Ransomed Jewels (20 page)

Claire’s heart lurched in her chest. The necklace wasn’t there. Their only means of freeing Alex
wasn’t there
.

Chapter 26

Claire sank down on the nearest chair and watched while the major went through the other items. He opened the ledger next, although Claire hardly cared what Hunt had written down in the book. How could she? Nothing else scattered on the desk would save Alex. Even giving Roseneau every Huntingdon heirloom they could get their hands on wouldn’t save him. Only the Queen’s Blood would.

Claire watched with a growing sense of despair while the major gave the ledger a quick glance, then set it aside to search the large envelope.

Claire could tell it didn’t contain a necklace, but only papers. He pulled them out and laid them on the desk in front of him. From where she sat, they all looked like legal documents, probably deeds to properties Hunt’s family owned. He scanned each document, then laid it to the side when he was finished.

All but one.

She saw his reaction, the quick intake of breath that lifted his shoulders. A frown darkened his face as he read the paper. When he reached the bottom of the page, he shoved his chair back from the desk and stood. Barnaby stepped to the side to get out of his way.

The look on Barnaby’s face said that he was as confused by the wild glare in the major’s eyes as she was.

There was a look of utter disbelief on the major’s face. He walked to the window with the paper in his hand, and for several long seconds he didn’t move. Only read the document again and again.

Claire kept her gaze riveted on his tense body, waiting for some clue as to what he’d found.

He closed his eyes, as if he needed to block out the words he’d just read, then he slowly held out the paper.

Barnaby took it and read the words. His face turned white and his hands trembled.

“Bloody hell! What does this mean?”

The major shook his head, then moved his gaze to where Claire sat in the chair watching them.

Barnaby waved the paper in the air. “This can’t be right! Tell me it can’t!”

But the major didn’t tell him it couldn’t. Instead, he crossed back to the desk and opened the large book . . . the Bible.

Claire frowned as he lifted the cover and scanned the first page, then the next. He found what he was looking for on the third page, on the right hand side, in the lower third of the page. Claire could tell because that was where his gaze remained. That was where Barnaby’s gaze stopped. Then they both lifted their gazes from the page and stared at her.

The expression on Barnaby’s face was the same as it had been the night he’d come to tell her Hunt was dead. The major’s was different. Just as stark and threatening, but now filled with confusion and questions.

“Claire?”

Barnaby walked toward her, his movements slow and hesitant, almost as reluctant as someone on his way to the gallows. The news, whatever it was, was not good. She could see it on his face.

But she couldn’t focus on Barnaby. She could only stare at the man to whom she’d given herself last night. The man she’d trusted with her secret. Now he stood in the sunlight before the window, his features frozen as if chiseled from granite. His high cheekbones and angled jaw rigid and firm. His dark, thick brows framing eyes so deep a gray they almost seemed black. As they had last night. At the peak of his passion.

It was on him she focused. On him she drew the strength she knew she’d need to face whatever Barnaby intended to confront her with. On the man with the ruggedly handsome features and bronzed skin. With the broad chest and muscled arms. The man she knew she loved. The man she wanted to run to now and have wrap his arms around her and hold her. She knew she could face it then, whatever Barnaby was going to tell her. But he didn’t come to her. And she couldn’t go to him.

“Claire?”

She nodded her head and moved her gaze to where Barnaby stood. His features were strained, his complexion drained of all color. She clenched her hands in her lap and waited.

“Did you find the necklace?”

She asked the question even though she knew they hadn’t. She’d seen what they’d found. But asking somehow drew the attention away from the paper Barnaby held in his hand.

“We found . . . this.”

He held it out to her, and for a long moment, she simply stared at it.

She looked past her brother to the major. His gaze didn’t waver but locked onto hers while she reached for the paper. She finally took it from Barnaby and held it in her hand. Then slowly lowered her gaze.

She didn’t know what she’d expected. Her eyes read the letters, but her mind refused to decipher their meaning.

CERTIFICATE OF MARRIAGE

There was no elegant scrolling or ornately painted designs like on the marriage certificate she and Hunt had signed in the lengthy ceremony after their marriage. The paper seemed rustic and plain in its simplicity.

MARCH 16, 1838

Claire stared at the date. It meant nothing to her. She’d been barely ten years old then. And nothing remarkable had happened then except her mother had died and left her alone. Her gaze moved to the bottom of the page. To the bold script of her late husband’s.

