Deeply In You (22 page)

“I
could have saved her.” Greybrooke’s voice, low and cold, came from the dark shadow in the corner of the carriage. The lamps weren’t lit and moonlight flitted inside, sending washes of silver blue over his stonelike expression.

Seated across from him, Helena shivered at the self-recrimination in his tone. The golden-haired Duke of Caradon sat at her side. Caradon had forced his friend to stop and have a drink for the shock. She knew Caradon had hoped it would give Greybrooke time to calm down. Instead, Greybrooke had snatched up the decanter in a gesture of fury and poured almost half the contents down his throat. His ability to down that much brandy had stunned her. It spoke of the depth of his pain.

“You did everything you could,” she pointed out. “You tried to protect her as best as you could. You paid the blackmailer and tried to find out—”

“I should have found out who he was and ripped him limb from limb,” Greybrooke snarled.

“You were afraid to have the countess’s secret exposed.”

“And that bit of stupidity on my part cost her her life.”

“It was not stupidity,” she implored. “You were protecting her.”

“What I needed was his name. Then I would have had the ability to rip the bastard’s heart out.”

She cringed. The carriage was rattling onward. “Are you—are you going to take me home? I can wait in the carriage, if you want to do that later—”

“You are coming to Blackbriar’s with me,” he growled. “If you are involved with that damned blackmailer, you cost Caro her life.”

“I’m not involved with the blackmailer. I swear that what I told you is the truth.” She’d thought he’d believed her. Now that he was angry—and had downed a lot of brandy—he seemed filled with suspicion and hatred.

He gripped her wrist ruthlessly.

Caradon put his hands on Grey’s rock-hard forearm. “Release her, Grey. You’re foxed and you’re going to do something you will regret. Explain to me what in Hades is going on.”

“Miss Winsome believes me to be a traitor.”

Helena’s eyes almost started out of her head as Grey leaned back gracefully on the carriage seat and casually made the statement. He acted as if it was a joke, but she saw a twitch in jaw.

“She believes I sold my country’s secrets to the French during the war, Cary. Amusing to think I even possessed the secrets of my country.”

Caradon said nothing. He seemed to be watching Grey warily, the way one would study a bull as it pawed the ground.

“I have never had political interests,” Greybrooke said. “I’ve done my duty in the House of Lords, nothing more. During the war, I spent my time learning the arts of tying up women and a dozen ways to skillfully use a whip. True, I could have sold those secrets to the French. Miss Winsome, however, needs proof to believe me. Just as I need proof that she is not the blackmailer’s partner and is not responsible for Caroline’s death.”

Caradon looked from her to Grey. “Proving a negative is madness. Let me ensure I have the right of this. This lady is your mistress, but she thinks you committed treason?”

“She was seducing my guilt out of me.”

Helena blushed. It was not exactly what she had done, but it would have been what Whitehall wanted. To hear it aloud—spoken to his friend—she was ashamed. “I did betray you, and what I did was wrong and I am sorry. But it is one thing to attack me over this—another thing to humiliate me in front of a stranger.”

Caradon’s brows shot up into his golden hair and his jaw dropped.

“You are in the wrong up to your pretty neck, yet you chastise me?” Greybrooke growled. “All right, I had no right to hurt you in front of Cary. But what I said was the truth. You did betray me, Miss Winsome.”

“I know. But you also let me become your mistress without telling me you didn’t trust me.”

Caradon shook his head. “Good God, both of you appeared to be spying on each other.”

She blinked—it was true and it sounded so ridiculous, Greybrooke looked as startled as she felt.

Caradon frowned at her. “Why did you think such a thing about Grey, Miss Winsome? He would never betray his country. He’s the noblest man I’ve ever known.”

“Yes. Out with it, Miss Winsome. Give us the whole tale,” Greybrooke said.

Greybrooke sounded playful now. She knew, in truth, he was anything but. She hesitated. Greybrooke sank back more on the cushions until he was in the relaxed pose of a dissolute but beautiful Roman god lounging on a chaise.

He looked relaxed, but energy seemed to crackle from him, as if he possessed an inner lightning storm instead of a heart. Helena knew he was filled with anger and pain.

“Cary, your reassurances haven’t helped,” he said. “She doesn’t want to speak.”

Earnest honesty showed in the Duke of Caradon’s expression. “Miss Winsome, I cannot believe Grey is anything but innocent. We were at Eton and Oxford together. Grey was the sort of gentleman who would fling himself into another man’s battle if he believed an injustice had been done.”

