On a Wild Night (45 page)

It quickly became apparent that whoever the caller was, it wasn't anyone they'd expected; they listened as Joseph strove to get rid of the gentleman. But the voices behind the
wall only rose higher; Amanda frowned. The tone seemed familiar . . .

Then she heard her name. Realized who it was.

“Good God!” Reggie glanced at her. “Isn't that—?”

She snapped her mouth shut, surged to her feet. “I'll deal with this.”

By the time she reached the front hall, her temper was on a seriously strained leash. Joseph heard her coming, glanced around, then stepped back and left the field to her. Left her facing the gentleman who had forced his way into the front hall.

“Mr. Lytton-Smythe!” Eyes narrow, she drew herself up. “I believe you were asking for me?”

Any wise man hearing her tones would have turned tail and run. Percival tugged down his waistcoat and frowned at her. “Indeed.” He locked a hand about her wrist. “You will please me by leaving this house this instant!”

“What?”
Amanda recoiled. Percival was gentleman enough not to drag on her arm, but neither did he release her; he stepped further into the hall as she stepped back.

Amanda halted and glared at him. “Mr. Lytton-Symthe, you appear to have taken leave of your senses! What has got into you?”

“Nothing at all—I have merely reached the limit of my patience. I have been—I am sure anyone would agree—
extremely
forbearing. I have watched you play games with others”—he wagged a finger at her—“and not sought to curtail such lighthearted pastimes. A last fling before taking on the sober mantle of marriage was reasonable enough, and while I can excuse your motives in assisting the rehabilitation of a relative of close friends, I of course did my duty to ensure that no interaction of a scandalous nature could ensue.”

Amanda had been following his diatribe, absolutely astounded, but she fastened on that confession like a terrier. “Are you saying that
you
were the one who sent those girls out to Lady Arbuthnot's courtyard? And the other times—on the terrace at the Fortescues', and the Hamiltons' library? You thought to
avoid
scandal?”

Nose in the air, he nodded. She stared at him. “Why?”

“That ought to be obvious. I could not marry a lady whose reputation had been besmirched, however innocently. Now, given our agreement, I insist that you leave this house immediately. I'd heard you'd gone north, I assumed to visit relatives and so went to visit my aunt, only to learn on my return that you've been spending your time even more openly in Dexter's pocket. I will not stand for it. Now—”

“To which agreement are you referring, sir?”

Her tone finally penetrated; Percival stiffened. “To your agreement to marry me, of course.”

“Mr. Lytton-Symthe, I can with a clear conscience swear that I have
never,
not
ever,
given you the
slightest
encouragement to believe I would welcome your suit.”

Percival frowned at her as if she were splitting hairs. “Well, of course you haven't! Not the sort of thing a well-bred young lady would speak of—quite rightly, too. But I've made my position plain, and as there's no impediment to our marriage, there's no reason for you to say anything.”

Her eyes narrowed to slits. “Oh, yes, there is. If I intend to marry a man, I will tell him—you may be absolutely sure of that. I will tell him out loud, in plain words and without the slightest blush! I will make up my
own
mind who I will marry, and I will definitely voice my decision. If you'd done me the courtesy of asking, I would have told you that in your case, my answer was and will always remain: No.”

Percival continued to frown. “No? What do you mean: No?”

Amanda drew a long-suffering breath. “No, I will not marry you. No, I will not leave this house with you. No, I have not been playing games. How many more nos would you like?”

Percival's frown turned black. “You have had your head turned. Dexter is a regrettable influence. I insist you leave with me at once.”

“Aaaah!”
Amanda muted her scream through her teeth.

“It is clearly my duty to save you from yourself.” Percival started to tow her to the door. Despite his soft head, he was stronger than she; she jerked back, looking for a weapon—
her eye fell on a pewter jug standing on the table in the center of the hall.

With her free hand, she grabbed it, hefted it—realized it held liquid. Gave Percival, eyes fixed on the door, one last chance. “Let me go.”

“No.”

