Seven Nights in a Rogue's Bed (34 page)

“He’s not like that. If you knew him as I do…”

“Listen to yourself! You sound so inane. Jonas Merrick set himself to ruining William and everyone associated with him. Confound him, he’s succeeded. William’s dead after seeing every enterprise ruined. I’m so debt-ridden, I’ll never hold my head up in public again. And he’s convinced you that he’s some kind of knight in shining armor. Fit revenge on all of us, wouldn’t you say? ”

Sidonie wouldn’t listen to this calumny against the man she loved. “He had every right to hate William. William scarred him.”

Even before she spoke, Roberta’s calmness indicated that this was no revelation. “I know. Which gives him every reason to destroy any connection of William’s.”

Sidonie felt sick and faint. She loved her sister but sometimes the changes wrought in her over the last years left her staggering in horror. Roberta hardly seemed to care that her husband had disfigured a younger boy from sheer spite. “You never told me about Jonas’s scars.”

“It’s hardly something one boasts of.” Roberta paused. “And it’s all so long ago, isn’t it?”

Except it wasn’t. Jonas had suffered all his life for what his cousin had done. Roberta sighed with impatience. “I suppose you think his scars are romantic. You spend too much time with your nose buried in a book. Honestly, Sidonie, I thought you of all women would have more sense. The man is incapable of finer feeling. After all,
he set out to seduce me and then had no compunction in depriving you of your virginity.”

The gorge rose in Sidonie’s throat. Hearing Roberta speak was like viewing the week at Castle Craven through a distorting mirror. Sidonie refused to listen to her poisonous insinuations. Roberta was wrong. Sidonie knew Jonas. She knew the attraction flaring between them had ambushed him, too. Hadn’t he asked her to marry him? The feelings between them were strong and genuine. She must believe that. If she loved him, she had to trust him.

Which meant, astonishingly, she’d decided to accept his proposal.

Heavens, what a change in a woman once determined to lead her life alone and independent. Sidonie Forsythe was about to do the unthinkable and surrender herself to a man in matrimony.

Roberta surveyed her with a troubled scowl. “What is it, Sidonie? You have the most bizarre look on your face.”

Sidonie shook her head. This morning, she’d hoped to tell Roberta that Jonas was the rightful Viscount, warn her before Jonas used the marriage lines to claim the title. Roberta’s difficult humor discouraged sharing such unwelcome news. How she wished she’d told Jonas yesterday, but in the confusion and panic after William’s fall, she’d thought only of concealing Roberta’s crime.

She hoped that when she revealed everything to Jonas, he wasn’t so angry that he withdrew his proposal. She could write to him, she supposed, but that seemed a cowardly method of handling this last secret dividing them. It was only a couple of days delay, after all. Once William was buried, she’d go to Jonas as she’d gone to him at Castle Craven. She’d give him the marriage lines, then tell
him that she loved him and wanted to be his wife. Surely he’d know that her acceptance was unrelated to his new status. Good God, she loved Jonas Merrick so much, she’d marry him if he came to her a pauper.

The next days passed in a flurry of activity as Sidonie handled funeral arrangements, the estate, her sister, and her nephews who arrived home from school. Neither boy seemed overly upset to hear of their father’s end. Roberta remained of little assistance. She mainly stayed in her room wallowing in a fog of laudanum. Her complete collapse fortified the impression that she was a grieving widow. After their acrimonious encounter the morning after William’s death, Sidonie was grateful that her sister remained largely uninvolved in practical matters at Barstowe Hall.

Soon the story Jonas concocted was so widely accepted that Sidonie almost believed William had jumped to his death to avoid the shame of bankruptcy. Sidonie’s ever-present fear of her sister’s arrest subsided to a distant hum. It appeared Jonas was right and they would make it through. Those nightmarish seconds when Roberta shoved her husband down the stairs might never have occurred.

Sidonie had originally hoped to escape to tell Jonas about the marriage lines. But she’d quickly realized that to avoid suspicion falling on him, it was better to have no open contact between Ferney and Barstowe Hall for the present.

Sidonie supported Roberta’s faltering progress down the aisle of the village church after William’s funeral service. The sickly scent of lilies procured at great expense
from London had her head aching—or perhaps she had a headache because of Roberta’s generous hand with attar of roses.

