Kitabı oku: «Heart of Fire»
Selected praise for New York Times bestselling author Kat Martin’s enchanting new series
“The first of the new Heart series, Heart of Honor, is a grand way for the author to begin… Kat Martin has penned another memorable tale…look forward to Coralee’s story.”
—Romance Designs
“Martin puts a twist on the captive/captor theme by cleverly combining it with a bit of Pygmalion and a touch of Tarzan for a fast-paced, sensual, entertaining tale.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews
“With an exciting ending and a steamy romance, Heart of Honor is a great book to heat up a winter’s night. Compelling characters and plenty of adventure round out this well-written novel.”
—Romance Reviews Today
“Heart of Honor sweeps the reader away on a tidal wave of emotion, bittersweet, poignant romance and a tantalizing primal sexuality that are the inimitable trademarks of multi-talented author Kat Martin. [It] is the kind of novel that touches your heart and your senses. It is the kind of story you won’t want to put down.”
—Winter Haven News
“Ms. Martin always delivers for her readers a romance that they can sink their teeth into. With wonderful characters, beautiful settings and a plot that keeps you turning the pages, you can never go wrong with one of her books. A great winter read!”
—A Romance Review
Heart of Fire
Kat Martin
www.mirabooks.co.uk
To children everywhere.
May they all find love, joy and peace.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Ninetten
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Epilogue
Author’s Note
One
London, England
January, 1844
An icy drizzle hung over the churchyard. The gravestones stood dark and unreadable in the shadows of the high rock walls of St. Michael’s Church.
Gowned in layers of heavy black crepe, her face hidden beneath the veil of a wide-brimmed black bonnet, Coralee Whitmore stood next to her father and mother, the Viscount and Viscountess of Selkirk, listening to the drone of the bishop’s words but not really hearing them.
In the casket beside a mound of damp earth, her sister’s body lay cold and pale, retrieved only days ago from the chilly waters of the Avon River, the victim of a suicide, the authorities claimed. Laurel, they said, had jumped into the river to hide her shame.
“You’re shivering.” A stiff wind ruffled the viscount’s copper hair, the same fiery shade as Coralee’s. He was a man of average height and build whose imposing presence made him seem much larger. “The bishop has finished. It is time we went home.”
Corrie stared at the casket, then down at the long-stemmed white rose she carried in a black-gloved hand. Tears blurred her vision as she moved forward, her legs stiff and numb beneath her heavy black skirt, the veil on her hat fluttering in the cold February breeze. She laid the rose on top of the rosewood casket.
“I don’t believe it,” she whispered to the sister she would never see again. “Not for a single moment.” Corrie swallowed against the painful, choking knot in her throat. “Farewell, sweet sister. I shall miss you ever so much.” Turning, she walked toward her parents, the father both sisters shared and the mother who was Corrie’s alone.
Laurel’s mother had died in childbirth. The viscount had remarried, and Corrie had been born soon after. The girls were half sisters, raised together, always close, at least until the past few years. Then Corrie’s job as society editor for Heart to Heart, a London ladies’ gazette, had begun to absorb more and more of her time.
Laurel, who had always preferred the quiet life of the country, had moved in with her aunt Agnes at Selkirk Hall, the family estate in Wiltshire. The girls kept in touch through letters, but in the last year even those had grown sparse.
If only I could turn back time, Corrie thought, the lump in her throat swelling, becoming even more painful. If only I could have been there when you needed me.
But she had been too busy with her own life, too busy attending the balls and soirées she wrote about in her column. She’d been too self-absorbed to realize Laurel was in trouble.
And now her sister was dead.
“Are you all right, Coralee?”
Standing in the Blue Salon of the Whitmores’ Grosvenor Square mansion, Corrie turned at the sound of her best friend’s voice. Krista Hart Draugr walked toward her across the drawing room, where the pale blue damask curtains had been draped with black crepe, as had the brocade sofa and Hepplewhite chairs.
Corrie reached beneath her heavy black veil to brush a tear from her cheek. “I’ll be all right. But I miss her already and I feel so…responsible.”
Most of the mourners, few in number because of the circumstances of Laurel’s death, were in the Cinnamon Room, a lavish salon done in gold and umber, with huge, sienna marble fireplaces at each end. An extravagant buffet had been set out for the guests, but Corrie had no heart for food.
“It wasn’t your fault, Coralee. You had no idea your sister was in trouble.” Krista was blond, fair and tall; taller, in fact, than most men, except for her husband, Leif, a blond giant of a man who towered over his wife and actually made her look small.
One of the handsomest men Corrie had ever seen, he stood across the drawing room in conversation with his brother, Thor, who was dark instead of fair, nearly equal in size and, in a fiercer way, even more handsome.
“I should have grown suspicious when her letters dwindled to nearly nothing,” Corrie said. “I should have known something was wrong.”
“She was twenty-three, Coralee. That is two years older than you, and she was very independent. And she wrote you from Norfolk, as I recall.”
Last summer, Laurel had traveled to East Dereham in Norfolk to live with her other aunt, Gladys. Along with Allison, a cousin about Corrie’s age, they were the only relatives on her mother’s side that Laurel had. Laurel had never gotten along with Corrie’s mother, but her aunts, both spinsters, loved her like a daughter, and Laurel had loved them.
“She wrote to me from Norfolk, yes, but only on rare occasions. We had just resumed a serious correspondence last month, after her return to Selkirk Hall.”
According to the Wiltshire County constable, when Laurel was in residence at Selkirk, she had gotten herself with child. Agnes had kept Laurel’s secret until her pregnancy began to show, then sent her north to live with Gladys until the baby was born.
