River Of Fire (52 page)

Kenneth remembered that Frazier had been shocked and not particularly gracious when Sir Anthony announced the news. The firebomb had been thrown two days later. Frowning, he visualized the brief glimpse he had gotten of the arsonist. It could have been Frazier.

He pulled out his watch and checked the time. Not quite midnight. Late, but not too late to confront a murderer.

He wouldn't mind if Frazier resisted; it would be a pleasure to beat the truth out of a man who could kill an innocent woman. Nonetheless, he loaded the small, sleek pistol that he kept in his wardrobe and tucked it into an inside pocket. Frazier was not the sort who would fight fair if he could avoid it.

To a fast walker, it was only fifteen minutes to Frazier's house. No lights were visible, but Kenneth did not become concerned until he climbed the steps and reached for the knocker.

The knocker was gone.

He caught his breath as the anxiety he had been fighting for days erupted. Removing the knocker was the usual way of indicating that the owner was not in residence.

The bastard had left town.

Rebecca was glad they had reached Ravensbeck after dark, for it meant that fatigue dulled her grief at the return. Luckily, Kenneth had sent a message that arrived in time for the staff to have prepared the bedrooms and a hot supper. The travelers ate, then went straight to bed.

After an exhausted sleep, Rebecca woke early. She slid out of bed and went to the window. She had been coming to the Lakes her whole life. Even so, the first view after months of absence was always breathtaking. Mist lay in the valleys with only peaks of the rugged hills rising above, like islands in a cloudy sea.

Though she had lived most of her life in London, she was always happiest in the country. Fewer people, fewer problems, cleaner air, and less noise. It suddenly occurred to her that there was no reason not to stay at Ravensbeck all year round.

She turned the idea over in her mind consideringly. Her father and Lavinia would have the London house to themselves, which would be appropriate for a new marriage. As for herself, she would have no shortage of subjects to paint. The landscape was worthy of a lifetime's work, and the local residents had wonderful strong, weathered faces. It would be as interesting as doing portraits in London.

Best of all, she would not have to see Kenneth. He was well on his way to becoming established as an artist; if she lived in London, he would be hard to avoid.

Heart a little lighter, she went down for a breakfast of coddled eggs, toasted bread, and strong tea. Her father and Lavinia had not come down yet. She was glad, for she wanted to go on the first of two private pilgrimages.

After cutting a bouquet of spring flowers, she rode a pony down to the village. There she tethered her mount by the church and walked to her mother's grave. The grass had grown into a delicate green blanket in the past nine months. The headstone her father had designed had also been installed. It read, Helen Cosgrove

SEATON. 1768-1816. BELOVED WIFE, MOTHER, AND MUSE.

The words brought an almost unendurable stab of pain. Rebecca laid the flowers on the grave, then stood with her head bowed for a long time, hoping for a sense of her mother's presence. But she felt nothing except her own grief.

She whispered, "No more melancholia, Mama." Then she turned and walked away.

As she came within sight of her pony, she was surprised to see Lavinia standing by another of the Ravensbeck mounts.

"I didn't want to disturb you," Lavinia said quietly.

Rebecca smiled a little at the bouquet the other woman held. "The gardener is going to be very cross with us."

"We can tell him to plant flowers here to spare his garden." Lavinia hesitated. "You truly won't mind if I marry Anthony?"

"I truly won't," Rebecca assured her. "My father needs someone to take care of him when he becomes too involved with his work. It won't be me, since I'm no better."

"And of course you'll be marrying soon yourself."

Rebecca's face froze. "I doubt it."

The other woman's brows drew together. "The situation with Kenneth is that bad?"

"Yes," Rebecca said shortly. Not wanting to discuss Kenneth, she looked out across the vividly green valley. "Strange to think the Seaton family estate is less than ten miles away, yet I've never set foot in it. I met Lady Bowden this spring. She was nice in spite of the family feud."

"Margaret has always been a gracious lady. The feud is entirely by Bowden. I think Anthony would be glad to end it."

"You know Lord Bowden?"

"A little. He despises me." She smiled faintly. "He'll set another black mark against Anthony when we marry."

"The more fool he." Rebecca gave a parting nod and mounted her pony so Lavinia could have the same privacy she herself had wanted. Then she rode back to Ravensbeck. The first pilgrimage was over. Tomorrow she would make the second, more difficult one: to the cliff where her mother had died.