BRANDON DURRANT, 10
^TH
MARQUESS OF HUNTINGDON

It was Hunt’s title. Hunt’s name. But how could his name be here?

Claire scanned further down the page. To the last line. Where a small word denoted the role of the signer. Such a small word with such an enormous meaning.

MARY ELIZABETH SMITHSON

Bride

Claire stared at the words. She read them over and over, thinking perhaps they’d change. They didn’t. The magnitude of their meaning loomed larger before her, enveloping her in a vast pit of darkness.

She fought to escape, but it was as if a blanket of cold spread over her, freezing her, preserving the ice that ran through her veins.

She was sure she should do something. Was certain something was expected of her, a specific reaction that was appropriate to this situation. But for the life of her, she couldn’t imagine what it might be.

How did one react when they found out the man they’d been married to wasn’t one’s husband after all?

She rose to her feet and separated herself from Barnaby and the major. She walked across the room and looked out the window. Everything seemed normal outside. How could that be?

“Claire?”

The major’s voice broke through the haze of confusion and roiling turmoil racing through her mind. He was close, she could hear he was, but he didn’t touch her.

She wanted to laugh. Perhaps he knew she didn’t want to be touched. That she’d shatter if he did. That she’d crumble into a million pieces with even the smallest gesture.

Except she knew she wouldn’t. There was too much anger in her to fall apart, too much rage and hurt. She could thank Hunt for that. For conditioning her to be such an expert at pretending her life was perfect when it was far from it.

“Claire? Do you know what the paper means?”

She jerked her head upward and leveled both him and Barnaby with the most livid glare she could muster. “Yes, Major. I’m well aware of what the paper means. It means it’s quite probable I’m not—”

“Excuse me, my lady,” Watkins said from the doorway. “But you have a visitor.”

“Tell whoever it is your mistress isn’t receiving,” Barnaby said in a gruff voice.

“Begging your pardon, sir, but I think this is important. The lady says she’s . . . the Marchioness of Huntingdon.”

Sam saw Claire stagger slightly and reached for her, but she held out her hand to stop him. She stepped away and anchored her hand against the wall as if she needed its support to steady herself.

None of them moved for several long seconds. Then, as if she’d regained control of her shattered emotions, she squared her shoulders and turned around. She looked first to her brother, then to him.

Sam fought the knot that formed deep in his gut and twisted painfully. There was a haunted and faraway look in her eyes. Her face was void of color. But when she brought her hands around in front of her, she looked unnaturally relaxed and composed.

“Watkins, show the . . .”

She swallowed hard and sucked in a shaky breath, the first visible sign of how difficult this was for her.

“. . . marchioness to the morning room and have tea served. Tell her I’ll be with her momentarily. See that she is made comfortable.”

“Yes, my lady.”

“You don’t have to go,” Linscott said when Watkins left the room. “I can take care of this.”

Her eyebrows shot up in dainty arches, then she smiled a placid smile. “She’s not some dust that can be swept under the carpet, Barn. She’s Hunt’s widow. She’s the Marchioness of Huntingdon.”

“And what the hell are you?”

A gaping silence filled the room. Barnaby had asked the question even Sam hadn’t wanted to consider. And for the first time in all the years he’d known Hunt, he hated him for what he’d done to her.

“Major,” she said, walking to the center of the room.

Her voice was strong, her words clipped. Sam was glad. He would much rather she strike out in anger than revert inward in quiet solitude.

“Have you gone through all the papers?”

“Yes.”

“What else is there for me to know?”

“Are you sure—”

She spun on him. “I’ve had enough surprises for one day. I would like to meet Huntingdon’s widow on at least somewhat equal footing.”

“Very well. Why don’t you sit down,” he said, pointing to the nearest chair. He expected her to argue, but she didn’t. She sat with her back rigidly straight and her hands clasped in her lap.

“The marriage papers seem in order. Hunt’s name along with a . . . Mary Elizabeth Smithson’s are also entered in the family Bible we found in the safe.”

“Were there children?”

Sam wanted to hold some of this back from her, but there was no way he could. “Yes.”

“How many?”

“Four. Two sons and two daughters.”

She sucked in a shaky breath, and Sam was reminded again of how difficult this was for her.

“His heir?”

“Jonathan Alexander Durrant, now the eleventh Marquess of Huntingdon. He should be nearing seventeen.”

“And the youngest?”

Sam knew what she was asking. “Claire, don’t.”

“How old is the youngest?”