Corrie looked up at Krista, who stood a good six inches taller than she, a buxom young woman with lovely blue eyes, while Corrie was small-boned, with eyes a vivid shade of green. Krista was a mother now, but she still ran the gazette, a magazine for ladies that was well known for its views on social reform.
“The police believe she committed suicide,” Corrie said. “They say she took the child she had carried in her womb for nine long months and jumped into the river because she couldn’t bear the shame. I don’t believe it. Not for a moment. My sister would never harm anyone, much less her own baby.”
Krista’s gaze held a trace of pity. “I know you loved her, Corrie, but even if you are right, there is nothing you can do.”
Corrie ignored the feeling those words stirred. “Perhaps not.”
But she wasn’t completely convinced.
She had been thinking about the circumstances of her sister’s death since news of the tragedy had arrived—her sister drowned, remnants of an infant’s blue knit sweater clutched in her hand.
Corrie had been devastated. She loved her older sister. She couldn’t imagine a world without her in it.
Dreadful things were being said about Laurel but Corrie refused to believe them. Laurel’s death could not possibly have been suicide.
In time, surely the truth would be unearthed.
Two
London
Three Months Later
The offices of Heart to Heart weekly ladies’ magazine were located in a narrow brick building just off Piccadilly. Corrie had begun working at the gazette shortly after Margaret Chapman Hart had died and her daughter, Krista, had taken over the business, running the company along with her father, Professor Sir Paxton Hart. Last year, Krista had married Leif Draugr, now the owner of a successful shipping enterprise, and nine months later had borne him a son, but Krista still worked most days at Heart to Heart, her pride and passion.
As Corrie entered the office in search of her friend, she spotted Bessie Briggs, the typesetter, working to get the big Stanhope press, the soul of the gazette, ready for the next edition. Bessie looked up and smiled but kept on working, paying no attention to the dismal black mourning clothes Corrie had worn for the past three months and would wear for three months more.
Corrie tapped on the open door to Krista’s ground floor office.
Her friend looked up and smiled. “Since you rarely knock, I assume this must be important. Come in, Coralee.”
Her stiff black skirts rustled noisily as Corrie moved to close the door behind her. “I have something I need to discuss, and since you are my very best friend…”
Krista eyed her with speculation. “What is it?”
Corrie sat down and smoothed a nonexistent wrinkle from the front of her skirt. “I’ve tried to put Laurel’s death behind me, but the fact is, I simply cannot. I have to find out the truth, Krista. I’ve never believed Laurel killed herself and her month-old child, and I am going to prove it.”
Krista’s features softened. “I know losing your sister has been hard on you. I know that in some way you feel responsible. But Laurel is gone and there is nothing you can do to bring her back.”
“I realize that. But I failed her once when she needed me, and I will not do so again. My sister did not kill herself, which means someone else must have done it, and I intend to discover who it was.”
One of Krista’s blond eyebrows arched. “And how, exactly, do you plan to do that?”
“I shall start by doing some investigating right here in London. I am good at that, am I not? It is part of my job to unearth both facts and tidbits of gossip for my column.”
“Yes, but that is hardly the same.”
“I think it is exactly the same. I intend to go over every letter my sister wrote before she died and look for clues.” Corrie glanced up, a fierce light coming into her eyes. “Then I shall leave for the country. I’m going to find out who fathered Laurel’s child, and then I will know where to start looking for the answers to how and why she died.”
Learning the name of the father was an important piece of the puzzle, the man her sister must have loved. Not even Aunt Agnes knew who he was. According to her, Laurel had adamantly refused to divulge his identity.
“You don’t need to worry about the gazette,” Corrie continued before Krista could speak. “I already have a temporary replacement in mind. Assuming you approve, I shall ask Lindsey Graham to fill in for me while I am away.” Lindsey was a school chum, a former classmate at Briarhill Academy, where Krista and Corrie had met.
“Lindsay is currently penning textbook articles,” Corrie said, “and extremely bored, I think. Her father is a baron and very well connected so she is able to move freely about in society. I believe she will handle my job very well.”
“I imagine she could, but—”
“Actually, I considered hiring Lindsey while you and Leif were gone off to his dreadful island.” Corrie smiled. “Running this place without you was a nearly impossible task. I have never been so happy in my life to see anyone return.”
Leif and Krista’s story was a well-guarded tale. That the big man and his brother had come from an uncharted island far north of Scotland where people still lived as Vikings was, at best, totally incredible and better left unsaid.
All that mattered was that Leif had found Krista and she had found him, and they loved each other desperately. Corrie wondered if the right man would ever come along for her.
Which returned her thoughts to her sister. In Laurel’s early letters from Selkirk, she had mentioned meeting a man. She had described his many virtues and said how much she enjoyed his company. Corrie intended to review the letters, see if there might be a description, something that might help her find out his name. Who had stolen Laurel’s heart, taken her virtue, then abandoned her?
Corrie wondered if the man who had fathered Laurel’s child would have gone so far as to murder them.
“You can’t be serious, Coralee. Tell me you do not intend to dredge up this painful affair all over again.” Agnes Hatfield sat on the rose velvet settee in a small salon near the back of the Whitmores’town mansion, a room done in white and rose, an elegant, feminine salon that overlooked the garden. Three days ago, the black crepe strung round the room had been removed after three long months of mourning.
“I realize it will take some doing, Aunt Agnes, but I have given the matter considerable thought and I have no choice but to act.”
