Suzanne Robinson (25 page)

“Mattie, what happened to you?”

Narcissa rushed to her and picked up the dress. She walked around Mattie. “Your back is red.” Narcissa’s hand went to her mouth, and she sucked in her breath. “
Mattie
”

“Go back to bed.”

Her mother’s voice came at the same time as a knock on the door. “Mattie, dear, are you all right? There’s such a commotion.”

Narcissa rushed to the door and assured Mrs. Bright that she and Mattie were fine.

“You girls stay here. I’m going to find out what’s going on.”

Mattie sighed; she didn’t want to see Mama right now. She found the water pitcher and basin and began a quick sponge bath while Narcissa rummaged in an armoire for a nightgown. She was slipping the gown on when she heard cloth ripping. Poking her head through the neck of the nightgown, Mattie emerged to see her friend tearing her soiled petticoat. The pearl-studded gown had been folded into a bundle.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m going to burn this petticoat. Stir the fire.”

“Oh, Narcissa.”

Narcissa tore the garment into two pieces. “The dinner gown, too.”

Mattie swooped down and grabbed the gown. “Oh, no, you don’t. I’m keeping it.”

“Whatever for?”

“Never you mind what for.” Mattie stuffed the gown into the bottom of the armoire and shut the door. “You can burn the petticoat if you like.”

Narcissa dropped a section of the undergarment on the coals and turned to her. “Well?”

Walking calmly to the bed, Mattie got under the covers. “Well, what?”

Her friend scampered across the room and got into bed beside her.

“What happened? Is Sir William really dead?”

Mattie rubbed her forehead. “Yes. I think he killed himself.”

“But why?”

“I don’t know.”

“He was such a jolly kind of fellow.”

Mattie nodded, unable to reveal anything. “It’s terrible.” Any words seemed banal and inadequate for the horror of an unnecessary death.

“Who was it?” Narcissa asked.

When Mattie looked at her in confusion, she made a sound of irritation and poked Mattie’s arm. “Who were you with?”

“No one.”

Narcissa gave her a skeptical look. “Did no one undress you and stain your underclothing?”

“Shush, Narcissa.”

“It was the marquess.”

Mattie slid farther underneath the covers and drew them over her head. Narcissa yanked them down.

“I knew it. It was Mr. Tennant.”

Popping up, Mattie scowled at her. “How did you know?” She could have bitten her tongue when Narcissa grinned.

“Ha! I knew it, I knew it. You thought you were so secretive and clever. Nobody fights like that with a man unless she’s in love.”

“Well, you could have let me in on the secret.”

“You wouldn’t have believed me.”

Narcissa scooted closer and lowered her voice. “Tell me, Mattie. What was it like?”

“It was wonderful,” Mattie said with a tremulous smile that faded as she remembered Sir William. “It was incomparable, until Lady Julia and Mutton and the others found us.”

After a short silence, Narcissa slipped her arm around Mattie. “Oh, dear.” They sat side by side for a while. Then Narcissa sighed. “Not the most respectable way to announce an engagement, but I suppose it can’t be helped … What? What’s wrong?”

Mattie pulled the covers up to her chin. “We—we didn’t talk about an engagement.”

“Of course not, not after Sir William—but you must, after this horrible business is over.”

“I’m terrible, sinful.” Mattie lay down and turned on her side. “I didn’t think of marriage. All I thought about was him. And now poor Sir William has killed himself, and all I think about is Cheyne Tennant.”

“We didn’t know the man well, Mattie. Of course it’s a tragedy. I’m horrified, but neither of us can change what’s done.”

“Poor Lady Julia,” Mattie whispered.

“Yes. But Dr. Capgrave and your mother will take care of her,” Narcissa said. “You should rest. Mr. Tennant will manage everything, and he’ll talk to your mother about marriage, too. You’ll see.”

Turning on her back, Mattie stared up at the ceiling. “He never said anything about marriage.” She blushed. “I don’t think he meant to make an offer.”