She flung the water at him—right at his head. It splashed, then cascaded down.

Percival stopped, shook his head, but his grip on her wrist only tightened. He turned to her.

She set her chin stubbornly. “Let me go.”

“No.”

Her temper erupted. She hit him on the side of the head with the jug—it gave a hugely satisfying clang. He staggered; his grip eased and she twisted her wrist free.

“You foolish woman! You have to come with me—” Percival lunged for her.

She hit him again. “No!” She waited until his eyes focused. “Get this through your thick skull: I do not want to marry you. I never did. I am not going to marry you. I've chosen a far better man. Now,
go!
” She pointed to the door.

He stepped toward her.

She clobbered him again.
“Out!”

He reeled in that direction; she helped him along with a thud on his shoulder.

“Go
away
!” She kept swinging the jug and he was forced to retreat. Joseph, eyes shining with admiration, held the door wide. Percival tried to make a stand on the threshold. Amanda thumped him again, then shoved him out. He stumbled down the steps.

She stood in the doorway and glared. “I would never marry a dolt who even
imagined
I didn't know my own mind!”

Slamming the door, she turned, nodded regally to Joseph and handed him the jug. “Mop up the water before someone slips.” She stalked toward the corridor to the library, and realized Martin had been standing in the shadows.

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Why didn't you help?”

He opened his eyes wide as he moved to let her pass. “I would have if you'd needed it, but you seemed to be managing perfectly well on your own.”

Inwardly astounded, she merely humphed and swept on. The man had actually learned that lesson? Gracious Heaven! Would wonders never cease.

She walked into the library to find Reggie and Luc doubled over with laughter. Her lips twitched, but she maintained her dignity.

Luc lifted his head and looked at her with more approval than he usually showed. “What the devil did you hit him with?”

“The jug on the hall table.”

That set them both off again. Resuming her position on the chaise, she glanced at the clock. Twenty minutes past the hour; the diary would have reached London and be on its way to them in Jules' care.

Luc considered her, then asked Martin what had happened in Lady Arbuthnot's courtyard. Martin suggested he mind his own business.

The diary would arrive before six. Sometime between then and now—

Voices reached them, muffled, but from inside the house. Mystified, they exchanged glances, then heard a barked order, and footsteps, bootsteps—more than one set—striding down the corridor—

Joseph was first through the door. “My lord—” He gestured helplessly and held open the door.

Martin and Luc were on their feet.

Lady Osbaldestone swept in.

“Aha!” Her black gaze swept them. “As I thought. Well enough, but you haven't adequately covered your rear.”

Martin stared, then lifted his gaze to the two gentlemen who entered in her wake—Devil and Vane Cynster.

Devil nodded, his gaze also taking in those present. “Much as it pains me to concur, I believe her ladyship's right.” He met Martin's gaze. “You need disinterested witnesses unconnected with your family.”

“We have Reggie,” Amanda pointed out.

Devil glanced at Reggie. “Judging by that bandage about his head, he can hardly be disinterested in bringing the man who wounded him to justice.”

Martin dismissed Joseph, then turned to the others. “What do you have in mind?” He glanced at the clock. “We have very little time, and if the villain is who we believe, he'll know this for a trap the instant he sets eyes on any of you.”

“Which is why we came via the back door.” Lady Osbaldestone had been examining the furnishings. “What a treasure trove you have here. However”—she looked down the room—“
that
is precisely what we need.”

With her cane, she pointed to a carved wooden screen of four hinged panels. Then she waved the cane at Devil and Vane, who promptly stepped back out of range. “You two—fetch it and set it just there.” The cane indicated a line angled away from the library windows. “The fool won't be coming via the courtyard, so he won't see us behind it. You may set that armchair behind the screen for me, and both of you may stand on either side.”

They all leapt to do her bidding—there was no time left to argue.

Luc set the chair in place, Martin helped her into it. Devil and Vane wrestled the heavy screen into place, then took up their positions behind it.