Aunt Agnes, which Corrie had always called her though they were not actually blood-related, was a lady in her sixties, plump and silver-haired, and until the death of her beloved niece, always smiling. Seated next to her, Laurel’s cousin, Allison Hatfield, a thin young woman with a razor-straight nose and pointed chin, very dark hair and hazel eyes, listened to Corrie with obvious trepidation. Allison’s parents had died of cholera, leaving her in the care of her aging aunt.
At the viscount’s invitation, both of the women had elected to remain in the city rather than return to Selkirk Hall and the awful memories the place still held for them.
“So you intend to begin some sort of investigation?” Aunt Agnes asked.
“Yes.”
Allison made no comment. She was a shy, unobtrusive young woman rarely inclined to disagree with anything anyone said. Which was perhaps the reason she had agreed to leave East Dereham and accompany Laurel on her return to Selkirk Hall, pretending to be the baby’s mother.
Or perhaps it was because Allison was tired of scraping by on her aging aunt Gladys’s generosity, and Laurel had promised her a goodly sum and a better future in exchange for her help with the child.
“I do not believe for an instant the authorities’ version of what occurred,” Corrie said, “and after months of consideration, I have decided to act. I plan to take whatever steps are necessary to discover the truth of what happened to my sister. Aunt Agnes, you and Gladys helped Laurel. Now you must help me find out what happened to her and her baby.”
Allison pulled a lace-trimmed handkerchief from her reticule and dabbed at her eyes. She had been as fond of Laurel and her month-old infant, Joshua Michael, as Agnes, who also dug out an embroidered square of cotton and blew her powdered nose.
The older woman took a fortifying breath. “I will help in any way I can…though perhaps my helping your sister is what, in the end, got her killed.”
Corrie’s eyes widened. “So you do not believe it was suicide, either! And if she did not take her own life, someone must have killed her. Laurel and the child were victims of foul play. It is the only explanation.”
From her place on the rose velvet settee, Allison’s soft voice whispered across the room. “There is a chance… I cannot say for certain…but it is possible that Laurel may have been meeting someone the night she disappeared. She wouldn’t tell me where she was going, but she was excited. I didn’t realize she had taken the baby until later, when I went into the nursery and saw his cradle was empty.”
Corrie felt a rush of sadness that brought the sting of tears. She purposely leaned into the stiff bone stays of her corset, and the tiny jolt of discomfort set her back on course. “Please…we must try to stay focused.”
Agnes blew her nose. “You are right, of course. We have all cried more than enough. And we can hardly find justice for my dear, lost angel by sitting here weeping.”
Corrie’s gaze fixed on dark-haired Allison. “Did you tell the authorities that Laurel might have been meeting someone the night she died?”
“It didn’t seem important at the time. The constable said she had jumped into the river. The week before it happened, she had been a bit distraught, though she wouldn’t tell me why. When the constable arrived with the terrible news, I thought perhaps… I accepted the constable’s explanation for what had occurred.”
Corrie made a mental note to find out what had upset her sister the week before her death. “You’ve had three months to consider, Allison. Do you still believe Laurel killed herself?”
She shook her head. “At the time, I was so distressed I could scarcely think straight. Laurel and baby Joshua were gone and nothing else mattered.”
“Well, it matters to me,” Corrie said. “And it would matter to Laurel. Are you certain, Aunt Agnes, my sister gave no clue as to the name of the man who fathered her child?”
“None whatsoever. I’m an old woman. I paid little attention to my niece’s comings and goings.”
“What about men who might have paid calls at the house?”
“Oh, there were a few who stopped by now and then. Squire Morton’s son Thomas paid an occasional visit. The vicar’s son…oh, dear, what is his name? It will come to me in a moment…. At any rate, the boy stopped by on occasion, as well.”
“Anyone else?”
“Well, yes. Castle Tremaine is nearby.” In fact, it was the estate closest to Selkirk Hall. “Lord Tremaine paid his respects whenever he was in residence, occasionally accompanied by his cousin. His brother, Charles, and his sister-in-law, Rebecca, paid an occasional call, and they always stop by at Christmastime each year.”
Corrie frowned as bits of information came together in her head. “Lord Tremaine, you say?”
“Well, yes. He always calls at least once when he is in the country, but he never stays overly long.”
Grayson Forsythe, Earl of Tremaine. The name stirred memories of the man who had come into the Tremaine title five years ago. Corrie had never seen the earl, who seemed to keep a good deal to himself, but she had heard he was tall and incredibly handsome. The man had a wicked, extremely sordid reputation when it came to women, and in her gossip column, “Heartbeat,” Corrie had alluded more than once to rumors of his many affairs.
And if memory served, the earl was often in residence at Castle Tremaine, where his brother and sister-in-law made their home.
“I can see what you are thinking,” Agnes said. “I will admit the earl is attractive, but he is also a dark, rather brooding sort of fellow. I cannot imagine your sister would be interested in a man like that.” She glanced away. “Laurel was always so bright and fun-loving, such a warm-hearted, spirited young girl.” Her eyes teared up and she used her handkerchief again.
Corrie felt a crushing weight in her chest. “Perhaps you’re right,” she said, determined not to let her emotions rise to the surface. “But from the gossip I have heard, the man is quite ruthless when it comes to women. I imagine if he wanted to seduce an innocent young girl, it would be easy enough for him to do.”
“Perhaps.” Agnes fought to bring her own emotions under control. “But I just cannot…” She shook her head, her silver eyebrows drawing together. “His cousin, Jason, is quite dashing. He is also in residence much of the time. I suppose if I were to guess—” She broke off again. “I am sorry, Coralee, but I simply cannot imagine any of the young men who paid calls at the house murdering our dear, sweet Laurel and her innocent little baby. That is what you are thinking, is it not?”