“Five.”

He heard the strangled gasp and fought the urge to go to her.

“That is why . . . ?”

She didn’t finish her sentence, but Sam knew what she meant. That was why Hunt had never lain with her. That was why after seven years of marriage, she was still a virgin. Damn Hunt.

Damn him!

A pain hit Sam in the gut as if he’d been slammed by a fist. He’d been so wrong. Been so unfair to her. He’d thought it was her fault that she was still a virgin. Sam couldn’t believe that Hunt hadn’t wanted Claire in every way a man wants a woman. He couldn’t believe that Hunt’s life in private was so opposite the life he portrayed in public. And, Sam needed someone to blame. Someone other than his best friend. So he’d let himself believe that she was the one who’d barred him from her bed. But she wasn’t. It had been Hunt.

“It wasn’t your fault, Claire.”

Her angry gaze locked with his. “No, it wasn’t. But you were ready enough to blame me, Major. Weren’t you?”

She didn’t wait for his reaction, but bolted from the chair and walked to the door.

Chapter 27

Claire walked down the narrow hall that led to the morning room with angry, determined steps. For seven years, the woman behind that door had robbed her of every dream she’d ever had. For seven years, someone else had been given all the Marquess of Huntingdon’s love and affection, while Claire was left to live an empty shell of an existence.

Claire braced herself, ready to confront the thief who’d stolen everything from her. A fury unlike anything she’d ever battled raged full force.

“Claire.”

The major’s voice called out from behind her, but she didn’t stop. She marched forward and let him and Barnaby follow her.

When she neared the morning room, a liveried footman scrambled to open the door.

Claire clenched her teeth and stepped inside.

The woman Hunt had loved stood across the room. She had her back to Claire and wore a black gown, a stark reminder that she, even more than Claire, had the right to mourn Hunt. Claire was prepared to dislike her, was prepared to make her pay for every hurt Hunt had ever caused.

Then the woman turned, and Claire looked into eyes drowning in unfathomable sadness. Claire knew it would be impossible to hate her.

Although older than Claire, Hunt’s wife was one of the most beautiful women Claire had ever seen. She’d pulled her golden hair back from her face into a tight chignon, but delicate tendrils had fallen loose from beneath her black velvet bonnet to frame her face.

Her complexion was creamy white, her lips full, her eyes a magnificent shade of green. She had a face painters gave everything they owned for the honor of putting down on canvas.

For several long seconds they looked at each other in silence. Claire saw a depth of loneliness in Hunt’s widow’s eyes that reached deep into her soul. A loss Claire had never felt for the man who’d been her husband. Claire tried to speak but suddenly found herself unable to find the words. The woman across the room smiled tentatively.

“I wondered under what circumstances we would eventually meet,” the real Marchioness of Huntingdon said, her voice containing a hint of reserved nervousness. “But I never imagined it would be like this.”

Claire swayed at the woman’s soft, gentle voice and felt a hand press against the small of her back to steady her. She didn’t need to look to know the major stood next to her.

“You’ll have to forgive me,” Claire said, taking comfort in the major’s strength. “I’m at a disadvantage. Hunt failed to mention your existence to me.”

“I know. I’m sure there’s much Brandon did not mention.”

Claire glimpsed an honest regret in the woman’s eyes she wasn’t prepared to see.

“You must be Major Bennett,” the woman said, lifting her gaze to where the major stood. “Brandon spoke of you often. You’re exactly as he described you. He was very fond of you.”

Sam nodded. The woman turned to Barnaby. “And you must be Lord Barnaby. The marquess told me he’d chosen wisely and repeatedly commented how much he admired you.”

Barnaby nodded curtly, but showed no sign of softening.

“Allow me to introduce myself. My name is—”

She stopped. She smiled slightly, then breathed a heavy sigh when she looked at Claire. “This is not easy. I so wish Brandon would have prepared you.”

“I’m not sure how he could have prepared me to meet his wife. Mary, isn’t it?”

There was a look of surprise on Mary’s face before she said, “I see you found Brand’s secret hiding place. The safe hidden in the wall.”

“Yes. We found it. You can imagine my shock when I discovered your marriage certificate there.”

“Yes. I can imagine. I apologize for that. Brand never intended to deceive you as long as he did.”

“Then why did he? Why did he have to deceive me at all?”

“For our son.”

Claire reeled at the admission. She knew Hunt had a son—the major had already told her—but hearing it said so bluntly stole her breath.