“Perfect!” Lady Osbaldestone's disembodied voice rose from behind the screen. “We can see the whole area before the fireplace through these tiny holes. Wonderfully sensible, those oriental pashas.”

Turning away, Martin and Luc exchanged glances. They returned to their positions and sat.

The front door bell pealed again.

The sound jangled through the house, jangled over their nerves. They didn't look at each other but listened intently, straining to hear.

A man spoke, his voice reduced to a rumble by the walls. Joseph answered, then, faintly at first, growing more definite, they heard footsteps approaching down the long corridor. Joseph, and one other.

Like a troupe of actors with the curtain swishing up, they masked their tension, relaxing against the chaise, in the chair, assuming expressions of calm anticipation.

The door opened; Joseph appeared. Amanda held her breath.

“Mr. Edward Ashford, my lord.”

Martin's expression showed nothing more than mild surprise as he rose from the chaise beside her. “Edward?” Martin extended a hand as Edward came forward, grasped Edward's without a glimmer of revulsion. “What can I do for you?”

Edward had noted them—Luc sprawled in the chair facing the hearth, Reggie on the chaise opposite Amanda. He looked at Martin. “Actually, I thought to be of some assistance here. Am I too late, then?”

It was Luc who answered, swivelling to look up at his brother. “Too late for what, Edward?”

Edward looked down at Luc; Amanda prayed Luc's dark eyes would conceal his true feelings.

Edward's expression remained supercilious. “I came to bear witness, of course.” His glance swept them again. “I would have thought it obvious, in light of the gravity of the crimes in question, old though they may be, that there ought to be . . . disinterested spectators here when Martin receives this diary.”

His tone carried his implication, the insinuation that the diary was a hoax, that Martin's innocence was a joke. Neither Martin nor Luc reacted; their faces remained impassive. Amanda bit her cheek against the urge to defend Martin; she forced herself to remain still.

It was Reggie who stiffened in outrage; she glanced at him as he shifted, disguising the reaction in a querulous movement.

Edward's gaze had gone to him; it lingered on his bandage. “You've met with an accident, Carmarthen.”

Stiffly, Reggie inclined his head.

“Sit down.” Resuming his position beside her, Martin waved Edward to the chaise next to Reggie—the only available seat, facing Martin, next to Luc.

“If you don't mind, I'll warm myself by the fire for a moment.” Edward stepped past Reggie to stand before the hearth. “It's deuced chilly outside.”

On the words, the doorbell rang. Voices sounded in the hall, then footsteps neared. A knock fell on the door. When Martin called, “Enter,” Jules came in, carrying a brown-paper-wrapped package done up with string.

Martin rose; Jules presented the package to him. “The old lady wished you well.”

Jules bowed, then withdrew.

Martin looked at the package, then tugged at the string. His face unreadable, he spread opened the paper, revealing the girlish diary with its fraying ribbons and faded roses. He let the paper fall, in so doing turning the book so the word “Sarah's” on the cover was visible to Edward.

Amanda glanced fleetingly at Edward; he was putting on a convincing performance of being merely—distantly—interested.

Facing the group before the hearth, Martin opened the diary, read the first page, then started turning pages, flicking to the later entries—

Edward stepped forward, wrenched the diary from Martin's grasp, and flung it facedown on the fire.

The flames flared. Amanda leapt up with a cry. Luc was on his feet, as was Reggie. Martin hadn't moved.

Amanda sank back, half kneeling on the chaise, her gaze on Edward's face. One thing to imagine, another to know. She glanced at the diary; the fire was greedily consuming the old, dry pages, turning them brown, then black.

“Edward?” Martin's voice was level, calm but cold. “Why did you do that?”

“It's obvious.” Facing them, standing squarely across the hearth, Edward lifted his chin haughtily; Amanda all but gaped at his dismissive, contemptuous stance. “You two—you never think of anyone but yourselves. Have you considered what pain you'll cause others by raking up this old matter—a crime that's been judged, paid for, the case long closed? The families—the Fulbridges, Ashfords and all our connections—finished with the scandal years ago. There's no purpose in pursuing the matter now. What can you hope to gain?”

