The Bachelor Trap (16 page)

“Marion?”

The dowager's voice. Marion quickly crossed to the door and opened it.

“Your Grace,” she said, her voice scarcely audible.

“May I come in?

“Please do.”

In spite of her cane, the dowager looked majestic as she entered and took the wing chair flanking the fireplace. Gesturing gracefully with one hand, she indicated that Marion was to take the chair opposite. Marion complied and sat with her back straight and her hands folded neatly in her lap. She tried not to feel intimidated, but the dowager would have been an intimidating lady even if she had not been a duchess.

Smiling faintly, the dowager said, “I could not go to bed without telling you how happy I am about you and Brand. I'm sure you know that my grandson is a good man. Not easy to live with, perhaps, and not easy to love, but a good man for all that. But, of course, you must know this.”

Marion gave the other woman a narrow-eyed look. The dowager didn't sound like a doting grandmother, but who could tell with the FitzAlans? As pleasantly as she could manage, Marion replied vaguely, “I'm sure my sisters would say the same about me.”

The dowager nodded. “I take your point. The people who are closest to us know all our weaknesses and faults. But I hope you will take
my
point.” She leaned forward slightly, using her cane to balance her weight. “Bear with me, Marion. There are some things about my grandson I think you should know if ever you are truly going to understand him.”

Marion held herself still. This was not the moment to interrupt Her Grace. The dowager didn't look majestic or aloof. She looked fragile, as though one wrong word could break her.

Breathing out slowly, the dowager began. “In spite of what you may have heard, Brand's father was not a bad man. He did not abandon Brand and his mother. It was old Mr. Hamilton who poisoned Brand's mind against his father. The truth of the matter is that my son fell deeply in love with Faith Hamilton when he was barely older than Andrew. He wanted to marry her when he came of age. It was settled between them. It was Faith's father, old Mr. Hamilton, who put his foot down. She was underage, and under her father's thumb, and even when she fell with child, her father would not relent. She did not have it in her to defy her father.

“She died when Brand was a few months old, from a broken heart, some say. Her heart wasn't the only heart that was broken. My son never got over her. But he felt betrayed, so he went a little wild.”

When the dowager paused to gather her thoughts, Marion ventured to say, “I already guessed that it must have been something like that.”

The dowager looked surprised. “What made you think so?”

Marion gave a tiny shrug. “Your son named Brand as sole trustee of his estate. He gave him a home, paid for his education. I think he must have loved Brand very much and, perhaps, felt guilty for the way things had turned out.”

“He did feel guilty. Brand was his firstborn son. He was Faith's son. Brand should have succeeded him to the title and estates, and would have if it had not been for an embittered old man who despised our rank and wealth.”

The dowager gave a wan smile. “Brand has fallen between two worlds, the Priory and the Grange.”

“Cavaliers and Roundheads,” Marion mused softly.

“Yes. But it's more than reliving old battles. Mr. Hamilton was a Puritan. In his eyes, the FitzAlans were a godless lot. He did not want his daughter or his grandson to be corrupted by us.”

A long silence ensued. Finally, Marion said, “Why are you telling me all this?”

“Perhaps I'm hoping for too much.” The dowager studied Marion for a long moment, then went on, “I don't think my grandson will ever be at peace with himself until he learns to bridge those two worlds. And more than that, I want him to know the truth about his father.”

She held up her hand when Marion would have interrupted. “He doesn't listen to me. I don't suppose he'll listen to you. All the same, I felt I had to try, for my son's memory, and for Brand's sake, too. It doesn't do to carry so much bitterness inside you.”

Marion felt as though she were seeing the dowager for the first time, not as the intimidating, all-knowing, all-seeing ogre she had imagined, but as a woman like herself, ageless, with the same fears and aspirations.

And she felt awful for deceiving her. She would never marry Brand, never marry, period.

She gazed down at the ringless finger of her left hand, and when she looked up, her eyes were trapped in the dowager's intense stare. The words seemed to be dragged from her against her will. “Your Grace…we're not betrothed. I made that up so that I would be allowed to see Brand.”

The truth did not seem to annoy the dowager. If anything, Marion's confession seemed to amuse her. “Of course you did. In your position, I would have done the same thing.”

Marion bit down on her lip. Evidently, the dowager hadn't understood. “You don't understand. Brand hasn't asked me to marry him.”

“Oh, he will. Of that I'm perfectly sure. All Brand needs is a little encouragement, and I think your declaration in front of the family may well do the trick.”