She blinked eyes scratchy with exhaustion. No matter how weary she was when she collapsed into bed, she couldn’t sleep. It was odd; she’d slept alone for twenty-four years and only shared Jonas Merrick’s bed for a matter of days. But it seemed wrong not to lie in his arms at night and wake to his presence in the morning.

The church was crowded with local gentry, tenants, and a few of William’s London acquaintances. Nobody seemed particularly cast down. But then William had devoted most of his tenure as viscount to quarreling with his neighbors and embroiling them in pointless legal disputes. Not one soul genuinely regretted his absence. What a sad epitaph, Sidonie couldn’t help thinking, much as she’d loathed her brother-in-law.

She turned to check on her nephews trailing behind their mother. Seven-year-old Nicholas had handled his role in his father’s rites with a stoic courage that had brought tears to Sidonie’s eyes. Young Thomas at five had become restless during the service, but settled upon his brother’s hissed reprimand.

Ahead six brawny tenants carried the coffin, piled with more lilies, through the double doors. The villagers despised William as a man who brought ruin to the estate and who blustered to hide his complete ignorance about farming. Sidonie gathered from the servants that the local tavern had resounded with toasts to William’s long sojourn in hell.

Unsuitable thoughts for church. Her grip tightened on Roberta’s slender arm. “Are you all right?”

“Yes.” Her sister’s fading tones reflected extended laudanum use rather than sorrow, although today she’d done a marvelous job of playing the shocked, bereaved wife. “I’m glad
that
man didn’t have the gall to come.”

Sidonie didn’t need to ask who that man was. Jonas’s gallantry in coming to Roberta’s rescue hadn’t softened her attitude. “You’re cursed ungrateful,” Sidonie hissed, then forced her expression into neutrality as she nodded at a neighbor who was casting them a curious glance.

Roberta didn’t hear. Deliberately, Sidonie suspected.

Jonas’s absence stabbed her like a knife. She’d hoped to encounter him today, if only as a silent presence at the back of the church, but he’d stayed away. He was no hypocrite. He wouldn’t pay public respects to a man he despised.

Mercifully over the past days, Roberta’s brief surge of concern for her sister had subsided. She’d been in no state to inquire too carefully into what had happened in Devon. Anyway, what could Sidonie say?
I thought to give myself to a monster but instead lost my heart to an enchanted prince?

An enchanted prince who was unquestionably the new Viscount Hillbrook. The letter confirming the identity of the clergyman officiating at his parents’ wedding had arrived while she was at Castle Craven.

Outside the church, sunlight dazzled Sidonie. As her vision cleared, Sidonie noted a strange hush in the crowd, different from the respectful silence appropriate to a funeral. Puzzled, she saw a commanding man in black marching with unhesitating purpose toward Roberta. She had no idea who he was but immediately recognized his aura of power. It was a quality Jonas shared. With a
sudden lurch of fear, she ushered the boys toward Barstowe Hall’s housekeeper.

“Lady Hillbrook?” The stranger performed a cursory bow. “I am Sir Pelham George from London. May I have a private word? I apologize for intruding upon this sad day, but my time in Wiltshire is limited.”

Perhaps he was a creditor. Sidonie was surprised William’s debtors hadn’t already descended like vultures. This man didn’t look like a creditor. He looked like someone who ruled a small kingdom by personal edict.

“I’m not myself, Sir Pelham,” Roberta said in the breathy tone she’d adopted since William’s death. Raising her veils, she fixed her tragic blue gaze upon the gentleman. “I beg your indulgence. Please call at Barstowe Hall tomorrow when I may feel stronger.”

Sidonie shouldn’t resent her sister’s dramatics. After all, she’d convinced everyone that she genuinely mourned her husband, making her an unlikely murderer. Sidonie waited for this stranger to fall victim to Roberta’s blond beauty. Instead his expression remained stern as he extended his arm. “My lady?”

The crowd’s avid curiosity buzzed around them. Dread coiled inside Sidonie. Dear God, was Sir Pelham here to arrest Roberta? But his manner was solicitous rather than threatening—and nobody but Roberta, Sidonie, and Jonas knew the truth behind William’s death.