“It’s a possibility. Perhaps the man she fell in love with did not love her in return. Perhaps he did not wish to be forced to marry her.”
“And perhaps she simply went for a walk that night and was waylaid by footpads. Perhaps they tried to rob her, but when they discovered she had no money, they tossed her and the child into the river.”
It was a notion Corrie had already considered. “I suppose that could have happened. Anything seems possible at this point in time, except that Laurel would kill herself and her child.”
“Coralee is right,” Allison said softly, from where she perched like a bird on the edge of the sofa. “Laurel loved little Joshua with every ounce of her being. She would never have done anything to hurt him. And she was so clearly determined that no one would find out the identity of the father. It does make one wonder….”
Corrie nodded. “It does indeed.”
Aunt Agnes eyed her warily. “I am loath to ask, but I suppose I must. Tell us, Coralee, what exactly is it you propose to do?”
She stiffened her spine. At the moment she wasn’t certain. But she was going to do something. Of that she was completely sure.
Excited at her discovery, Corrie climbed the steps of Heart to Heart and opened the heavy front door. As she walked into the long, narrow printing area, she spotted Krista coming out of the back room, heading for her office. Corrie followed her and hurriedly closed the door.
“Krista—you are not going to believe what I’ve found!”
Her friend whirled toward her, apparently not aware until then that Coralee had entered. “So you are still digging. I know you are determined to come up with something to validate your belief that Laurel was murdered, but are you sure your sister wouldn’t rather you simply accepted her death and got on with your life?”
“They say she killed her own child. Do you believe my sister would want the world to believe she did something as heinous as that?”
“The police found no sign of robbery, Corrie. There were no incriminating marks on the body.”
“She had been in the water for several days when she was found. The constable said it was impossible to tell exactly what had happened, and there was a bruise on the side of her head.”
“Yes, and if I recall, the constable believed she must have hit her skull when she fell into the river. The police believe the baby drowned and simply washed out to sea.”
“And I say the police are wrong. Laurel was killed by someone who didn’t want the secret of the child’s birth known, or had some other nefarious motive.”
Krista sighed. “Well, there have certainly been murders committed for far less reason than preventing some sort of scandal.”
“Yes, and when Agnes mentioned the Earl of Tremaine, I began to think. Some years back, I’d heard gossip about him. He was whispered about at a number of affairs, and I even made mention of his scandalous reputation once or twice in my column. I decided to go back through some of our older editions. Lady Charlotte Goodnight wrote the “Heartbeat” column in the days when your mother ran the paper. I took a look at those.”
For the first time, Krista appeared curious. “What did you find?”
“The articles mentioned the gossip I had heard, said the man was a complete and utter rogue where women were concerned. They called him a ‘sensualist,’ a master of the art of love. Apparently, Grayson Forsythe was a major in the army before he inherited the title. He spent several years in India before his older brother fell ill and he came back to assume his duties as earl.”
Krista smiled. “Sounds like an interesting man.”
“Yes, well, I suppose you might say that. But as I was reading about him, I remembered something else.”
“And that was…?”
“This morning I went down to the magistrate’s office and searched for records filed under his name and there it was—the certificate of his marriage to Lady Jillian Beecher three years past.”
“Now that you mention it, I remember hearing something about that. But Tremaine is a bachelor—one of the most eligible in London. What happened to his wife?”
“That is the point I am trying to make. I did some more digging, spoke to some of my sources, very quietly, of course. I discovered that the earl was married less than a year when Lady Tremaine died. The countess was the daughter of a wealthy baron, an heiress worth a good deal of money. She died leaving the earl with a sizable increase in his fortune—and he was free again, able to continue his sensual pursuits.”
“I don’t think I ever heard the story.”
“I believe the family kept the matter fairly quiet.” Corrie’s eyes gleamed. “And since that is the case, what you also don’t know is that Lady Tremaine drowned, Krista—right there in the Avon River!”
Three
A cool spring breeze floated through the open windows of the carriage as it rumbled toward the village of Castle-on-Avon, a small, picturesque market town surrounded by rolling green fields and thatch-roofed cottages. On a knoll near the edge of the village, Selkirk Hall loomed majestically over twelve hundred acres of rich grassy earth. A structure three stories high, it was built in the Georgian style, of golden Cotswold stone.
Coralee, Aunt Agnes and Allison were returning to the country in Agnes’s carriage, not the viscount’s fancy four-horse rig. Corrie couldn’t risk her father’s coachman telling him she had left the carriage before its arrival at Selkirk Hall. In fact, she meant to depart at the Hen and Raven, a nearby coaching inn, where she would hire a room for the night and continue to her destination as a different person in the morning.
It had been less than a week since Corrie had come up with her outrageous plan. Three days ago, she had presented it to Aunt Agnes and Allison.
“It will work—I know it will!”
Aunt Agnes had twisted her handkerchief in her plump hands. “I don’t know, Coralee…it sounds extremely dangerous.”
“To begin with, no one is going to know who I am,” Corrie explained. “I shall pretend to be Letty Moss, the wife of Lord Tremaine’s very distant cousin Cyrus. Letty is destitute in the wake of her husband’s abandonment, and desperately in need of the earl’s help.” A story that could likely be true.