When the dowager got up and walked to the door, Marion hastened after her to open it.

“But…but nothing has been settled.”

The dowager smiled, patted Marion's cheek, and quit the room as gracefully as she had entered it.

Marion returned to her chair and sat there in frozen misery. There was so much to think about, so much to worry about. Fortunately, her mind was numb, so she couldn't think at all.

She left one candle burning when she climbed into bed, in case Phoebe got up in the middle of the night and came looking for her. She tossed, she turned, she pounded the pillows. Nothing helped. Tossing off the covers, she slid out of bed and padded along the corridor to Emily's room. It was a tight squeeze, but she managed to wriggle in beside her sisters. The warmth of their bodies pressed so closely to hers was vastly comforting. Even so, it was a long time before she slept.

Lady Theodora allowed her maid to undress her and put her to bed. “Leave the candles,” she said.

The maid withdrew with a curtsy and a telling little smile. She would think, of course, that Lord Robert was going to pay his wife a conjugal visit. Theodora doubted that that would be the case tonight. His eyes had barely left Marion's face. He wouldn't be thinking of Marion, but the girl she resembled: Hannah.

She moved restlessly, despising herself for hoping that he would come to her. She should have more pride. She should have left this house a long time ago. She was still young. There was still time to make a new life for herself.

She checked her foolish thoughts. Life wasn't that simple. One made choices and suffered the consequences—wasn't that what her father told her the day that she married? Robert had turned out just as Papa predicted, and because she'd been so determined to marry him, she was too proud to let anyone know that they had been right and she was wrong.

She gave a start when the door opened. Her husband entered, wearing a dark maroon dressing robe tied loosely at the waist. He was, in her opinion, even more handsome than when they'd met and married. His boyish good looks had matured into a harsh beauty. He was smiling softly as he approached the bed.

He sat on the edge, raised her hand, and pressed his lips to her palm. “You are still the most beautiful woman I know,” he said.

She took an uneven breath. “I didn't expect to see you tonight.”

“Liar.” He kissed her wrist. “I know when you're susceptible to me. I can feel it in my pores.”

“Yes. You were always attuned to my moods.” She twined her fingers through his hair. “Just as I have always been attuned to yours.”

He made no answer, but looked at her with an expectant gravity.

She laughed softly. “Don't tell me you didn't notice the strong resemblance between Lady Marion and Hannah?”

His smile was not reflected in his eyes. “I barely knew Hannah.”

“Don't lie to me, Robert. I saw how your eyes kept straying to Marion all night.”

“A natural reaction. She had been attacked in her own home. I wanted to make sure that she was all right. And yes, I admired her. She came through a nerve-wracking experience without falling to pieces. That's all it was.”

She closed her eyes and gritted her teeth. “Keep away from her! You can have your pick of any woman you want.” She opened her eyes and stared fixedly into his face. “We don't want Marion to…”

“To what?” His voice was dangerously soft. “What are you saying?”

She moderated her tone. “Everyone knows that she will marry Brand. Just remember that.”

“Yes, but that's not what you were going to say.”

He rose easily, gracefully, and bowed over her hand, a formal gesture that was almost insulting. “It would seem,” he said, “that I have misread the signs. I beg your pardon. It won't happen again.”

She made no move to stop him as he quit her chamber.

The following morning, when Marion arrived at Brand's chamber, she found him groggy and unfit to do much more than acknowledge her presence.

“Is that my betrothed's voice I hear?” he crooned.

He asked the question without opening his eyes, but Marion caught the amused inflection in his voice, and she couldn't help smiling. He wasn't going to make things difficult for her.

She sat with him for a little while, but they were never alone, and he was too groggy to be coherent, so they didn't have the chance to have that heart-to-heart talk. It was not until the day after that that she had the opportunity of speaking to him alone. A maid delivered a note informing her that Mr. Hamilton was in the conservatory; would she care to join him?

He was waiting for her at the conservatory door.

“Are you sure you should be out of bed?” she asked as soon as she came up to him. He was walking with the aid of a cane, and there were signs of strain around his mouth. “Quite sure. In fact, I'm obeying the doctor's orders. Having served in the army, Hardcastle doesn't believe in mollycoddling his patients. He expects us all to behave like good little soldiers, you know, get back to the action before the battle is lost.”

When she laughed, he smiled. “Besides,” he went on, “there are too many visitors coming and going in my room. We can talk without interruption here.”