“If you insist.” Sulkiness pierced Roberta’s pretense at the pliable, pitiable widow. Her lips thinned as she accepted his escort. “My sister will accompany us.”

Without speaking, Sir Pelham bowed to Sidonie. He drew Roberta aside while Sidonie followed. “My lady, this news may prove distressing.”

Cold sweat prickled across Sidonie’s skin as she frantically wondered what she’d do if this stranger took Roberta into custody. Roberta’s eyes widened with immediate panic and her delicate throat moved as she swallowed. “Sir, I cannot imagine what more could distress me, given I’ve just lost my husband.”

The man’s expression became impossibly severe. Something in Sidonie guessed what he planned to say before he spoke. Heaven lend her strength, she’d feared for the wrong person. Roberta wasn’t under threat.

Across a long distance, she heard the deep rumble of Sir Pelham George’s voice, every word clear as a bell. “After evidence laid with the local magistrate, Jonas Merrick has been arrested for the murder of his cousin, Viscount Hillbrook.”

S
idonie clutched her shabby brown cloak around her and shifted on the wooden chair to relieve her numb backside. The fear that beat like a drum beneath every breath almost distracted her from her discomfort. Around her, austere Roman faces glowered down as if to insist that she had no right to be here, in the foyer of Rothermere House, the Duke of Sedgemoor’s extravagant London mansion.

The statues looked sterner by the minute. But even supercilious marble patricians couldn’t match the disapproval expressed by the duke’s butler when opening the door to such a badly dressed woman. A woman purporting to be sister-in-law to the insolvent, now deceased Lord Hillbrook. A woman claiming no acquaintance with His Grace but who insisted upon seeing him on behalf of a man awaiting trial for murder.

The butler had several times indicated that His Grace wasn’t at home. Sidonie had several times indicated with
all the frosty hauteur she could muster that she’d wait. For Jonas’s sake, Sidonie endured the servant’s rudeness, just as she endured this long delay. Grim determination had got her from Barstowe Hall to London after the funeral two days ago and to Newgate Prison yesterday. Grim determination had kept her at Rothermere House all day. Tonight she’d sleep at Merrick House, William’s London property, under the careless eye of its scant staff. Tomorrow grim determination would spur her to pursue her quest to clear Jonas’s name.

Knowing it was pointless expecting a nobleman to receive her earlier, she’d arrived at the duke’s house midmorning. Now long beams of light through the fanlight above the door showed afternoon advanced toward evening.

She still hadn’t advanced beyond the entrance hall.

Other people had come and gone, she assumed to see His Grace. She was familiar enough with aristocratic ways to know that “not at home” meant not at home to petitioners who arrived without appointment and with a barely concealed air of desperation. The parade of approved callers had ended about an hour ago. Bleakly Sidonie was aware that the butler would soon throw her out. She was tired, she was disheartened, she was stiff with sitting so long, and she was so thirsty she could drink the Thames dry. Unwelcome petitioners didn’t rate tea or even a glass of water.

Her belly cramped with hunger but she disregarded it. She hadn’t eaten since last night, when she’d choked down some bread and cheese after a fruitless day fighting to convince Jonas’s jailers to allow her to see him. Naïvely she’d imagined she merely needed to request an interview
with a prisoner and it would be granted. But no amount of pleading had got her beyond the gates.

When she’d first glimpsed the prison’s dark, sinister bulk, she’d felt sick with fear and outrage. The very stones of Newgate seeped misery. Jonas didn’t belong there. Jonas belonged with her. She’d save him from hanging if it killed her.

Biting her lip, she curled her fingers into her white muslin skirts. How Jonas would despise seeing her dressed this way. Clearly an opinion the churlish butler shared. She’d thought to borrow one of Roberta’s dresses, but her sister’s fashionable figure meant everything Sidonie tried strained across overflowing curves. Sidonie had hoped it wouldn’t matter what she wore. She’d mention Jonas’s name and the duke would see her. After all, hadn’t Camden Rothermere saved Jonas at Eton? Hadn’t he come to Castle Craven to warn Jonas of William’s erratic behavior? Her experience in the increasingly chilly hall indicated that Jonas’s churlishness to the duke in Devon had snapped any boyhood bonds between the men.