A ride in the black and maroon Royal Mail coaches made flogging look merciful. Dedicated entirely to rapid delivery of the mail, their creature comforts were nonexistent. The passengers were jammed together like herrings in a barrel, and stops for food were brief and infrequent. But passengers tolerated the discomfort because the Royal Mail was by far the fastest way to travel.

In a burst of extravagance brought on by his improving finances, Kenneth bought two seats for himself because the only way he would fit into the standard sixteen-inch width was if he were cut into pieces. The discomfort was worth it, for he would reach Kendal, the town nearest Ravensbeck, in a mere two days—only a day and a half after the Seatons themselves arrived.

Throughout the long journey, he told himself that he was starting at shadows. There was no reason to believe Frazier had gone to the Lake District to cause more trouble. So far, his campaign against Sir Anthony had been sporadic, to say the least.

But the amateur bomb that had set fire to Seaton House had seemed like a declaration of war. The risk that Rebecca might be caught in the crossfire was not one Kenneth wanted to take.

His anxiety built steadily as he traveled north. At Kendal's largest inn, he used his title and military manner shamelessly to hire the landlord's own horse. It was a powerful beast, easily able to carry Kenneth and his modest luggage. He set off immediately for Ravens-beck.

He had never been in the Lake District before, and he was fascinated by the desolate splendor of the countryside. On any other trip, he would have been stopping to admire the views, perhaps to sketch or do a swift watercolor. This time, he pushed on as quickly as he could. There would be time to enjoy the scenery after he knew Rebecca was safe.

Lady Bowden finished the last of her tea and set the cup down with a delicate chink of porcelain. Then she raised her head and regarded her husband gravely. "I'm told that Anthony and his daughter have arrived at Ravensbeck for the summer."

Bowden froze, his teacup halfway to his lips. "And what concern is that of yours, Margaret?"

Lady Bowden linked her hands in her lap. "It's a lovely day. I am going to drive over to Ravensbeck to offer my condolences on Helen's death, as I should have done last summer."

Her husband slammed down his cup. "We will have nothing to do with any member of that household!"

"Perhaps you will not, but I will," she said in a steely voice. "For all of the years of our marriage, I have ignored your obsession with Helen and your hatred for your brother, but no longer. Anthony and Helen fell in love and married. That was unmannerly, but hardly a crime. It was pure malice to hire that nice young man to try to prove that Anthony is a murderer."

His jaw dropped. "How did you learn about that?"

"Your own impatience gave it away." She got to her feet. "You never really knew Helen. She was a tempestuous woman who would have made you very uncomfortable. She had affairs, you know. Would you have wanted that in a wife? Hardly. It is time to stop mooning after her like a boy of seventeen."

He rose, sputtering, "I forbid you to go to Ravensbeck!"

"Will you hold me prisoner, my lord husband?" she asked with delicate sarcasm. "Will you bar me from my own house after I visit your brother? I don't think so."

"Have you been pining for Anthony all of these years?" he said savagely. "Visiting him secretly like his other whores?"

Her voice turned to ice. "Don't be an utter fool, Marcus. You can accompany me or not, but you cannot stop me."

She turned and left the room, her hands shaking. In all the years of her marriage, she had never tested her influence over her husband. It was quite possible she had exceeded whatever small power she had. But twenty-eight years was long enough to live in the shadow of another woman. It was time to gamble in the hopes of bringing her marriage into the sun.

Lord Bowden sank into his seat, feeling as if the floor beneath his feet had cracked and he was on the verge of falling into the abyss. How could Margaret betray him so?

Yet weren't his years of obsession for another woman a kind of betrayal of his wife? Occasionally he had seen Helen in the distance in London. He had stared avidly, wondering what their life would have been like if Anthony hadn't come between them. Yet if Margaret was right about Helen's temperament and affairs, it was true that he had never really known her.

He thought of Helen and her beauty, and realized that what he felt was not love but the memory of love. The woman of his dreams would not have abandoned him for another man. That woman existed only in his imagination.

Anthony and Helen fell in love and married. That was unmannerly, but hardly a crime.

If Anthony had caused Helen's death, it was certainly a crime. But had there been a murder? Once, he had been convinced of it. The missing portion of the gimmal ring that Kimball had discovered had seemed proof positive. Now he had to wonder. How much of his conviction had stemmed from a desire to punish Anthony for being Helen's choice?

Too much.

A spasm of pain ripped through him. Who in his life had brought him the greatest comfort and happiness? Margaret. He had known her since she was a sweet-natured infant. Through the years of their marriage, she had wrapped him in a cocoon of kindness and comfort. Now, in a handful of words, she had withdrawn the love and loyalty he had always taken for granted.