Beauty in Breeches (22 page)

Julius's hand went out to her. His face was strangely gentle and his amber eyes softened and were filled with compassion and warmth. They told of his own regret, not that her father was dead and that she truly believed he had killed him, but that it should give pain to her.

But Beatrice would have none of his concern and her cold, narrowed eyes told him so. ‘Don't touch me,' she spat.

He drew back his hand. ‘Your father did not shoot himself—I can tell you that—but there is more to it than that, Beatrice.'

‘Then tell me.'

‘I—I cannot tell you,' he said haltingly, finding it almost impossible to think of that night when his whole world had fallen apart, let alone speak of it. For a moment his mask slipped and Beatrice glimpsed fleetingly his inner pain, that he seemed deeply troubled and genuinely at a loss. But then the mask was back in place.

‘But if you want me to believe you, you must.'

‘I—cannot.'

‘Then if you cannot defend yourself, I am not interested in anything further you have to say.' She turned from him and walked across the room to the door. ‘There is nothing more to be said. I want to be by myself—to think about what I'm going to do—away from here. Away from you.'

Julius's eyes narrowed. ‘Just exactly what is that supposed to mean?'

‘That I'd rather die than live in the same house as the man who killed my father. I am going to Larkhill—without you. I suppose it was your guilty conscience that prompted you to return it to me.'

‘No, it was because I wanted very much to give you back the equivalent of what was taken from you.'

‘Then I suppose I must be grateful for that at least.'

‘I am sorry, Beatrice, if I have hurt you. I regret that, but please believe me when I say that I desire only your peace and happiness. Do not forget that.'

She turned and looked at him. ‘It is not enough to say you're sorry, to try to make amends, hoping to wipe out everything you have done,' she said, stiff with pride and anger. ‘You should have thought of all this before you robbed my father to add to your own fortunes and then killed him. Now it is too late, do you hear, too late! How can I possibly remain married to you knowing this? I will keep Larkhill, but I would rather die a thousand deaths than take anything else from you! Can't you understand that I hate you?'

She flung the last words in his face and had the bitter satisfaction of seeing him whiten. She triumphed in it, rejoiced in it, hoping for some sign of weakness which would put him absolutely at her mercy, but Julius Chadwick was a man of steel and did not know how to weaken. He merely shrugged and turned away from her.

‘I shall leave for Larkhill at first light. Please don't try to stop me.'

‘I won't.' The fact that she had been so quick to believe the worst of him cut through his heart like a
knife, leaving him with a dark sense of having been betrayed. He knew that by not telling her everything he was being unreasonable, but he just couldn't help himself. Even if their marriage had been a travesty at the beginning, he had become comfortable with the idea of her being his wife and was reluctant to let her go.

‘Go if you feel you must—after this I am sure you can't wait to leave me, but I will never divorce you,' Julius continued dispassionately, immune to the wrathful expression on her beautiful face. ‘We will discuss the course of our future at a later date, but until then we have a child to consider and it will be raised by both a mother and a father.'

One look at his face convinced Beatrice that he was absolutely furious with her. Not only were his eyes glinting with icy shards, but the muscles in his cheeks were tensing and vibrating to a degree that she had never seen before.

She drew an infuriated breath. ‘As you said, we will discuss the course of our future another time. Goodbye, Julius.' With that she swept out of the room, leaving him staring after her. She did not see the move he made towards her, or his look of angry pain and suffering, or hear the sigh of bitter defeat he uttered when she closed the door.

With a sense of burning betrayal and seething anger at her husband's terrible crime, fighting back scalding tears of hurt, Beatrice hurried to her room—to pack, she decided, for if he wasn't going to tell her the truth,
she would not remain in the same house as a liar and a murderer.

In her wretched suffering she lay awake, hearing sounds of her husband moving about his room behind the closed connecting doors. It went on all night, which told her that he too was unable to sleep. She wanted to call out to him, wanted desperately to feel his arms around her, but she could not do it.

 

Dawn found her huddled in the comforting warm refuge of her cloak as the coach left the house. On the point of leaving, a letter addressed to her was delivered. It was from Astrid. Not until the coach had left London behind did Beatrice open it. It was as she had expected. Astrid had run away with Henry Talbot. They were in Scotland, at Gretna Green, where they had married. Astrid went on to tell her that they were deliriously happy. Things would be hard for a while since they had no money, but Henry's parents had agreed that they could live with them for the time being.

Beatrice was happy for Astrid and sincerely hoped her cousin would find happiness wed to the man of her choice. She could well imagine how the news would be received by her aunt and had no doubt that she would turn her back on her daughter and cut her off without a penny.

