Scandalous (11 page)

Priscilla's eyes flashed. “The English were a free people with guaranteed rights before your country was even a nation! Americans think they invented the concept simply because they got rid of a monarchy. But where do you think you people got all your fine ideas about freedom? From our Magna Carta and the English Bill of Rights, that's where.”

He chuckled, holding up his hands, palm out, as if in defense. “All right, all right, don't eat me. I am sure the English are a fine people, perfectly free to do
as they please. That lad seems to be a different story, however.”

Priscilla sighed. “He is the only son, the only heir. His mother has always overmanaged and overprotected him. His father was something of a bully, too. I imagine that's why he was forever here with Gid.” She smiled fondly. “They were a wild pair, always up to some mischief or other.”

John gazed at her for a moment, then asked softly, “Is he your beau?”

“My what?” Priscilla's eyes widened. “You're joking, surely.”

He shook his head.

“Of all the idiotic things… Of course he is not my beau. Why, he's only twenty, the same age as Gidrey, and I am twenty-four.”

John shrugged. “Many a young man has had an infatuation with an older woman.”

“That is not the case with Alec and me,” Priscilla said huffily.

“For you, perhaps, but I'm not so sure that the young man in question feels the same.”

“You are mad. Alec thinks of me as an older sister. He brings his problems to me, but I promise you that he has no deeper affection.” Priscilla returned to her sewing, jamming her needle into the cloth and pulling it through with short, sharp movements.

He watched her for a moment, a smile playing about his lips, enjoying the flush of color upon Priscilla's cheeks and the sparkle that irritation brought to her eyes. He had been teasing her, more than anything else, but he had been aware of a distinct feeling of jealousy as he watched Priscilla and the young heir talking. He did not,
he realized, like the idea that another man might have feelings for Priscilla— No, more than that, what really pricked at him was the fact that Priscilla was so at ease with the lad, and so openly fond of him. Perhaps she did only look upon him as another brother, but still…

He did not like the way his thoughts were turning, so he cast about in his mind for another topic, one that would have Priscilla talking to him again instead of jabbing her needle through the cloth as if she were attacking someone.

“Tell me about this other heir,” he said. “The one that has young Alec dangling.”

“Lynden?” Priscilla looked up. Her tone was cool, but he could see the light of interest in her eyes. “He was Alec's half brother, the son the duke had with his first wife. I never knew the man. He left the area before I was born.”

“But I suspect you know about him. There were bound to have been stories. The heir to the Duke leaves, never to return…must have caused a firestorm of gossip.”

“I'm sure it did. It is one of our most famous local legends.” Her eyes beginning to sparkle, she smiled with the enthusiasm of a natural storyteller. “You see, the reason he left was…murder.”

“M
URDER
!” J
OHN REPEATED, SURPRISED.
“He killed someone?”

Priscilla nodded. “So they say. It was never proved, of course. Never even pursued, really, once he had fled the country.”

“What happened? Who did he kill?”

“Well, the story goes like this. Ranleigh's son was young, only nineteen or twenty, and a very handsome, charming young man, they say. He was up at Oxford, but he was home visiting between terms, with a friend. Apparently he was whiling away his time while home by seeing one of the local girls, one Rose Childs, who was a chambermaid at Ranleigh Court.”

“Ah…”

“Quite. She had boasted to some of her friends about the handsome young lord she was seeing, saying he was head over heels in love with her. Only the weekend before, she had visited at home and hinted broadly to her mother and brother that she had ‘expectations.' Her brother told her she was daft if she thought a nobleman was going to marry the likes of her, and she said that he might not have any choice. A few days later, she sneaked out of the house. No one saw her go. When dawn came, she was not back at Ranleigh Court, and it was obvious that her bed had not been slept in. But her mother and
brother said that she had not gone there, either. They started a search for her. And found her dead in Lady's Woods. Strangled.”

John raised his eyebrows. “Quite a story. But how did they know that it was this Lynden fellow who had done it? From what you said, it did not sound as if she had actually named him as her lover. And why would it have to be her lover, anyway?”

“No one besides her lover seemed to have any reason to kill her. They did an autopsy on her afterward, and they discovered that she was pregnant. That gave a lover a pretty powerful reason. She must have told him she was pregnant, perhaps even pressured him to marry her, from what she said to her brother, and they got into a quarrel. He wound up strangling her. And Lynden was the only handsome young lord around, except, of course, for his cousin, Evesham, who was fairly young also, but one could scarcely call him handsome. Besides, all the servants at the Court knew that Lynden had been sneaking out of the house frequently, coming and going at odd times and acting as if he did not want to be seen. It was pretty obvious that something was going on.”

“Still, it hardly sounds enough to condemn a duke's son.”