His lip curled. “You”—with his chin he indicated Martin—“were judged and found wanting ten years ago. Regardless of whether you'd committed the crime, they all believed you had, so you paid, then, for your wildness. It was your own doing.” Edward shrugged. “You were deemed the right one to carry the burden of guilt.” His gaze raked their surrounds, the sumptuous, expensive decor. “You've managed. No reason you can't continue to bear the load. It'll be the best thing for the family.” Edward glanced at Amanda. “Even if it means you won't be able to have everything you want.”

Amanda knew just how a rabbit felt when facing a snake. She'd known Edward all her life; she could barely credit the coldness in his eyes.

“So,” Martin said. Edward looked back at him and Amanda breathed again. “You burned the diary because you
believe
I
should continue to bear the odium for a crime I didn't commit to spare the family further scandal.”

Edward's expression hardened. He nodded. “It's for the best.”

“Whose best, brother dear?” Luc ranged alongside Martin, blocking access to the door. “Are you sure you don't want the old scandal left alone because any thorough investigation will implicate you?”

Edward sneered. “Of course not. Everyone knows—”

“That when riding you invariably carry a crop.” Luc nodded. “Indeed. Just as we now know it was you who murdered Buxton—you who found him up on Froggatt Edge, who struggled with him and drove him to the lip, wielding your
crop
.”

For a moment, Edward's face blanked.

Luc's lips curved but his blue eyes were cold as the grave. “That's right, brother dear. The crop. Martin never had one, never needed one. You couldn't manage a horse without one. And that, all the family knows.”

Edward jerked as if Luc had struck him. His lips twisted oddly, then he refocused. “Nonsense! Anyone could have picked up a crop.” He glanced back at the diary, nearly reduced to ashes.

“Sarah never kept a diary, Edward.”

“Heh?” Edward jerked upright, blinked at Martin, then glanced back at the burnt book.

Amanda seized the moment to edge around the chaise.

Edward saw her, but looked at Martin. “What are you saying?”

“That there never was any real diary. We let it be known there was one, and that it identified the man who raped Sarah, the same man who killed Buxton to ensure he was never brought to answer for it—”

“To ensure his reputation, which even then was all he had, wasn't harmed,” Luc put in.

Martin waited, then said, “It was you, Edward, wasn't it? You who hurt Sarah . . .” For the first time, emotion glimmered in Martin's voice; rage glowed in his eyes. He stepped forward. Edward backed away—his boot hit the hearth.

“Can you even begin to imagine how she died?” Martin's voice steadily gained strength. “Or the pain Buxton must have suffered—before you finished him off.” He stepped closer. “Let alone the anguish you caused my mother, and my father, before they, too, died?” His tone lashed as he asked, “How many lives were ruined, Edward—all by you?”

Edward gasped, looked down. Amanda saw his chest swell.

Then he vaulted the chaise, landing beside her—he shoved the chaise into Martin and Luc. She screamed and turned to flee.

Edward grabbed a hank of her hair, cruelly yanked her back, twisted his hand until she whimpered in pain. He hauled her up to her toes against him.

Click!
From the corner of her eye, she glimpsed a sliver flash, then felt cold steel against her throat.

“Stand back!” Edward yelled as Martin and Luc surged to their feet. They teetered on the brink of lunging across the chaise, but stopped. Their faces, and that of Reggie behind them, registered their shock.

“That's right.”

She felt Edward nod.

“Stay where you are. You don't want your latest love to die, too, do you?”

Crash!

The sound was so startling it made them all jump—the boom echoed around the room.

“You dreadful boy! Your mother wouldn't believe her eyes could she see you now. How dare you, sirrah!” Lady Osbaldestone surged forward, the tap-tap of her cane loud on the boards. The screen behind which she'd been sitting lay rocking to one side; Devil and Vane were close on her heels.