She stepped away from the center of the room. Away from where the major stood ready to reach out to her. Away from where Barnaby stood, ready to comfort her however he could. She didn’t need them. She needed to face this on her own.

She walked to where the tea service had been set up and leaned against the table until she’d composed herself, then turned to face her adversary.

“Please, sit down, Lady . . . Lady Huntingdon,” Claire said. The words caused a lump in her throat.

Lady Huntingdon took the chair Claire indicated, then turned her attention to Sam. “You were with Brandon when he died, weren’t you, Major?”

“Yes.”

Hunt’s widow lowered her tear-filled gaze to her lap. “Did he suffer at the end?” Her soft voice broke. She dabbed at her eyes, then raised her gaze to meet Sam directly.

“No.”

“I’m glad.”

Lady Huntingdon cleared her throat as if composing herself, then turned to where Claire sat on the sofa opposite her.

“I’m sorry it took me so long before I came to see you, but I didn’t know until a few weeks ago that Brandon was . . . gone.”

“How did you find out?” the major asked, moving closer to Claire. He sat on the sofa next to her, his thigh touching her as if he wanted her to know he was there for her. Barnaby sat on her other side.

“When Brand left us that last time, he said he’d be gone at least a month, if not two.” She smiled. “It wasn’t unusual for him to be detained longer once he came to London. But when three months went by and he still didn’t return, I became worried. I sent Parker, Brandon’s servant, to London. He’s the only one who knew Brand’s real identity. As you have probably realized, our relationship was a secret Brand guarded closely.”

Barnaby sat forward in his chair and spoke for the first time. “No one suspected who you really were?”

Lady Huntingdon smiled. “Everyone
knew
who we were. Lord and Lady Granville. My husband was rumored to have some position with the government, or perhaps it was a position with a solicitor, or perhaps a connection to a large shipping firm, or”—she smiled—“whatever fantasy Brandon invented that kept him away from home for long periods of time. We lived such ordinary lives, no one paid much attention to our comings and goings.”

“You have to excuse my bluntness, Lady . . . Lady . . .” Claire tried to finish, but couldn’t.

“Please, call me Mary. And I will call you Claire if you don’t object. Because that is how Brandon always referred to you.”

Claire squeezed her eyes shut tight, trying to accustom herself to this nightmare. “Very well, Mary. You’ll have to excuse my bluntness, but I . . . I . . .”

Mary smiled. “You deserve an explanation.”

The Marchioness of Huntingdon—the
real
Marchioness of Huntingdon—rose from her chair and separated herself from where Claire and the major and Barnaby sat. With a soft, gentle voice, she began.

“I met Brand when I was nineteen. My parents were actors and we were playing in London. One night Brand and a group of his friends came to one of the performances. He came backstage after the performance and asked me to join him for dinner. I found out later he did it on a dare. Not a very romantic beginning,” she said, glancing at Claire, “but I think we fell in love that night. I know I did.

“It wasn’t long before Brand was talking marriage. I knew from the start a future together was impossible. He was a marquess, heir to a dukedom. I was an actress. I knew his father wouldn’t allow his only son to marry me. But Brand was so optimistic. He wouldn’t listen to anything I said. Then I discovered I was pregnant.”

Mary ran a small gloved hand over the edge of the marble mantel on the fireplace. “I would have been content to be Brand’s mistress, as long as we could be together. You see,” she said with a faraway look in her eyes, “we both realized how impossible it would be to live without each other. For weeks, every time Brand brought up marriage, I refused. I told him I wasn’t interested in his title. That all that mattered was that we were together.

“But Brand wouldn’t consider any arrangement other than marriage. He was so confident that when his father found out I was carrying the next Bridgemont heir, he’d agree to our marriage. But of course those were just the idealistic dreams of youth. When His Grace found out, he became livid. He refused to even consider allowing his son to marry an actress.

“Brandon put up every argument imaginable. He even arranged a surprise meeting between us, sure that when his father met me, he couldn’t help but welcome me as a daughter-in-law. The meeting was a disaster.

“The Duke of Bridgemont publicly rejected me and announced to all in attendance that he would never despoil the Bridgemont name by allowing his son marry a fortune-seeking harlot. That he’d disown Brand first and let the title be passed down to a distant cousin. So Brand and I did the only thing left to assure our son wasn’t born a bastard. We married secretly.”