It was raining hard and clouds the colour of pewter brushed the rooftops of London, the streets blacker than midnight. The roads were bad, as bad as Beatrice had expected when she'd embarked on this journey, and the rain showed no sign of relenting. But she was
oblivious to the cold and the discomforts of the journey the closer she got to Larkhill.

She had closed her eyes and listened to the pounding hooves of the horses and the pounding of her heart. The familiar pain of betrayal was still present, but after hours of thoughtful contemplation in a more rational frame of mind she had the feeling that something was not quite right. Had she really married a monster, a murderer? In her mind she could see Julius smiling down at her, hear his voice filled with need. Could the man who had held her so tenderly and loved her with such unbridled passion really have killed her father? Was he really capable of doing that and then making that man's daughter his wife?

Nothing rang true. In the confused and heated aftermath of her aunt's disclosure, when her emotions had veered between hysterical panic and shaking irrationality, when she had questioned him and accused him so fiercely, his replies had been tentative, almost painful, and she began to suspect that there was something he had not told her—that even now he was deliberately keeping something from her. He had not denied murdering her father, but then, he hadn't admitted it either. He had admitted being there at the time, but that didn't mean he was responsible.

Recalling the moment when the mask had slipped from his face and he had seemed at a loss to know how to answer her questions, she asked herself why. She knew it was not out of coldness.

It was out of fear.

But what was he afraid of? Himself? It was strange
how that one look she had seen on his face could cause everything to shift, to put everything into place. Julius wasn't a murderer. She wasn't mistaken in that. She had been too ready to judge. Had she misjudged him? And if she had, would he ever be able to forgive her?

 

As the coach swung up the drive to Larkhill, she vividly remembered her confession to him of how she had fallen in love with him and how quickly he had silenced her. She had known he did not love her, but there were times when he made love to her that gave her reason to believe he was coming to that conclusion. She wished she hadn't left him. She wished she was with him now so that she could tell him she was mistaken and apologise for being too ready to condemn him.

By the time the coach stopped in front of the house, so convinced was she of Julius's innocence that she was tempted to tell the driver to turn and head back for London, but out of consideration for the tired horses and driver, she decided against it. She would spend one night at Larkhill and then she would take a leap of faith all the way back to her husband.

T
he man who stood at his bedroom window watched his wife climb into the waiting coach. The hood of her cloak protected her head from the driving rain, denying him one last look at her lovely face. As if she sensed he was there, she paused and raised her head in that regal way of hers, the crisp wind flirting with the cluster of curls escaping their confines, before dropping her eyes without looking back, gathering her cloak about her and climbing inside.

His face impassive, Julius watched the coach pull away, but inside everything was shattering, bleeding, draining the life out of him, for without Beatrice it had no meaning.

He had been a fool not to tell her what she wanted to know, but, dear Lord, apart from James and Constance Merrick, he had never told another living soul about what had happened on the night Beatrice's father had
died. He would tell her, that he had decided. He would tell her every sordid detail, no matter how painful, because he now realised that he wanted her more than he had ever wanted anything in his life.

Beatrice had become a part of him which he could not deny. She was like burnished steel, strong and audaciously bold—her eyes blazing with defiance, fighting him, challenging him. daring him with her outrageous forfeit, determined not to have what was hers denied her. Her heart was the sweet centre in the headlong strength of her mind and body and, quite simply, now that he knew her and could see her for what she was, he loved her. He would fill her days and nights with joy and pleasure, until she loved him as much as he loved her. For he did love her, and his heart swelled as he admitted the truth to himself. He could not lose her as he had lost his mother.

Telling her the truth would be difficult, for he found it hard to expose his inner self, but Beatrice would understand—like no one else she would understand. It would take a while to earn her trust after this, he decided, but some day she would surely find him worthy of it.

Driven by a fierce eagerness to see his wife, it became clear to him that if he did not go after her, his energy would be spent in waiting and tearing himself to shreds.

 

The night was dark and Beatrice was restless in her bed. The wind was high, but the rain that had been falling for two days had temporarily abated. A figure made
its way with stealth-like caution towards the house, halting when it reached an iron gate that opened on to the kitchen yard. The figure paused to take stock of things before proceeding. A deathlike stillness hung over the house, which seemed to moan in sorrow over its impending doom. A chain was lifted from the gate and the earthbound shadow slipped through the opening and dashed towards the outbuildings that joined on to the house.

The night's depth of darkness was impenetrable, then the wind changed direction, and the clouds allowed a shaft of moonlight to sweep across the yard. Concealed beneath an enveloping cape, the figure scuttled into the interior of a shed. Gloved hands hastily struck flint to steel over a small mound of gunpowder, and sparks shot outwards and upwards until a sudden blaze flared up. Several minutes later the figure reemerged and ran the way it had come, looking back only once to watch flames leaping from the building, the wind whipping them towards the house.