The conservatory, however, was no quieter than the house. Gardeners were moving in and out as they transplanted tender shrubs and other specimens to the flower beds outside. Lord Robert was there giving directions, but Brand and Marion slipped away before he could see them.

Marion said, “I didn't know that Lord Robert was interested in gardening.”

Brand's tone was dry. “You might say that my uncle is passionate about all kinds of pretty flowers, so watch your step with him.” He looked down at her. “I should hate to call him out.”

Since he was smiling, she took it as a joke. “I'm desolate. He hasn't tried to flirt with me. All we talk about is you or the weather.”

“Think yourself lucky because if he did flirt with you, Theodora would soon unsheathe her claws.”

“Was theirs an arranged marriage?” she asked.

“No. According to our resident gossip, Miss Cutter, Theodora's family was against the match, but love carried the day. Lord Robert, you see, had a reputation as a young Lothario, but promised to reform.” His smile was twisted. “He did not keep his promise much beyond the wedding day, and Theodora is not one to give second chances.”

Beyond the conservatory, they looked down on the herb garden, but Miss Cutter was there, fluttering like a butterfly, so Brand turned aside and led Marion to a stone bench that was sheltered on one side by a hedge. Far below them, the river meandered through field and pasture. It was a warm day and the bees were out in force, plundering the white spirea blossoms that grew in clumps at the sunny edges of a wilderness of shrubs.

It was hard to believe, in this sheltered little paradise, that someone had broken into her house and held a gun to her head.

Brand looked at her thoughtfully. “Cold?”

“No, frightened. While you have been convalescing, I've had plenty of time to think, but I never come up with any answers. Yesterday, I went with the constable to the cottage. Nothing was missing. Only the breakfast room where Phoebe keeps her books and notes was disturbed. The box with our family's letters was upended on the floor but, as far as I can determine, no letters were taken. It doesn't make sense.”

“How did the thief get in?”

“He forced a downstairs window.”

“What did you do with the letters?”

“They're at the Priory. I've read them all. There's nothing significant in any of them, and no letters to or from Hannah.”

She waited for him to say something, but when he continued to stare into space, as though he were unaware of her presence, her patience ended.

“You said you would explain everything to me! Well, I'm not a mind reader. Start explaining. What do you know that I don't know?”

He shifted slightly and stretched one arm along the back of the bench. “Your aunt Edwina is the source of everything I know, so I'll begin by telling you of a letter she wrote to me shortly before she died.”

In short, halting sentences, and with many interruptions from Marion as she tried to grasp his meaning, he told her about the delay in receiving Edwina's letter and his reluctance to take it seriously. He described the contents of the letter, and how Edwina had come to believe that Hannah had never left Longbury and that someone had murdered her. Finally, he explained that Edwina hoped Marion could tell her exactly what had happened the night Hannah disappeared.

Shocked, Marion sat back. She could hardly get her mind around his words. “Why would I know anything?”

He replied gently, “Because Hannah disappeared when you were here with your mother. You were out that night in the Priory grounds. Someone saw you.”

“Who saw me?”

He took her hand and held it in a comforting clasp. “I don't know. Edwina was going to explain everything when I came down to see her. I wish we'd had that chat; then I might have taken her letter seriously. To put it bluntly, she seemed confused, but there was no getting around the fact that Hannah had disappeared twenty years before with not a word to anyone.”

“And someone told Edwina I saw what happened to Hannah?”

“So Edwina said in her letter.” He looked at her intently. “I'm sorry. I've shocked you. I didn't know how to break it gently.”

“It's not that.” She paused, then went on slowly, “I was thinking of the last time I saw Hannah. She used to enjoy walking in the Priory grounds with her little dog. I often went with her, but she didn't go out that day. I didn't mind because I knew I'd be going out later with Clarice, to lie in wait for our ghost.”

She looked at him uncertainly. “If I had seen something that night, I would have run to the cottage for help. Clarice was there, too. Have you asked her if she saw anything?”

“No. Edwina didn't mention Clarice, only you. What happened, Marion? Do you remember anything of that night at all? In her letter, Edwina wrote that she quarreled with Hannah. Did you hear the quarrel?”

“Yes.” She thought for a moment. “They were in Hannah's room—my mother, Aunt Edwina, and Hannah. I could hear Hannah crying. I think I was upstairs, waiting for everyone to go to bed so that I could slip away to be with Clarice. I hated quarreling. I was heartsick, and wished Mama and Edwina would leave Hannah alone. Then Hannah rushed out of the house and I heard the door slam.”