“That doesn’t matter.”

“Why not?”

Narcissa got off the bed and began arranging the covers around Mattie. “Because you’ve been seen in a most compromising situation. Mr. Tennant is an English gentleman, and he knows what has to be done. He’ll arrange for everyone’s silence.” She smoothed the covers. “And he’ll make the offer his honor demands. Any other action is unthinkable for someone like him.”

Mattie sat up quickly. “He said something like that. He said he had to worry because my reputation and his honor demanded it.”

“There. You see? Everything will be fine.” Narcissa sat on the bed again.

Shaking her head, Mattie said, “I’m not sure.”

“Why not?”

“He didn’t say anything about marriage before we … He didn’t make an offer before.”

“But he will now.”

Mattie turned to stare at her friend. “That’s just it. He’ll make an offer now. Like he said, his honor demands
it. How am I ever going to know what he’d have done if we hadn’t been discovered?”

“Oh.”

“If he asks for my hand out of duty …” Mattie turned to Narcissa and blinked back tears. “I couldn’t marry a man who only wanted my money. How can I marry a man who only wants to save my reputation?”

“You don’t know that’s his only reason.”

Mattie shook her head. “I don’t know anything. I won’t until I talk to him. But it will have to wait.”

“Yes,” Narcissa said. “Poor Sir William. I wonder why he did it.”

Mattie didn’t answer. She was certain the blackmailer had struck again. The criminal was here at Chèremere. Sir William had been a victim all along, and this last demand had driven him to kill himself rather than face ruin.

Mattie’s heart flip-flopped. How much longer was this nightmare going to last? How many more people had to die? Her own problems seemed paltry in comparison to what was happening to the victims.

The blackmailer! Cheyne had to see to it that none of those who saw them in the Banqueting Hall spoke of it. Otherwise their trap would be ruined.

And she couldn’t accept an offer of marriage to Cheyne Tennant even if he made one. She was supposed to be lovesick for eloquent Michel. Of course, she was supposed to be anxious to marry a titled gentleman as well. The whole premise behind her vulnerability to blackmail was that she wanted a title
in spite of her attachment to Michel. No, she couldn’t suddenly abandon her quest for a duke. The ruse must remain in place until the blackmailer was caught. Any other course risked arousing suspicion.

She wouldn’t have rejected Stainfield so definitely had he not forced her to make a decision. Luckily she knew him well enough to know he wouldn’t tell anyone she’d refused him. Stainfield was too proud. He’d say nothing until forced to, and then he’d say he lost interest in her. The last thing he’d admit was that some little no-account American had tossed him aside.

Mattie squeezed her eyes shut and listened to Narcissa’s steady breathing. Her friend had fallen asleep. Covering her face with her hands, Mattie wished she could do the same. She was confused and anxious, and she longed to throw herself into Cheyne’s arms. She wished she’d never become involved in this trap for the blackmailer.

Mattie’s thoughts chased each other around and around until, as the first gray light of dawn peeped through the curtains, she dozed. She dreamed of ebony floors, Cheyne’s taut, strong body and his sapphire eyes. But she woke remembering Sir William’s boots sticking out of that closet.

 
18
 

Chèremere’s Tudor kitchens huddled against the bulk of the main castle, a red brick labyrinth bristling with chimneys. Cheyne walked into the narrow alley called Fish Court and paused to rub his temples. Sir William Stellaford had killed himself in the early morning hours, and it was now dusk. Cheyne had spent most of the time since then dealing with the consequences of the tragedy. There had been the coroner to summon, and the local constable, and Lady Julia to be comforted. This last became impossible once the constable discovered Sir William’s collection of photographs.

Who would have thought jolly old Sir William had a taste for taking pictures of women without their clothes? No wonder the blackmailer had nearly ruined him. Balfour had called to say he’d discovered a secret bank account from which Stellaford had paid his tormentor. Although his other accounts
appeared untouched, the Stellaford reserves had been depleted, leaving Lady Julia with a questionable future. Luckily she had relatives anxious to assist her. Cheyne had seen her to the train that would take her to them. Elland Capgrave had gone as her escort and would return to London afterward. Sir William’s body would be released by the coroner tomorrow and be shipped to his wife.