“He could have believed it was not just or right for France to lose.”

Caradon threw his hands up. “Normally your mistresses are much more pliable.”

“She was a governess before,” Greybrooke said. “She’s not accustomed to her new life.”

New life? He couldn’t mean to have her stay on as mistress? He couldn’t—not after this.

“Miss Winsome is my folly in more ways than one,” Greybrooke said. “I should have recognized how dangerous she was when she goaded me into kissing her.” He rubbed his hand along his jaw. “Think, Cary. Is there any proof I can have to exonerate me? The only thing I can think of is the most obvious—it should be simple enough to prove this Whitehall is no agent of the Crown.”

“That should be effective,” the Duke of Caradon stated.

Goodness, why hadn’t she thought of that? Desperate to help Will—to save her family—she had taken everything at its surface value.

“Beyond that, Miss Winsome, you’ll have to trust me. I am not a traitor.”

“And I am not involved with the blackmailer! Please,” she added softly, “you must believe I had nothing to do with this. I could never have done anything to hurt you like this.”

His eyes narrowed, but the crackling energy seemed to have dissipated. “It goes against every instinct I possess, but I do believe you. Still, I have no intention of letting you go anywhere until I make sure you have told me everything.” He stretched out his arm, pushing back the curtain. “We’re here. Lord Blackbriar’s house.”

The horses slowed, the carriage began to turn. Through the window, Helena saw an enormous brick house with few windows lit. They passed between towering gate posts. A man stood on the front step, holding a torch, but as the carriage neared, she saw he wore black trousers and a white shirt, not livery.

“That is Blackbriar,” Greybrooke growled. “Do not let his gentle appearance fool you. The bastard used to hit Caroline. He’s a coward who pretends to be mild-mannered and bookish but secretly likes to use his fists on a defenseless woman.”

She saw pure, harsh pain flit across Greybrooke’s face for a moment, and her heart ached. Madness but even now, when she was at risk, she couldn’t help but feel her heart flutter at how beautiful Greybrooke was.

The Earl of Blackbriar watched the carriage approach, illuminated by the light of the torch. He had dark brown hair and his face was . . . exquisitely beautiful. With his high cheekbones, large eyes, and delicate chin, he looked like a carving of an angel done in marble. Lord Blackbriar was known for scholarly pursuits and his love of poetry. Never once, while she had been collecting the scandals of the
ton
for her Lady X column, had she found out anything sordid about Lord Blackbriar. Yet Greybrooke insisted the man was a monster.

Blackbriar was considered a bit reclusive. Neither he nor his wife attended
ton
events. Now she understood why—he had been keeping his wife like a prisoner.

Greybrooke and Blackbriar locked gazes through the glass. The tension grew so great in the carriage, she thought she would scream. “Greybrooke . . . don’t do anything rash.”

“Lecturing again,” Greybrooke said. “I’m afraid I’m too old to listen to governesses.”

The cold distance in his words hurt. But she’d lost him, hadn’t she? He knew she was a liar.

“Not to worry, Miss Winsome,” Caradon said. “I will take charge of Grey. I know this is painful for him, but Grey—” The duke turned to Greybrooke. “I intend to make certain you don’t lose control.”

“Just this once, Cary, I want to lose control.”

The carriage stopped and then rocked slightly as one of the outriding footmen jumped down, opened the door, put down the steps. Greybrooke leapt down. Caradon helped her down the steps as she saw Lord Blackbriar approach. Tears stained Blackbriar’s cheeks; his eyes were rimmed with red. Tall, slender, his shoulders shaking with grief, Caroline’s husband looked devastated.

He bowed, a quick jerk of his body. Greybrooke returned the gesture.

When he spoke, Blackbriar’s voice was deep, haunting—he was renowned for the compelling beauty of his voice when he read his poetry. “In death she is exquisite, Greybrooke,” the earl said gently. “With all her life gone, she glows with more beauty than ever before; she possesses an angel’s serenity, and she looks as if she is now free, soaring in heaven—”

Blackbriar broke off. His face changed. His mouth twisted, his eyes bulged. He’d gone from grieving husband to a man filled with livid fury. “The hell with it,” he snarled. “I thought you would want to see her, you bastard, since you were her lover.”

Helena expected rage. But Greybrooke coolly glared down his nose at Lord Blackbriar. “I do want to see her, but I was Caroline’s friend, nothing more.”