“And that's the night you went out with Clarice?”

“I think so, but I'm not sure.”

A moment went by, and he said, “Clarice mentioned hearing an animal howling. Did you hear it?”

She frowned in concentration. “I think so. Yes. I remember a dog barking, but can't be sure. I'm sorry.”

“Don't force it. It may come back to you. Forget that for the moment. Tell me what happened when you were in the pulpit.”

She looked down at her hands. “It's just as Clarice told you. We saw what we thought was the abbot's ghost, and ran home.” She shook her head. “My memories are very vague. It happened a long time ago—and if Hannah was murdered, what happened to her body?”

“I don't know. She could have been pushed into the river or buried somewhere.”

The thought made her shudder.

Some moments passed, then she said softly, “I'd like to think poor Aunt Edwina was confused when she wrote that letter, but I can't ignore the fact that you were shot by someone who broke into my house, looking for letters that don't exist.” She looked up at him, her eyes deeply troubled. “It makes me wonder about Aunt Edwina. Tell me the truth, Brand. What do you think? Was Edwina's death an accident?”

He said as gently as he could manage, “I'd like to think it was an accident, but now”—he touched a hand to his thigh—“I think it's entirely possible that it wasn't.”

He looked out over the fields and pastures to the meandering river below. “According to Mrs. Ludlow, Edwina was troubled about the past, about Hannah, and she was determined to find out what had happened to her. I think she started asking questions that someone didn't want to answer.”

“But why twenty years after Hannah disappeared? What set Edwina off ?”

“The only clue in her letter was the witness who saw you that night. I've thought about that witness till my brain is numb with speculation. He or she must have had a good reason to keep quiet all these years.”

She shivered. “If I were that person, I'd be shaking in my shoes right now. The man who shot you wouldn't think twice about killing someone who knew too much.”

After a short silence, he sighed and went on, “I blame myself for letting the matter slide, but the mystery was twenty years old and I didn't see the necessity for solving it quickly. You were fixed in the Lake District, or so I thought. I suppose I would have made the journey north to question you eventually, but you saved me the trouble. When I heard that you were coming to London for the Season, I seized the chance of getting to know you, hoping that if you knew anything, you would confide in me.” He shrugged. “Either you knew nothing, or you wouldn't confide in me. As time passed, and I came to believe that you were no threat to anyone, I relaxed my vigilance.”

“Why didn't you tell me straight out in London about Edwina's letter? Why conceal your true purpose in befriending me and my family?”

“I told you. I wasn't sure that I could trust Edwina's judgment. Sometimes old people get strange fancies. I was sounding you out to see if you could shed light on what happened to Hannah.”

A shard of glass seemed suddenly to pierce her heart, and she could hardly get her breath. Had she not been Edwina's niece, he would not have given her a second stare. The visits to the theater, the outings in his carriage, his charm, his kisses—they all had one purpose, and that was to find out how much she remembered about Hannah. He hadn't been courting her in hopes of ensnaring an earl's daughter. That thought had been put in her head by Cousin Fanny and Emily and Clarice, and others who had hinted that marriage to her would add to his prestige. He hadn't wanted to marry her at all. What a fool she had made of herself.

That put her in mind of their sham betrothal. Of course, the idea had come from her. He had never once hinted that he had marriage on his mind, just the reverse. She was the one who had brought it up.

There was no way to salvage her pride so she said abruptly, “I'm sorry I told your family that we were betrothed. I did it on impulse, because I couldn't see another way of being allowed near you, and I was desperate to know why someone wanted to break into my house.”

“Don't apologize. It was a brilliant idea.”

“It was?”

He nodded. “Now the gossips will have nothing to gossip about. We've taken the wind out of their sails.”

“We have?”

“Think about it. People will expect us to spend all our time together. It's what engaged couples do. We have a mystery to solve. No one will think it odd when they see us together. They won't know what we're really up to. On the other hand”—he rubbed the bridge of his nose with his index finger—“a man can't be too careful.” His eyes smiled into hers. “One false step and I could find myself married to you.”

She shot him a withering look. “I have no more thought of marrying than I do of swimming the English Channel to France.”

He laughed into her baleful eyes. “If we're going to convince the world that we're engaged, you'll have to watch your sharp tongue.”

She searched her mind for the perfect snub and could only say coolly, “Luncheon must be ready. Shall we join the others?”

Brand slowed her furious pace by asking for her arm. “I'm not up to snuff yet,” he said, grimacing and touching a hand to his injured leg.