Corrie had run across the information during her research on the earl and his family. Through a friend who knew a friend who knew one of the earl’s distant cousins—a man named Cyrus Moss—she had learned that Cyrus had left his much younger wife in residence in York and set off for America to make his fortune. After two years, Cyrus had not yet returned.
According to her source, Lord Tremaine had never met Letty Moss and knew little of his very distant cousin. The information gave Corrie the perfect means of getting into Castle Tremaine. Doing so, she believed, was the only way to discover if Lord Tremaine was the father of Laurel’s child, and if so, whether he might be responsible for her and little Joshua’s death.
“It will work, I tell you. It has to.”
Aunt Agnes had fretted and argued, but in the end she had agreed to the plan. If Corrie could discover the truth of what had happened to her beloved niece, then she would go along with her scheme.
Corrie watched the landscape passing outside the carriage window—rolling hills beneath shadowy clouds, an occasional barking dog, a merchant’s cart pulled by a tired-looking horse.
“I don’t see how this can possibly succeed,” Aunt Agnes grumbled from the opposite side of the carriage. “Surely someone from Selkirk Hall or someone in the village will recognize you.”
“I haven’t been to Selkirk since I was twelve years old. Mother and I both prefer London to the country. Whenever Laurel and I wished to visit, my sister always came to the city.”
To distance herself even further from events at Selkirk, Corrie had decided to come out of mourning. She didn’t want anyone connecting her to Laurel’s death, and wearing those dreadful black garments just might put the notion in someone’s head.
Corrie didn’t think her sister would mind. She believed Laurel would rather the truth be discovered than that her younger sister mope about in dismal black, doing nothing to clear her name.
Agnes cast Corrie an inquiring look. “You are determined to discover the truth, but what if that truth turns out to be something you do not wish to learn?”
There was certainly a chance facts would surface that Corrie would rather not know. She would have to trust that Laurel was an innocent seduced into the affair, as Corrie believed she was.
“I’ll deal with that circumstance should it arise.”
“And the danger?” Agnes pressed. “If the earl is truly a murderer, what will stop him from also killing you?”
Corrie waved her aunt’s worry away, though the thought had crossed her mind. “I told you, Tremaine will not know who I am. Besides, if he did murder his wife, he did it for money. And if he murdered Laurel and Joshua, he did it to keep his freedom, or perhaps to protect his family from scandal. As I am merely a destitute relative there for a visit, he would have no reason to murder me.”
“And I will be there with her,” Allison added softly, referring to the role she had agree to play: Corrie’s maid.
“That’s right. Allison will act as my liaison with you should any problem arise.”
Fortunately, during the time Allison had been at Selkirk with Laurel, she had been pretending to be a widow with a newborn child. She had been dressed in mourning clothes and had never gone into the village, which meant she was safe from recognition at Castle Tremaine.
Agnes released a deep sigh. “I hope you two know what you are doing.”
So did Corrie. At least she knew the Earl of Tremaine was in residence at Castle Tremaine, and had been for several weeks. Agnes had told her the man had been at the castle at the time of Laurel’s death, and for several months before that. Lately he seemed to be spending even more time in the country.
Perhaps he had found a new victim on whom to ply his seductive skills.
Ignoring her companions, Corrie turned to look out the window and caught sight of the inn up ahead, the Hen and Raven. A tremor of nervous anticipation flitted through her. She was still gowned in black, her face hidden beneath a veil of black tulle, and would be until she left the inn on the morrow.
Then she would be dressed in the clothes of a gently reared young woman fallen on hard times, clothes Allison had collected from the local rag merchant: several slightly worn traveling suits, well-worn muslin day dresses, and a number of unimpressive but serviceable dinner gowns with barely frayed cuffs and soiled hems.
Though the gowns were not at all the sort she was used to wearing, in a way Corrie didn’t mind.
Anything would be better than the dismal black that reminded her how she had failed her sister.
Four
Ignoring the creak of leather as he shifted in his saddle, Grayson Forsythe, sixth Earl of Tremaine, surveyed his estate, the lands surrounding Castle Tremaine.
All the way to the low stone wall on his left, past the dense copse of trees in the distance, to the river running along the perimeter on the right, fields of gently rolling hills, verdant with the new grass of spring, beckoned as if whispering his name. Beneath him, his big black stallion, Raja, pranced and sidestepped, eager to continue the ride they had begun early that morning. Almost as eager as Gray.
For the past ten days, the only peace he could find came from riding the hills, escaping the confines of the house, escaping his family…and the memories. Every year, as the dreaded day drew near, the past began to haunt him like a specter.
May 19, the day his pretty young wife, Jillian, had died.
Gray nudged the stallion down off the hill, into a ground-eating gallop. Wind tugged at the thick black hair he wore unfashionably long and tied back in a queue, and fluttered his full-sleeved, white lawn shirt.
Out here, he could examine the memories and wash them clean, know they would eventually fade, as they did every year. Back at the castle, which stood next to the river where she had died, it was nearly impossible to do.
Gray rode for the next hour, reached the far edge of his property, turned the stallion and began to walk the horse at a cooling pace back toward the house.
In time, the memories would leave him. Day-to-day problems with his tenants and his fields, Tremaine account ledgers, and the businesses he had inherited along with the title, would engage him once more, and the past would return to its place in the corner of his mind. But May 19 was almost a week away.
Gray steeled himself and urged Raja toward the ancient castle on the hill next to the river.
Corrie stared through the window of the shabby carriage she had hired at the Hen and Raven. Up ahead, at the end of a long gravel drive, Castle Tremaine perched on the top of a hill like the fortress it had once been. Inside the thick stone walls she would find Grayson Forsythe, the man who might well have murdered her sister.