Leaning against a brick wall, Cheyne contemplated a pair of windows across the court. On the second floor, they were fitted with aged glass cut into diamond panes. He closed his eyes and sighed. Sir William’s death weighed heavily on him. If he’d been attending to his job instead of lusting after Mattie, he might have stopped the blackmailer by now. As it was, he’d failed to prevent another death, and he’d ruined Mattie’s reputation, too. Oh, he’d spoken to everyone who’d seen them. Silence was assured, for now. But nothing could prevent rumors from spreading. Word would get about, as it always did.

Now that Lady Julia was gone, he had to think about Mattie. Indeed, all the time he’d been speaking to the authorities and dealing with the necessary business of death, her words kept haunting him. He remembered clearly how she’d told him his feelings were his responsibility, as were any actions he took because of them. What a sharp little mind she had.

He’d allowed his emotions to rule; now he must accept the responsibility for his conduct. Succinct and pointed, those words failed miserably to capture what had happened and how he felt. Certainly she’d
driven him to distraction for want of her. But he couldn’t lie to himself anymore. He’d wanted other women, many quite beautiful. None had kept him whipped into a state of frustration by haunting his thoughts. Too late he’d realized how powerful his attraction to this obstinate and untamed young lady had become.

In truth, he hadn’t wanted to admit what he felt. And he hadn’t, even when she’d given him the gift of her love. Being with Mattie had wiped all thought from his heated mind. She had been like a cleansing flame, burning away old hurts, his armor of cynicism, his distrust. He could even point to the moment the flames had begun their purification; it had been when he gave her the chance to say no.
I’d rather spend this time with you than spend my life with some fool with a fancy title and the sense of a drunk armadillo
. If he lived another century he’d never find a woman who could make him feel so blessed and make him laugh at the same time. No other woman had given him her love and her care at the same time. To find that he’d inspired such a gesture was humbling.

After their joining, his body felt as renewed as his spirit, and he liked to think he would have had the courage to tell her. Any chance of it had been ruined by the interruption and Sir William’s death.

Confound it. How could he have been so reckless? Seducing her in the Banqueting Hall, of all places. If word got out, she’d be disgraced, unmarriageable even in America. The thought of Mattie Bright the object of scorn and ostracism aroused his
rage. Of course, it wouldn’t happen. He’d see to that. Before another night passed he would ask Mattie to marry him.

Cheyne continued on his way. He’d come here because Mutton had informed him Mattie was touring the old buildings. When he purchased the castle he’d left the kitchens as they were and modernized the ones in the main castle. Lately he’d restored many of the rooms—the larders, boiling house, confectory, and pastry office. Cheremere had been a seat of great families since Saxon times, and wealthy barons under the Tudors had expanded on the medieval kitchens. Few such structures had survived, and he felt it his duty to see to it that his did.

She wasn’t in the buttery, pantry, or any of the smaller cellars. Cheyne looked in the great wine cellar to no avail, then went into the court in front of the great kitchen. There he heard a door slam.

“Dang.”

There was only one person in Cheremere who used that word. Cheyne hurried across the court and into the oldest of the Tudor kitchens. Mattie was standing beside a roasting fireplace, a twelve-foot cavern blackened with countless fires. The top of the fireplace arch was higher than her head, and she had bent over an iron pot suspended inside it.

“Mattie.”

She gasped and turned, knocking the pot. Grabbing it, she held it still, then walked to the timber plank table where earthenware jars and jugs had
been displayed. She picked up a ladle sitting in a stew pot and examined it. Cheyne joined her, but she still didn’t look at him.

“Lady Julia has gone?” she asked.

“Yes.” Standing this close, he could smell the lemon-scented soap she used, and he could see delicate blue veins just beneath the skin on her hands.