 

Having been travelling for hours, impatient to be at journey's end, Julius willed the coach to go faster. The well-matched team lunged forwards, taking their duties seriously, as the driver drove them at a breakneck pace along the mired roads, swerving madly around bends and not even checking their stride when the wheels caught a rut. Only a couple of miles and he would be at Larkhill. A deep sense of relief surged within him. The wind rushed by the coach and once again heavy splashes of rain began pelting the windows. Pulling
up the blind and gazing out, Julius wondered at the reddish glow of heat in the night sky, while a rolling mass of grey billowed above it.

Cold, congealing horror suddenly seized him as memories of another fire—a fire that had robbed him of his mother—almost overwhelmed him. The fire was in the direction of Larkhill. Dear God, he prayed silently, don't let it be the house—don't let Beatrice have come to harm. His fears were confirmed the closer they got. He was relieved to discover it was the outbuildings that were on fire, but being connected to the house, it was only a matter of time before the whole lot went up if it was not checked.

Spurred to action, he leapt from the coach and ran towards the blaze, ignoring the searing sting of flying ash. Along with members of the small staff Julius retained at Larkhill, men from the surrounding area, alerted by neighbours who had not retired for the night and had seen the blaze, were trying to fight the flames to stop them reaching the house. There was no hope in saving the outbuildings. They were succeeding, for mercifully the rain aided them in their task as it came sheeting down once more.

The urgency of the moment pressed upon him and his tone conveyed his growing anxiety for the occupants of the house as he enquired as to their safety. On being told they were still inside, he ran towards the front door.

 

Torn from her uneasy dream, Beatrice came upright with a gasp and stared about the dark room
in wide-eyed panic. Something had disturbed her. A sudden chill shivered along her spine as she pressed back upon the pillows, trying to listen above the howling of the wind. Her heart suddenly lurched. Was that smoke she could smell? ‘Beatrice…Beatrice…'

‘Julius!' The name flared through her brain as she realised it wasn't part of any dream. It was Julius! She threw herself from the bed and ran out of the bedroom. As she reached the top of the stairs her eyes swept the hall, anxiously searching for the man who had called her name. Someone was pounding on the locked front door; a moment later it crashed open—and there, right below her, was a very tall, dark-haired man. Her heart gave a leap, missed a beat, then began to thump madly as a pair of penetrating amber eyes looked straight into hers. Momentarily stunned by his arrival, she saw the bitter regret carved into his handsome features and the aching gentleness in his compelling eyes. ‘Julius!'

Immediately she flew down the stairs and ran across the hall towards him. He caught her up hard in his arms and listened as the words came tumbling out.

‘Thank goodness you've come. But why did you? I intended to leave in the morning to return to you. I couldn't bear it, leaving you like that. I know you didn't do it, Julius. I know you didn't kill my father—you couldn't do that, and I don't know why you said you did, but…'

‘Hush, Beatrice,' he said, holding her away from him to look into her face. She was flushed and breathing
hard, her hair dishevelled from sleep and utterly lovely. He saw tears shimmering in her magnificent eyes; one of them traced unheeded down her smooth cheek. ‘What is this?'

‘I know you're innocent. I know you didn't do it.'

Gently he traced his lean fingers along her cheek and, with a raw ache in his voice, said, ‘What made you realise that?'

‘I worked it out for myself.' Her heart in a tumult of emotion, Beatrice clung to him once more, burying her face against his chest. ‘I do believe in you, Julius,' she whispered fiercely. ‘Forgive me for doubting you—I didn't mean to, I didn't want to, but I was so angry and confused. I will support you in anything you do. I trust you implicitly. I love you so much.'

‘That's all I need to hear.' His arms tightened round her, his impassioned whisper strained with feeling. ‘We'll talk later, Beatrice. Then you can cry in my arms all night if you wish and, while you do, I'll tell you how sorry I am for everything I've done and said that has hurt you. And when I've finished doing that, you can help me find a way to forgive myself.' He held her away from him. ‘I have to go. I promise I'll explain everything, but in the meantime there's a fire to put out.'

She sprang back in alarm. ‘What? A fire? Oh—I thought I could smell smoke. Where? Is it the house?'

‘It's the outbuildings. Hopefully it won't get to the house. Men from the village were already working on it when I got here. Thankfully the wind's changed
direction and it's raining hard. With a bit of luck it will be put out.'

‘But how did it start—do you know?'

‘Not yet. The time for questions will come later, but I would like you to get dressed all the same. Best to be prepared should the wind change direction again.'