“Are you certain about this, Coralee?” Allison leaned toward her, her hands clasped nervously in her lap. “Aunt Agnes could be right, you know. We might be putting ourselves into dreadful danger.”
“It’s Letty or Mrs. Moss. You must remember, Allison, to call me that. And they have no reason to harm us. They are going to think I am a destitute relative. And if something happens that gives us the least reason to believe we might be in danger, we shall leave in very short order.”
Allison smoothed her simple printed cotton skirt, even worse for wear than Corrie’s pale blue gown trimmed with ecru lace. Though the lacy overskirt had been carefully mended, it was clearly past time for the garment to be replaced. Corrie adjusted the matching blue-and-ecru lace bonnet, ignoring a soiled spot that barely showed on the lower edge of the brim.
Like the rest of the clothes in her trunks, the well-worn dresses had been altered to fit. She looked just as one would expect—like a distant country cousin in need of a wealthy relative’s aid.
With a lurch that nearly unseated them, the carriage rolled to a halt in front of the huge stone structure that was Castle Tremaine. Though the moat had been filled and planted with daffodils, the ancient building modified over the hundreds of years since its construction, the castle was impressive, with huge carved doors and two-story wings added onto each side of the high round keep that had once been the center of life there.
The Forsythe family had a respectable fortune—increased by the timely demise of Grayson Forsythe’s wife.
The coachman helped Coralee and Allison from the rented carriage, tossed down their trunks, then climbed back up onto the driver’s seat. “Ye want I should stay till yer settled, missus?”
Corrie shook her head. “We’ll be fine. I am his lordship’s cousin, you see, here for a visit.” And she wanted the carriage to leave so there would be no way the earl could toss them out on their shabbily dressed derrieres.
She collected herself, gave the coachman a moment to set the carriage into motion, then heard the fading jangle of the harness as the conveyance disappeared down the long gravel drive. Ignoring the rubbery feeling in her knees, she climbed the steps to the majestic carved wooden door.
A few sharp raps and a butler, dressed immaculately in black tailcoat, black trousers and snowy white shirt, pulled open the heavy portal.
“May I help you?”
Corrie pasted on a smile. “I am here to see Lord Tremaine. You may tell him Mrs. Moss—Letty Moss, his cousin Cyrus’s wife—is arrived to see him.”
She wasn’t sure the earl would even recognize the name, was hoping it rang only a distant bell.
“I’m afraid his lordship is not in at the moment, but his brother, Charles, is here. I shall inform him of your arrival. If you will please follow me.”
The gray-haired butler, thin to the point of gaunt, led her and Allison into a drawing room that was furnished in quite a tasteful manner. It was done in a neoclassical style, with ornate white molded ceilings, a marble fireplace and graceful sofas and chairs upholstered in amber tones brightened with rich ruby accents.
Allison sat down in one of the chairs, her gloved hands clasped nervously in front of her. Corrie silently prayed the girl wouldn’t completely dissolve into a fit of nerves before the first act of the drama had played out.
Seating herself on the brocade sofa, Corrie kept her smile carefully in place and waited, then rose at the swish of heavy skirts and the sound of feminine footfalls approaching down the hall. Allison rose, as well. Corrie could see she was fighting not to tremble.
A woman with golden-blond hair, parted and pulled into a cluster of glossy curls on each shoulder, swept into the drawing room. She had very blue eyes and a strikingly beautiful face. She surveyed the two women and, noticing Corrie’s gown was simple and slightly frayed, but of better quality than Allison’s, sharpened her gaze accordingly.
“Mrs. Moss, I presume?”
“Yes. Mrs. Cyrus Moss. My husband is Lord Tremaine’s cousin.”
“And this is your maid?”
“Yes… Miss Holbrook.” Allison dropped into a curtsy, which the woman ignored. “I am here to speak to the earl on a matter of some importance.”
“Lord Tremaine is not returned from his morning ride. As my husband is presently occupied, perhaps I could be of some assistance. I’m Rebecca Forsythe. If your husband is the earl’s cousin, then he must be Charles’s cousin, as well.”
“Why, yes. It is a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Forsythe.” Corrie flicked a glance at Allison. “Perhaps my maid might wait in the kitchen so that we may speak in private.”
“Of course.” Rebecca called for the butler. “If you would, Mr. Flitcroft, show Miss Holbrook down to the kitchen for some refreshment. And bring tea and cakes for us.”
Corrie kept her smile in place. She had been hoping to speak to the earl. Ultimately, it would be Lord Tremaine who would decide whether or not she would be allowed to stay. But she could hardly ignore this woman, who was her supposed cousin Charles’s wife. Corrie would have to tell her story and hope to gain the woman’s sympathy.
Allison cast her a worried look and followed the butler out of the drawing room. Corrie returned to her place on the sofa and Rebecca joined her there.
The blond woman smiled. She was incredibly beautiful, no more than five or six years older than Corrie, with a full bosom and very small waist. She was wearing a gown of aqua dimity with a full skirt heavily embroidered with roses.
“I’m afraid I’ve never met Cousin Cyrus,” Rebecca said. “But I believe Charles had a distant acquaintance with his father. Where did you say you lived?”
“Cyrus and I make our home in York…though unfortunately, he has been away for more than two years. That is the reason I am here.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
Corrie thought of Laurel, which helped her work up a tear. She pulled a handkerchief from her reticule and dabbed it beneath her eyes. “This is all so dreadfully embarrassing.”
“Just take your time,” Rebecca said encouragingly.
