing whether he spoke to his imagination or everyone else in the world. Nervousness must be making him imagine threats where none existed.
Again he reached into the safe. He found the bag right away, heavy with coins. Pulling it out, he weighed it in his hand.
Gold guineas, of course, the marquess of Northcliff would have nothing else, and lots of them.
Perfect.
He stuffed his pockets until they sagged under the weight. He felt satisfaction as his waistcoat hung heavy against his belly and for the first time since the unfortunate incident, his spirits rose. He was going to get away with this.
Then someone, some witless bastard who hid behind the drapes, flung them wide. Sunshine streamed in. Harrison blinked in sudden blindness and leaped for the desk. He groped for the pistol.
A man stood silhouetted against the light. It looked like…
“Jermyn?” It wasn’t possible. After the fall he’d taken, he had to be dead.
But the little pustule answered, “Yes, Uncle,” and stepped into the room.
Harrison aimed the gun.
“Are you sure you want to shoot me?” Jermyn asked in an interested tone. “You’ve already knocked me off the parapet and over the cliff. This seems a little excessive—and I guarantee the noise will bring the guests and servants running.”
“How the hell did you live?” Harrison’s finger twitched with the need to fire.
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“When one goes over the cliff, one needs only some padding and to know where to land. Unfortunately for me, the storm ripped some of the cliff away and I got a few bruises.” Jermyn’s face came into focus as he prowled toward the desk.
Harrison saw a long scratch marking his cheek, but he looked remarkably, disgustingly healthy.
Defeat stared Harrison in the face. God knew, between his father, his brother, and Andriana, he’d seen defeat enough times before. But he never thought to see it staring at him through Jermyn’s eyes. All that was left was to parlay his rout into something besides a gibbet.
“Can we make a deal, nephew?” He thought he could depend on Jermyn’s word. The boy had the same silly ideas about honor as his father.
“It depends on what you do with that gun,” Jermyn answered. “Keep in mind, Walter has been detained, your valet is dead—”
“Dead?” That was a shock.
“He tried to resist me, and he is quite dead.”
If that was true, then his nephew was quite capable of defending himself, for Merrill had a way with fists and every other weapon.
“The guests are streaming back to the house, and last but not least, I have every reason to be incredibly angry at you.” Jermyn smiled as he paced, a young, vital, vibrant and handsome man who Harrison hated with more virulence than even he had hated his own brother.
“I suppose that you do.” Slowly Harrison lowered the pistol—but he didn’t take his finger off the trigger. At this moment, the bullet inside was his only bargaining chip.
“Not for the reasons you imagine. Not because you fell into my trap and tried to kill me in full view of all my guests. I can’t be angry about that, can I?”
“You outsmarted me, nephew.” A little flattery couldn’t hurt. Harrison wouldn’t make it out the door, much less off the estate. Not unless Jermyn allowed him to go.
“No, you should know that the waves ripped into the base of the cliff. Some of the caves collapsed. One of them in particular, Uncle.” For a moment, Jermyn halted and looked directly at Harrison. “When I jumped, the ledge I was aiming for crumpled. I barely caught myself on the rock. While I was dangling there, I noticed…that a cave below had opened up. The roof was gone. Most of the stones were gone. The only thing left was—”
“Andriana,” Harrison blurted. “You found Andriana.”
There it was. The betrayal. Jermyn recognized it at once. Uncle Harrison knew exactly what Jermyn had found on the cliff. Satisfied with his uncle’s guilt, Jermyn started pacing again. “Yes. I found my mother’s body.” The pistol weighed down his belt, but Jermyn couldn’t grab it, pull it out and aim it before his uncle shot. Instead he counted on the surprise of the short, sharp knife he held hidden in his palm. “She’s only a skeleton, her scarlet gown hidden by a man’s black cloak.”
Cunning intelligence replaced the blank shock in Harrison’s eyes. “Then how do you know it’s her?”
“Strands of her hair are still connected to her skull—and as you recall, dear Uncle, the mahogany color is the same as mine.” Jermyn circled the desk, stepping lightly. He never kept still, pacing, turning, watching Harrison.
“Tsk, tsk.” Harrison managed a fair imitation of sympathy. “If this is true, then I extend my sincerest sympathies, but why are you telling me?”
“Because before you pushed me you told me I only had to fall once. That is the comment of a man who knows.” Jermyn had come up from the cliff by the narrow path, determined to confront his uncle and get the whole story, but he wasn’t stupid. He wasn’t going to die here. This afternoon he had lost his temper and sent away the only woman who mattered to him. No, he wasn’t going to die here. He was going to live long enough to ride after Amy, find her, and tell her she had been right all along.
Whatever sins, if any, Amy had committed against her sister were more than balanced by his lack of faith in his mother. If Amy would forgive him, he’d promise to make her happy for the rest of her life. He’d beg. He’d plead. He’d grovel, because his life was worthless without her.
“That statement would never stand up in court. You know it’s true.” Harrison said.