A part of Julius's urgency seized her and when he disappeared through the door she took the stairs at a frantic pace.

 

The fire was put out and the night grew still once more as Julius went to join Beatrice in the master bedroom. She was in his arms before the clock had spent another second. Lowering his head, he kissed her in stormy tenderness before closing his eyes and burying his face in her sweet-scented hair as his arms fairly squeezed the breath from her. When he raised his eyes to meet hers, his lips smiled.

‘I thought I told you to get dressed.' His voice was hoarse with emotion, for Beatrice was attired in nothing but her nightdress, her wonderful wealth of golden hair tumbling down her spine. ‘Do you intend to spend your life disobeying me?'

Beatrice leaned back against his arm and smiled with joy as she caressed his soot-smeared cheek. ‘I did not disobey you. When I saw the fire had been put out I decided to get undressed again.' Her dark eyes took on a pleading look. ‘Come to bed, Julius.'

The sound of her voice was so sweet, Julius almost pulled her down on to the bed. Instead he sighed and
gently disengaged her arms. ‘Later. I want to talk to you first. There are things I want to tell you.'

Feeling an unexpected lurch of dread, Beatrice swallowed her disappointment. ‘Can't it wait until morning?'

‘I would prefer to get it over with. Until you know the truth it will always be there, lurking between us.”

‘How did you become so wise?' she asked with a tender smile.

‘If I were wise, my darling, I would have told you everything at the beginning. Keeping it to myself has only made matters worse between us. I can see that now.' Removing his coat and loosening his neck linen, he took her hand and drew her to the fire. Sitting beside the hearth, he drew her on to his knee, sliding his arm about her waist. ‘I want to tell you everything about the night your father died. I promise it will be the truth.'

Beatrice gazed at him, warding off an icy chill. ‘I sincerely hope so, Julius. You didn't kill him, did you?'

‘No. And before we go any further I want to tell you that Constance was right. I never gamble. I never have—only with business investments. The game of cards that was to be the destruction of both of our fathers took place at a private gentlemen's club. There were few present to witness the outcome. Your father lost Larkhill to my father—not to me.'

‘I see. Were you present?'

‘I arrived when the game was over. My father was more excited than usual. I didn't know why until later. I was deeply shocked and wanted him to return it. He wouldn't hear of it and told me not to interfere.'

‘You should have told me this. I'm sorry that I made you suffer for it. My father should never have put Larkhill on the table.'

‘Don't forget that he, too, was desperate. Nor did I kill your father, Beatrice. My father did.'

Beatrice didn't say anything. She simply sat on his knee, listening as the words began pouring out of him.

‘My father couldn't believe his good fortune when he won Larkhill. He genuinely believed it would be the answer to all his problems. When he checked its value and found it was heavily mortgaged he became demented. He began drinking—in fact, he became a walking, drunken nightmare. He swore revenge on your father. I arrived at the house when he was about to leave with the intention of confronting your father with a loaded gun. He was so drunk he didn't know what he was doing. He became violent, so violent that I had to lock him in his room. I don't know how he got out—his valet, I suppose, though he denied it.'

Combing his fingers through his dishevelled hair, he looked at Beatrice. He must have seen the horror in her eyes, for he said, ‘I think you can guess what happened next. I knew where he had gone and hurried after him. Your parents had rented a small house in Charing Cross. The hour was late and when I arrived the deed was done. Your father was dead, shot in the head, and my father stumbling out of the door. He had thrown down his gun. I left it there. The house was quiet—I had no idea your mother saw me and would naturally believe I had killed him.'

‘That was what she told Aunt Moira, on one of
the rare occasions that she spoke. She had found my father's body, you see, and so deep was the shock that it affected her health.'

‘And your aunt told no one?'

‘No, I don't think so. Why she kept quiet about it is a mystery—unless she meant to use the knowledge against you at a later date.'

‘She could try, but there are people who would testify that your mother was an ill woman, that her mind had become somewhat unstable following the suicide of her husband. I have restored the Chadwick good name, earning the respect of those in the upper echelons of society. I doubt anyone would listen to the rantings of an aged and bitter woman.'

‘I sincerely hope not. Now that we have resolved matters between ourselves, I would hate to have you cast into prison.'

Julius kissed her forehead. ‘I am not going anywhere, my darling, I promise you. After leaving your father, when I got back to the house, James and Constance were there. They had seen my father arrive home and were worried by the blood on his clothes and the state of his mind. He was quite demented, almost boasting of what he had done to your father. I told them everything that had happened and swore them to secrecy. The next day when my father was sober, he remembered nothing. I did. It was like a nightmare, like a dream in a delirium, so infamous I could scarcely believe it.'