“I met Cyrus through friends of my parents, and in the beginning of our marriage, we were happy. Being older by nearly twenty years, he doted on me. Perhaps he loved me too much and that was the problem. You see, Cyrus had very little money, only what he inherited from his father, and that seemed to dwindle quite rapidly once we were wed. But Cyrus was determined to give me the things he believed I deserved.”
Rebecca’s blue gaze drifted over Corrie’s worn garments. “And where is Cyrus now?”
“Well, you see, that is the crux of the matter. Cyrus wished to give me the best of everything—which is the reason, I suppose, that he left England and headed for America to make his fortune. Cyrus had plans, very big plans, and he had friends there he believed would help him.”
“I do seem to recall Charles mentioning a distant cousin who left England for America in search of adventure.”
Corrie nodded vigorously. “That was Cyrus. According to his letters, he arrived there safely. Then his letters stopped coming. I haven’t heard from my husband in nearly two years.”
“I am sorry to hear that, Mrs. Moss.”
“Even worse than losing Cyrus, my funds have run out. Frankly, Mrs. Forsythe, I am quite destitute. I am here to humble myself and beg the earl to offer me shelter. If he refuses, I don’t know what I am going to do.” She dabbed the handkerchief again, ready to break into sobs if she thought it would help.
Rebecca began to frown. It was not a good sign. “You are not asking to take up residence here, are you?”
“Well, I—”
Just then voices drifted in from the stone-floored entry. One Corrie recognized as belonging to the butler, but the other was deeper, more resonant.
“I believe the earl has returned,” Rebecca said, rising gracefully from her place on the sofa. A faint knock sounded as she floated across the drawing room, and an instant later, the butler slid open the door.
“His lordship is returned,” the gray-haired man said. “I have informed him of his visitor.”
Corrie still sat on the sofa.
It was a very good thing.
The man who walked through the door was not at all what she had expected. This man, with his black hair tied back in a queue, was dressed not in a tailcoat and trousers, but mud-spattered black riding breeches, black knee-high boots and a full-sleeved white shirt. With his fathomless dark eyes, he looked more like an eighteenth-century highwayman than a wealthy English lord.
“Gray! I was hoping you would return. We have a guest, just arrived—your cousin Cyrus’s wife, Letty Moss.”
Those piercing eyes swung in her direction and seemed to hold her prisoner there on the sofa. “I didn’t know I had a cousin Cyrus.”
“I’m sure Charles has mentioned him. He is the son of your deceased third cousin, Spencer Moss. Spencer lived near York, as did Cyrus, if I recall. Mrs. Moss has come quite a distance to see you.”
Tremaine didn’t apologize for his rather disheveled appearance, simply turned and made a faint bow in her direction. “Mrs. Moss. Welcome to Castle Tremaine. Now, if you will excuse me, there are several pressing affairs I need to—”
“I should like a word with you, my lord.” She rose from the sofa. “It is a matter of some importance and I have traveled quite far.”
One of his black eyebrows arched up. It was clear he wasn’t used to a woman speaking out as she had just done. For a moment he simply stared, as if taking her measure in some way.
The edge of his mouth faintly curved. “I suppose…since you have traveled, as you say, quite some distance, I can spare a moment.” There was something in that hard-edged smile that made her stomach lift alarmingly.
Tremaine turned to his sister-in-law. “If you will excuse us, Becky…”
Rebecca’s smile slipped. “Of course.” She retreated toward the sliding doors, but didn’t look happy about it. Corrie got the distinct impression the earl’s sister-in-law wasn’t pleased to think his impoverished distant cousin might move into the house, no matter how large it was.
The earl waited until the butler closed the drawing room doors. “You wished to speak to me. What can I do for you, Mrs. Moss?”
He didn’t invite her to sit. It was clear he didn’t expect the interview to take that long. Corrie steeled herself against a hint of irritation, followed by a rush of nerves. The earl was even more handsome than rumors about him had said. He was very tall and extremely broad shouldered, with a flat stomach and long, muscular legs clearly outlined by his snug black riding breeches. Looking into those penetrating dark eyes, she found it easy to imagine an innocent young woman like her sister succumbing to such sheer masculinity.
“It is difficult to know where to begin….” Corrie gathered her courage and prepared to get into her role.
“Just tell me why you’re here, Mrs. Moss.”
Fine. So much for the long, heartrending performance she had planned to give. “Well, my lord, to put it bluntly, your cousin Cyrus—my husband—left me high and dry and ran off to adventure in America. I have waited nearly two years for his return and still have received no word of him. I have no family, no one to help me. I have spent my last farthing getting to Castle Tremaine, my lord, and I am desperate for your help.”
Those dark eyes traveled over her, taking in her simple garments, the tatters that had been carefully repaired, making a thorough assessment of her bosom, which was quite full for her size and apparent even in a gown that was buttoned to the throat.
“As I said, I have never heard of Cyrus Moss. I do not doubt that he is some distant relation, since my sister-in-law has said so, but how do I know you are actually his wife? For that matter, how do I know he even has a wife?”
She had come prepared for this. According to her sources, Grayson Forsythe was a highly intelligent man. He’d been a major in the army, a man who had traveled to far distant countries. He would not be the sort to be easily duped.
Corrie reached into her reticule and pulled out two folded pieces of paper. The forged marriage certificate hadn’t been cheap—or easy to come by. But she was in the newspaper business and she had some very good connections.
She crossed to where he stood and handed the papers to the earl, hating the fact she had to tilt her head back to look at him.