“I am sure the local constable was loath to arrest him. But there was damning proof, not just gossip. Near the body, they found a fragment of a ruby necklace or bracelet, as well as another loose ruby. It had obviously been torn from a larger piece of jewelry. Everyone knew about the Ranleigh Rubies.”

She paused dramatically, and John smiled. “That is my cue to say, ‘What are the Ranleigh Rubies?' Correct?”

“Of course.” Priscilla smiled. “The rubies were a family heirloom of the dukes of Ranleigh. They had been in the family since the days of Queen Elizabeth. The legend is that the first Ranleigh, who was one of those dashing Elizabethan corsairs, seized them from a Spanish ship. They had been intended for a wedding present for some Spanish nobleman. Ranleigh gave Queen Elizabeth a lovely set of emerald earrings from the same shipment, but he never showed her the ruby necklace, bracelet and earring set. Instead, he gave them quietly to the woman he was wooing, who apparently was a proper little snob, not to mention foolish, for after they were married she wore them in front of the queen herself. The queen was furious that he had not given her the most beautiful jewels in his haul, and Ranleigh spent the next two years cooling his heels in the Tower. He was lucky he didn't lose his head. Anyway, the rubies have all sorts of stories attached to them. There is the tale of the duke during the time of Charles II who let his mistress wear them instead of his wife, and who was later mysteriously injured in a fall at his country estate and spent the rest of his life a helpless invalid, dependent upon his wife. Or the Ranleigh who gambled away almost his entire fortune in a heavy night of cards and finally used the ruby set as a wager, won the game, and subsequently won back everything he had lost and more.”

“Quite a history.” He grinned at Priscilla. “You know how to tell a story.”

“Why, thank you.” Priscilla felt inordinately pleased at the compliment. “At any rate, the rubies were very famous stones, and all the people hereabouts knew about them. So when they found the rubies beside her body,
especially given the rumors about her and Lynden, the constable could not ignore the possibility that Lynden was the one who had killed her. They went to Ranleigh Court and spoke to the Duke. He was incensed, of course, that they would even suspect his son, but when they showed him the rubies, he was stunned. He recognized them, you see, though he continued to maintain that it was impossible. However, he went to the safe where he kept them and, sure enough, the ruby necklace was missing. He sent for his son, and the constable asked where Lynden had been the night of the murder. Lynden said he had been in his room alone. Yet one of the stablehands had already told them that Lynden had him saddle a horse for him that evening, that he had left and had not returned to the stable until quite early the next morning, when the stable lads were first arising. It was terribly damning.”

“I can see that. So he ran away?”

“Not immediately. He protested that he was innocent, but he refused to tell them where he had been the night before. The Duke, who had a wicked temper, was practically apoplectic. Then the friend—the one who was spending the school holidays with Lynden at Ranleigh Court—stepped forward and said that Lynden had been with him the night of the murder, that he and Lynden had ridden to Harswell to play cards and drink until quite late. So he could not have killed her.”

John's brows rose. “He lied for him?”

“No one knows. He maintained that they were together, which obviously was to Lynden's benefit. Since he said they were alone, there was no one else who could confirm or deny it. But with the alibi he provided,
and with no more evidence than the constable had, it effectively killed the case.”

“Then why did the son disappear?”

“While the old Duke was grateful for the alibi, which saved the family name from the scandal of a trial, he did not really believe the friend. Everyone says that the Duke and Lynden had an enormous quarrel that evening. He was a very strait-laced man, and very proud, and he and his son had never gotten along. Apparently they shouted and raged, and Ranleigh struck his son. Then Lynden tore out of the Court, vowing never to see his father again. And he did not. He packed his bags and rode off into the night, and he hasn't been heard from since. Not even a letter. Lynden's mother was dead, and the old Duke remarried a few years later. He was sure his son was dead, and he wanted another heir.”

“Alec.”

“Yes. The old Duke always referred to his oldest son as being dead, and he even insisted on calling Alec Lynden. Most people did it to please the old man, but, of course, it isn't truly his title. Nor is the dukedom, until they resolve the matter.”

“How will they do that?”

“I'm not sure.” Priscilla shrugged. “Through the courts, I guess—have Lynden declared legally dead or something. But that will probably take years.”

“And in the meantime, poor Alec cannot inherit.”

“Not the title,” she agreed. “But he got the bulk of what money the old Duke had. Ranleigh left that to Alec outright. It wasn't entailed like the land, you see, so he could leave it to whomever he wished. It is not nearly as valuable nor as important as the land and title, of course. But Alec doesn't much care, really. He has enough for
his horses and hounds, and he has little feeling for the land. You heard him. He would rather not have the responsibility of being the Duke of Ranleigh.”

“I can understand that. It sounds as if it rather cuts into one's freedom. I don't think I should care for it much, either.”

“He hasn't much choice, really.”

“Mm…I guess not. Whatever happened to the other son, do you suppose?”