Edward gaped, frozen, as she stormed toward him.

“You're a
worm
, same as your sire! Should have culled you at birth. You're a blot on your household escutcheon.” She halted a yard away. “Take
that!
”

Before anyone could blink, her cane sliced through the air and came down with a
thwack
on Edward's wrist.

“Yahhhh!”
He dropped the knife.

Martin and Luc launched themselves over the chaise.

Lady Osbaldestone got in one good lick with her cane as she closed a claw about Amanda's arm and yanked her free, dragging her to safety—helped on by a shove from Martin—as he and Luc wrestled Edward to the floor.

Reggie watched from the chaise, egging them on.

“Hah!” Sighting one of Edward's hands groping on the floor, Lady Osbaldestone stamped on it. “Sniveling coward!”

Devil forcibly drew them aside.

The door burst open. Jules, a scimitar gleaming in his hand, his expression ferocious, rushed in, followed by Joseph. Vane quickly crossed the room to reassure them.

It was over quickly; neither Martin nor Luc were in any mood to pull their punches. Battered and bloody, Edward lay snivelling on the floor as his brother and his cousin slowly rose to their feet.

Martin turned to Amanda; Lady Osbaldestone released her with a surreptitious push. Not that any push was necessary to send her into Martin's arms. He hugged her hard, then tipped her face up and examined her throat. “The bastard nicked you.”

Fury vibrated in his voice. “I can't feel a thing,” she lied. The cut was stinging, but stinging was a lot better than what might have been.

The reality suddenly hit her; she sagged against Martin, glad of his strength, his solidity. He looked across the room, nodding an affirmation to Jules that all was well. He and Joseph departed. Vane closed the door.

On the instant, a furious knocking, followed by the bell pealing incessantly, heralded what sounded like an invasion. Everyone in the library froze, listening, hoping Jules and Joseph could hold the line . . .

That hope proved futile.

Feminine tones, decidedly autocratic, penetrated the room. Amanda knew them well. She glanced at Devil, saw his jaw harden. He looked, pointedly, at Lady Osbaldestone. Who narrowed her eyes back.

“Wasn't me,” her ladyship declared. “Must be one of you two”—she waved her cane at Devil and Vane—“who can't keep his secrets.”

“We haven't even seen them since you grabbed us,” Vane growled.

The door opened; Honoria, Patience and Amelia swept in. Honoria's gaze swept the room. “Now
this
is more like it! Amanda, you are going to have an enormous job decorating all this before the wedding.”

Descending on her, Honoria hugged her without removing her from Martin's embrace. “Patience—here. She's been cut and it's bleeding.”

Honoria turned to Lady Osbaldestone, who, Martin now noticed, had paled; the old harridan allowed herself to be guided to a chair. Patience took over with Amanda, taking her to sit on a chair near the window so she could tend her wound. “We don't want any unslightly scars.”

Martin let Amanda go, and watched, amazed. They were only three women, yet . . . within seconds, they'd seized the whiphand.

Amelia had settled Reggie, also rather pale, back on the chaise. She inquired after the bellpull, then crossed to tug it; when Jules appeared she ordered warm water in a basin and cloth to tend her sister's cut. After glancing at Luc, she also ordered an ice pack.

Martin looked at his cousin. A large bruise was spreading over Luc's chiseled jaw. It was from a blow Edward had aimed at Martin; Luc had intercepted it.

After one pointed look at her spouse, Honoria had dispatched him to get a glass of something for Lady Osbaldestone. Vane had been similarly dealt with, and ordered to supply drinks to all others in need. From what Martin overheard, Honoria, Patience and Amelia had worked out their plan for themselves; they'd kept watch from a carriage in the lane beyond the courtyard wall. They'd heard Amanda's scream and come running.

Having had all his hostly duties usurped, Martin crossed to Luc, still standing over Edward, prone and moaning on the floor.

“Leave him.” Martin looked down at Edward. “If he moves, Lady Osbaldestone will just hammer him again.”