“It’s your cloak, uncle. Your best wool cloak. I recognize it. I remember that when Mama disappeared, you had ‘lost’ yours. I remember how odd I thought it that a grown man should lose his cloak and think the matter worth discussing when I had lost my mother and couldn’t bring her back.” Those moments, all those moments of the time following his mother’s loss were etched in Jermyn’s mind by agony. Jermyn recalled his father’s stoic grief, his own childish bewilderment. “Why did you kill her? What did it profit you?”
“Profit?” Harrison laughed harshly. “That was exactly it. Andriana was so beautiful, so gracious…so damned smart.”
Jermyn observed the cold gleam of malice in Harrison’s eyes and felt the warmth of the thin, sharp blade in his palm. He had practiced with this knife. He was fast and he was deadly. But first he had to know…
“She came from peasant stock. She read people so well it was almost eerie. And she read me. You see, I was keeping your father’s books and helping myself to a little bit of the fortune. Not much, really, and I’m an Edmondson. I’m due for more than crumbs from the table.”
Remembering his father’s generosity, Jermyn asked sarcastically, “Were you getting only crumbs from the table?”
“I was taking half the profits from the foreign interests. I told your father the business was failing, but it wasn’t.” In a voice laden with wistful memory, Harrison said, “That was a grand time.”
“Except that my mother knew what you were doing.” Jermyn strode to the far end of the room. He circled the book stand. He returned and started off again, keeping Harrison off-balance, making him pay close attention to Jermyn’s movement and too little to his words.
“She thought the money should all be reserved for her and her brat. For you. But when she told your father that she suspected me, he fought with her.”
“I remember that fight.” It was the last time Jermyn had heard his mother’s voice. Strong and angry, she’d scolded his father while Jermyn listened in the corridor outside the closed door.
“So Andriana went off to port to interview the foreign agent and when she got the proof she needed, she came riding back, so lofty, a filthy peasant girl on crusade.” Harrison shook his head in disbelief. “She tried so hard to be noble. She came to warn me to stop stealing from the estates or she’d make your father listen. She warned me—and when she turned her back on me, I hit her as hard as I could on the back of the head.”
Jermyn stood stoic under the lash of words, but inside he ached with anguish and shook with fury. All this time he’d cursed his mother, and she had died brutally, painfully, for an act of honesty and kindness.
And he…he had chased Amy away for reasons he didn’t now understand.
Harrison continued, “I wrapped her in my cloak and pushed her off the cliff. But she didn’t go all the way into the sea. I could still see her. So I crept down that tiny path and shoved her body into one of the caves. That was better than the ocean, because usually the sea gives up her dead.” Harrison watched Jermyn as if hoping to see a crack in his façade.
His mother. His poor mother, killed and tossed aside like rubbish. “But the ocean betrayed you anyway. It brought the storm. The storm opened the cave for me to find her.” Remembering the storm that had ripped apart his estate, Jermyn could almost believe his mother had directed its fury. “Uncle, it’s a bad thing to be at outs with the elements.”
“Are you trying to spook me? I don’t believe the elements are supernatural. I don’t believe in ghosts and I don’t believe in fate. The sea rages and roars without consciousness, your mother has never haunted me, and I’ve never had to pay in like coin for anything I did.” Harrison might have lowered the pistol, but still he held it. He held it too tightly and the tiny veins etched his corpulent cheeks with red. Jermyn could see that his uncle was close to one of t
he few careless moments of his life. Only a fool would shoot Jermyn, but Harrison wanted to. He wanted to so badly.
“You’re my only living relative, Uncle Harrison. We’re obliged to treat each other fairly,” Jermyn said with measured reason.
“Are we?”
“I shall probably have to let you go.”
“I don’t believe that.” But Harrison’s killer grip on the gun loosened.
“You’ll have to go into exile, of course.” Jermyn picked up an Italian glass vase and tossed it in the air as he paced against the back wall, hoping the ornate wallpaper would distort Harrison’s aim. “But surely a man of your intentions and experience has a place where you’re prepared to flee in case of emergency.”
“Yes. Yes, you should let me go. I’ve been, on the whole, very good to you. The fortune has grown. I’ve tended it as if it were my own.”
“So you have.” Amazing how Harrison made himself sound virtuous when in fact he’d tended the money so lovingly because he planned to make it his own. “You took control of the family fortune when my father died. What I didn’t realize is that after my mother’s death, my father no longer trusted you with the family fortune. Mr. Livingstone and Lord Stoke told me that.”
“Those worms.”
“So I surmise when you got control of it again, you took every precaution to assure yourself an ample income no matter what the circumstances.”
“After Andriana’s death, I fixed the books, gave all the money back. Your father never knew anything, so why did he change his mind about me?” Harrison answered his own question. “It was guilt for driving Andriana away. Or maybe he thought she was right after all. Until the day he died, he never let me alone with the fortune again.” Frustration burst from him in a spray of saliva. “Now history repeats itself. You get entangled with some pretty thing, that Princess Amy, and you get clever. She was in on it, wasn’t she? She sent me to your room on purpose.”
“Uncle, I don’t understand you.” That was the part Amy was supposed to play, that of messenger to Harrison, but Jermyn had ordered her away just that afternoon.