“No one knows. No one has heard anything from him since he left. Some say he went to the Continent, others to the colonies. Everyone suspects that he died or he would eventually have written.”

“Or perhaps he got knocked over the head and has no idea who he used to be,” John put in wryly.

Priscilla smiled at him with sympathy. “Surely that sort of thing isn't permanent.”

“I certainly hope not.” He got up and began to wander restlessly about. “How could a person forget everything about his life? It doesn't seem possible, does it?” He stopped and gazed out the window, as if something in the garden might hold the key to his mystery. “I can understand forgetting a short while—the day it happened, say. But how could I possibly forget my own name? Or where I live?”

“Yet it happened. Papa found an article about it in one of his books. He read that the memory often comes back.”

“All of it?”

“Yes, I think so. Sometimes only partially.”

“Even that would be better than this blank I have now.” He paused, still gazing out the window. “If only I
had something with me—my clothes, a watch, anything that would jog my memory…”

Suddenly he straightened, his eyes narrowing. “Wait! I have it!”

“What?”

“What if I returned to that shack? Perhaps if I looked at it again, saw it from the outside, in the daylight, I would remember something about how I got there. How I got injured. Perhaps there might even be something of mine there.”

Priscilla's interest was aroused. “It sounds reasonable. It would be worth trying, at any rate. The only problem is, how do we find the shack? Could you retrace your steps?”

He frowned. “No. It was dark, and I was running a lot of the time.”

“How long did it take you to get from there to here?”

“I don't know. An hour or two, maybe. But I was so disoriented, I could have been running around this house in circles several times before I finally stumbled on it.”

“Do you remember anything about the landscape that you passed through?”

“A lot of trees. That was the main thing. There was a patch of dense, thorny bushes that I skirted—that was when I stumbled on the path that led to your house.”

“I know where that is,” Priscilla exclaimed. “It's south of here. If you follow the path to Chalcomb Manor, you pass Wyfield Meadow. There's a thicket of thornbushes on the edge of the woods there.” She jumped to her feet. “Let's go.”

“What?”

“There's plenty of daylight left.” Priscilla glanced out the window, as if to demonstrate her point. “It is not more than two or three o'clock. We can walk to the thicket, because I know where that is, and you can edge around it, going back the same way that you think you came the other night. We will have a much better idea where your hideaway was.”

She started toward the hall to get her bonnet. Wolfe followed her, protesting, “No, wait. Don't go off half-cocked. I don't think you should go. It could be dangerous.”

“Are you on about those men again? I told you, nothing happened to me on the way to the village, and I saw no sign of them.”

“Yes, but you were not with me. They might not have been absolutely sure that I was at your house, and they didn't want to draw attention to themselves or get into trouble for accosting a genteel young lady. So they hid and watched. But we know that they suspect this house and that they are nearby, because they broke into the house last night. If they actually see me, they might be willing to risk harming you in order to get me.”

“Mr. Wolfe, really…I think you overestimate your importance to these men, as well as their vigilance. Do you honestly think they are out there right now, hiding behind some bush or other, spying on our house?”

He shrugged. “It's possible.”

“I think you are starting at shadows, Mr. Wolfe. If they were watching the front of the house, they could not see us leave by the back, which is the way we go to get to that path. Besides, I don't think they even come out by day. It is my guess that they are night creatures. That was when they came yesterday, and it seems much
more suited to their way. Secretive and dark. Someone walking down the road or going into the garden might see them in the day. Besides, they have to rest sometime, if they're running about the countryside at night, chasing people and breaking into houses.”

“I am not starting at shadows, as you say,” he replied grimly. “You may be right that they are not out there watching the house. I don't know where they are or what they are doing. But I can hardly risk your safety on what I don't know.”

“Then how do you propose to find this shack that you think will jog your memory? Sitting here wishing will hardly make it appear.”

He flushed a little. “I am well aware of that, Miss Hamilton. I had no intention of staying here. I am merely saying that I will find the shack on my own.
You
will stay here.”

Priscilla rolled her eyes. “Of course. That makes perfect sense. You, who are a foreigner and know nothing of this place, will go roaming about, trying to find something, whilst I, who was born and reared right here at Evermere Cottage, will sit at home and twiddle my thumbs.”

He grimaced, recognizing the validity of her remarks, much as he disliked the thought of exposing her to danger.

Priscilla, seeing his indecision, pressed on. “Besides, you will be along for protection, will you not?” She cast a mock-innocent glance up at his face. “Or do you think you could not protect me?”

“You minx,” he retorted, without heat. “Yes, in the normal course of things, I can protect you. But I'd feel a hell of a lot more confident if I had my gun.”

“
Your
gun?”

He looked at her, his eyebrows rising as he caught her meaning. “I did say that, didn't I? My gun.” He considered the thought for a moment. “I'm not sure. But I do feel as if I own one. Now, what it looks like, I have no idea—no picture comes to mind at the words.”