Mary paced the room. “We were so young then. So naïve. Brand was only twenty-five and I was just nineteen. Brand was convinced that in time his father would change his mind about me. If not, he was content to wait until his father died and he became the next Duke of Bridgemont.

“So, we moved to an estate Brand bought under our new assumed name, and for nearly seventeen years, we’ve kept our marriage a secret.”

Claire clutched her hands in her lap until they ached. “Why did he marry me? What possible reason could he have had, knowing he was committing bigamy?”

“The Bridgemont title. The estates. Everything that went with the name. His father was tired of waiting for Brand to provide him with an heir and threatened to disown him if he didn’t marry you.”

Claire reached out. The major’s hand was suddenly there. Claire held on to him as if he were the lifeline she needed to survive this.

“Somehow, his father found out about us. Not that we were married. He assumed Brand was keeping me as his mistress. Of course, his father didn’t have any qualms about that as long as he married you to provide him with a legal heir.

“I begged him not to go through with it. I told him I didn’t care about the wealth or the estates. That I would be happy with whatever he provided. And I truly believe until the last second, he didn’t intend to go through with his marriage to you. He’d resigned himself to giving it all up. But one thing stopped him. His one weakness. His Achilles heel.”

“Of course,” Claire said, feeling a bitterness she couldn’t fight. “His title was too important to him.”

“No. His
son
was too important to him. Jonathan Alexander, Brandon’s heir. He couldn’t throw his son’s inheritance away just to spite his father.”

“So, he offered me up as a sacrifice,” Claire choked out. “He married the woman his father demanded he marry . . . a woman he didn’t want, a woman he wasn’t legally free to have, so he could protect his son’s inheritance. Why didn’t he just tell his father he already had an heir?”

“Because he knew the duke wouldn’t allow an actress’s son to inherit the Bridgemont title. It may still turn out that way. The Duke of Bridgemont may still decide to disown Brandon’s son once he finds out about him.”

Mary stood in front of them, her back straight, her head high. “I regret it’s turned out this way. I even considered never revealing my marriage to Brand. But I never really had a choice. I had to do what was best for my son.

“Jonathan is the Marquess of Huntingdon, the Duke of Bridgemont’s legal heir. Every choice Brand made was to ensure his son would one day inherit that title. He would have expected me to follow through in his place.”

Claire rose to her feet and moved to the opposite side of the room. She needed to think. She needed to separate herself from Hunt’s wife. She stood stock-still with her back to the room and her eyes staring out the window, seeing nothing.

As if the major knew how difficult this was for her, he stepped up beside her. “Are you all right?” he whispered, placing his hands on her shoulders.

Claire nodded, then forced herself to stand steady when he released her.

The major turned to where Mary stood. “Did Hunt give you anything when he returned from France? Did he leave anything with you for safekeeping?”

The major’s question fired through Claire with the force of a gunshot. She turned, waiting for Mary’s answer.

“He always brought things with him when he came, gifts for the children, papers to work on while he was visiting.”

“Did he bring any papers with him when he came that last time?”

“Yes. I have them out in the carriage. I packed everything in my trunks in case there was something of importance.”

“Watkins,” Claire said, rushing to the door. “Have Lady Huntingdon’s trunks brought inside and have them taken to the blue guest room. Then, send Tilly down to show Lady Huntingdon upstairs.”

The major’s face turned hard. Claire knew as well as he that there was a good chance the papers Hunt had taken were in one of Mary’s trunks. And the necklace. The necklace that would save Alex’s life.

“You will, of course, stay here,” Claire said to Lady Huntingdon.

“That’s not necessary.”

“Yes, it is.”

“Thank you.”

“Tilly,” she said when the servant entered, “show Lady Huntingdon to the blue guest room and unpack her trunks.” She turned back to Mary. “I’ll be up momentarily to see you settled.”

Claire watched Mary follow Tilly from the room, then turned to see what course the major intended to take.

“Linscott,” the major ordered, “take a message to McCormick. Tell him to stand ready. Tell him not to let Roseneau out of his sight.”

Barnaby was already near the door when he stopped. “Do you think she has them?”

“Yes. That’s what he meant with his last words. ‘My marchioness has them.’”

Barnaby paused. “The Russian emissary is scheduled to arrive tomorrow evening. It doesn’t give us much time to discover the traitor’s identity.”

There was a grim expression on the major’s face. “Tell McCormick I’ll send word the minute I know anything.”

Barnaby nodded then left the room, leaving Claire to battle the major by herself.