“The first document is a certificate of my marriage to Cyrus Moss three years ago, which was duly recorded in the church. The other is a letter from Cyrus, addressed to me as his wife and posted to me from the city of Philadelphia in America.”
She had worked on that bit of tomfoolery herself, writing the letter with the heavy pen strokes of a man.
The earl perused the letter, reading where Cyrus professed his love and promised to return. Happily for Corrie, her sources assured her he hadn’t yet set foot on English shores.
“Cyrus met your father on several occasions,” she said as he finished and refolded the papers. Corrie hoped her information was correct. “I believe my husband held a high opinion of the man. Since the late earl is no longer with us, I am coming to you for help.”
Tremaine frowned at the mention of his father, and she wondered if there had been some ill will between the two men. He seemed none too pleased as he handed back the documents, and Corrie held her breath.
Finally, he sighed. “If you will follow me into the study, I will write you a bank draft and you can be on your way.” He turned and started walking.
Corrie fought a surge of panic. “Wait!”
Lord Tremaine turned. His attention fixed on her face and she felt again that odd floating in her stomach.
“I said I would give you money. What more do you want?”
Her eyes welled with tears. It wasn’t that hard to do since her plan was about to fail. “I—I am in need of a place to stay, my lord—but only for a while. In a few weeks’ time, I shall come into a small inheritance. My father set up a trust, you see. When I am two-and-twenty, I shall be eligible for a monthly stipend that will see to my comfort. It isn’t much, but it should be enough to keep me in simple fashion until Cyrus returns.”
The earl’s slashing black eyebrows drew together. “Your father and mother are dead, then? You have no one else who might aid you?”
“As I said, I have no living relatives. It is one of the reasons I married Cyrus. With no one to look out for me, I needed his protection. Unfortunately, his protection didn’t last all that long.”
“How long were you and Cyrus together before he left?”
“Just a little over a year.”
The earl studied her for several long moments.
Corrie took a deep breath, her eyes tearing as she prepared to release a wailing sob she hoped would add a bit of persuasion. The earl held up his hand to forestall the outburst.
“There is no need for that. You may stay…at least until I can figure out what to do with you.”
Her face lit up. She gave him a watery smile, brightened by an inward surge of relief. “Thank you, my lord. I shall be forever in your debt.”
He merely nodded. “I’ll speak to Rebecca, tell her we’ll be entertaining our cousin for a while.”
“This is very kind of you, my lord. I’m sure Cyrus would be even more grateful than I am.”
Tremaine ignored the remark, turned and started for the door. As soon as he stepped out of the drawing room, Corrie sank down on the sofa, her legs no longer willing to hold her up.
She had done it! She had managed through a bit of deception to weasel her way into Castle Tremaine! As soon as she was settled, as soon as the Forsythe family had begun to let down its guard and trust her, she would begin her search.
Corrie’s lips thinned. Gray Forsythe might be one of the handsomest men she had ever met, but that didn’t mean he was innocent of murder. And if he had killed her sister and baby Joshua, the Earl of Tremaine was going to pay.
Gray stalked through the halls, his ill humor worse than it was before he left the house. He wasn’t exactly sure how it had happened, but somehow, during her appearance in his drawing room in her mended garments, during the minutes she had looked up at him so pleadingly with her thick-lashed, jewel-green eyes, he had let down his guard and allowed a woman he had never met move into his house.
He didn’t understand it. He had seen through her theatrics from the start, the false tears and wringing hands, the beseeching looks and trembly voice. But during her performance he had also caught a flash of something that intrigued him. He thought it might be desperation, for he was certain that was there, but this seemed more like determination. Whatever it was, it had interested him enough to let her stay.
Gray shook his head. For all he knew, Letty Moss was a charlatan, there to cajole him out of his money, rob him or worse.
He thought about the petite young woman with the fiery copper curls peaking out beneath the soiled brim of her bonnet, and almost smiled. He had been a soldier, a man who’d commanded troops in the British Army. If she gave him any trouble, he would simply toss her out on what held the promise of being a very attractive derriere.
The thought stirred him in a way he didn’t expect. Since Jillian had died, he had slept with few women. It was his conscience, he knew, that kept him from indulging more in the pleasures of the flesh he so enjoyed, guilt that he was alive and Jillian was not. That he had not been there to protect her when she’d needed him.
He looked up to see Rebecca approaching down the hall.
“I hope you were a gentlemen about it,” she said with a smile. “I realize she hoped you would let her stay here at the castle, but—”
“She’s staying.”
“What!”
“It won’t be for long. She’ll soon come into a monthly stipend that should be enough to provide for her until her husband returns.”
“But…but we don’t even know her. How can you simply let her move in?”
The smile he gave her was sardonic. “You are always chiding me about my manners. It would be the height of bad taste to toss a member of our family in need of assistance out into the street.”
“Yes, but I thought you would give her money, not invite her to move in.”
Though Rebecca was tall for a woman, Gray looked over her shoulder toward the massive, carved wooden staircase leading up to the floors above. “There are two separate wings and seventy bedrooms in this house. Put her somewhere she won’t bother you.”
“But—”
He started walking. “I won’t be down for supper. See that our guest has something to eat.” Rebecca generally ran the household, another reason he was surprised by his actions today. On the other hand, he was the earl, which his family seemed mostly to forget. Perhaps it was time he made the matter clear.
Gray continued down the hall, suddenly desperate to get back outside in the sunshine, away from the thick stone walls of the house. He wondered again why he had offered the woman his protection.
Undoubtedly, it was nothing more than boredom.
Still…
Ücretsiz ön izlemeyi tamamladınız.