The two men circled each other on the step, like wolves waiting for the advantage. Blackbriar stood three inches shorter than Greybrooke. He had looked slender and bookish; now Helena noticed the wiry muscles bulging under his white shirt.

Blackbriar took a step back. “Come and see her first.”

Helena had lost her parents. She knew that after death there was usually a whirlwind of busyness, of things to be done. “Your house is so quiet, my lord,” she said, softly.

“The servants have been sent to their rooms under orders not to emerge until I ask for them. I did not want anything to be done before Greybrooke came to see the havoc he has wrought.”

“My lord—”

“Quiet. Do not bother to defend Greybrooke to me. Who are you anyway?”

“A lady. A friend,” Greybrooke said. “She was with me when I received the news. She came to prevent me from killing you the moment I set eyes on you.”

It startled her that Greybrooke was being circumspect about her identity. A kind thing to do to a woman who had admitted she’d spied on him.

Blackbriar sneered. How different he looked when he did that. Helena had seen boys who looked like that. They were petulant, self-important, the type who brooded, who plotted elaborate revenge over the smallest slight. She sensed she had the right idea of Blackbriar, and it matched what Greybrooke had told her. He wasn’t a gentle poet at all.

Greybrooke must be in great pain, and she wished there was a way she could take some of the pain from his heart.

The house was large, but the woodwork was dark and oppressive. Greybrooke’s house had the luxurious, decadent beauty of an Italian villa; Winterhaven House was all pastels and white mouldings and elegance. This house looked as if it were intended for death.

One wall sconce burned. Blackbriar had stuck his torch in a holder outside the house; inside he’d picked up a candle. It threw light on the stairs as they mounted them, but it didn’t ward off the sensation of being enveloped by icy blackness. They passed down a corridor of chocolate-brown paneling. Blackbriar stopped before a double door of dark oak, pushed one door open.

“Look at what you’ve done.” His voice was blacker, icier even than his house.

Greybrooke strode in, but when he reached the bed, his head bowed and his shoulders convulsed with grief. Helena stole up behind him. Only Caroline’s head showed. The counterpane was drawn up to her chin, as if to keep her warm. Her pale blond hair flowed around her, like the gilt halo surrounding a Renaissance angel.

“Caro, I’m sorry.” Greybrooke whispered the words, his voice cracking.

Helena couldn’t stand it—she gently touched his forearm. Without even looking at her, Greybrooke removed her hand from his sleeve.

Of course he didn’t want her touch.

“You should be sorry.” Blackbriar came to the bed, and the candlelight illuminated Caroline’s closed eyes and pale cheeks. “While my fingers searched in vain for my wife’s pulse, my gaze fastened upon this. A note, left on the table by her bed with your name written upon it. Not my name—not the name of the husband who cherished her. Instead the note she wrote—her very last words—were for the damned swine who impregnated her. Who destroyed her.”

Blackbriar held out a square of folded paper.
Greybrooke
was written on it, in shaky script.

“The child was not mine, Blackbriar.”

“Trying to convince me the bastard babe was mine, Greybrooke? Damned pitiable of you. My darling wife admitted it to me—”

“With your hands around her throat.” Gently, Greybrooke drew the gold-embroidered cover back. “With you crushing her windpipe, she would have admitted to anything you asked of her.”

Helena’s hand went to her lips in horror. Greenish-blue bruises ringed Lady Blackbriar’s delicate neck.

Blackbriar showed no expression. “I discovered my wife, the woman I revered and adored, had not been true to me, had betrayed me before providing me with a son. My rage was well justified. No one would deny I had the right to fury because my wife cuckolded me without doing her duty and giving me an heir.”

“No rage was justified. Caroline was a defenseless woman, and you attacked her.”

“She is my wife, my property—mine to chastise as I see fit. She provoked me with her infidelity, after I showed her nothing but love and devotion—”

“You hit her. I’ve seen the bruises.”

“Did you? My wife claimed that I struck her? That was not the truth, Greybrooke. She came home to me with mysterious bruises. I soon realized she had a lover—a lover willing to use his fists on her. To be honest, I thought you were responsible for beating her. She was so weak she continued to go back for more. I was preparing to call you out—to settle this over dueling pistols—when this tragedy happened.” Blackbriar drew up the covers, ran his fingers lovingly along his wife’s lifeless cheek. “It is well known you spent much time with my wife. No one would be surprised to discover the child was yours.”