The Bride's Necklace (24 page)

His coach was rounding the end of the block. He wasn’t quite sure of his destination, someplace he could find feminine companionship of the paid-for sort, the kind who expected nothing of him in return.

Someone who might help ease the pain that gnawed at his heart.

The carriage pulled up in front of the house and a footman raced to open the door. He started to climb the narrow iron stairs when he caught sight of Emma streaking toward him, kinky blond hair sticking out from beneath the mobcap sitting askew on her head.

“Wait, milord! Ye must wait—please!” She was waving a scorched piece of paper and there was soot all over her hands.

Cord steeled himself. He could almost feel the hardening of the wall he was erecting around his heart.

“What is it, Emma?” he asked coolly.

“’Tis the note, milord.” She was out of breath, trying to gasp in air. “The one from her ladyship. Mrs. Rathbone—she stole it off your desk. She were tryin’ to burn it when I walked into her room.”

Cord reached over and took the piece of foolscap out of Emma’s trembling hand. He prepared himself to read Victoria’s words, thinking that no matter what she said it wouldn’t change the way he felt.

He told himself to remain objective, and foolishly believed he actually could. But the lines, written in her familiar, feminine script, made his eyes burn.

Cord reread the words, more dispassionately this time. She said she had gone in search of the journal. It was the same excuse she had used two times before. He hadn’t believed her then. Why should he believe her now?

He refolded the letter. He could climb aboard his carriage and drive away, forget Victoria, forget his marriage, forget that his wife might be carrying another man’s child.

Or he could believe her.

He could take a chance on love one more time.

He thought of Victoria the last time they had been together, looking up at him so sweetly.

May I stay?

In his bed? In his heart? She seemed to have always had a place there.

He thought of the days when he had first met her, remembered her courage the night she had helped them free Ethan from prison. She had always been reckless and determined. If there were a diary, she would not give up her efforts to find it as long as there was the slightest chance.

He looked toward the house, thought of the years stretching out ahead of him, years without Victoria, and his decision was made.

His jaw hardened as he turned his attention to Emma. “Where is Mrs. Rathbone?”

“Upstairs, milord.”

Cord started back toward the house. He took the stairs two at a time, then climbed the narrower set leading up to the servants’ quarters.

Mrs. Rathbone’s door stood slightly ajar. She was pacing the floor in front of her tiny, still-smoldering hearth when he walked into the room.

Her face went chalk-white at the sight of him. “M-my lord?”

“Why did you take the letter?”

She moistened her dry, thin lips. “It…it were just a mistake, my lord. I was cleaning up in your study. The letter got mixed into a stack of trash. I tossed it into the fire by mistake. I—I didn’t know it was for you.”

He glanced at the hearth. There was no reason she would have brought the paper up to her room.

“You’re lying. You’ve hated Victoria since the day she arrived. You didn’t want me to see the letter. You were trying to cause trouble for her.”

“No, my lord. That’s not true.”

A memory trickled in and something clicked in his brain. “You knew I was in the bathing room the day you spoke to the maid about Lady Brant—didn’t you? You wanted to make trouble for her then.”

“She did go out that night—just like I said.”

“What my wife does is none of your concern. You are dismissed, Mrs. Rathbone—without references. While you are scurrying around the city, looking for a way to feed yourself, you might remember that my wife could have terminated your employment months ago. It was only through the goodness of her heart that you continued to work in this house.”

Her scarecrow face turned hard. “She always thought she were so smart. Better’n the rest of us. Well, I won’t be starvin’, I can tell ye. I been paid well and good by his lordship, her stepfather. I don’t need your piss-pot job no more.”

Cord’s mind reeled. The older woman started marching past him, but Cord stepped in her way.
“You’ve been spying on us? You’ve been feeding information to Harwood?”

“I didn’t do nothin’ against the law. He were just concerned for his daughter’s welfare.”

Like bloody hell he was.
“You read what was in the letter. Did you tell Harwood that Lady Brant was going to Windmere?”

A smug smile twisted her narrow features. “It’s his house, ain’t it? Man’s got a right to know who comes and goes in his own home.”

Cord clamped hard on his temper. “Pack your things and get out. You have fifteen minutes.” Turning, he strode out the door and down the hall, down the three flights of stairs to the entry.

“How long ago did Lady Brant leave?” he asked Timmons.

“Late this morning, my lord. She took the footman, Mr. Kidd, with her.”

Thank God for that. Her coachman was a big, burly fellow and the footman was young and loyal. Still, if Harwood actually
had
murdered her father, or even hired it done, he would do anything in his power to keep her from finding the proof.

Cord remembered the welts he had seen on her back on their wedding night and his stomach tightened with fear. Harwood was utterly ruthless. If he believed Victoria posed any sort of threat…

“Saddle my horse. I won’t be needing the carriage.”

“Aye, my lord.”

Fifteen minutes later, he was on the road to Windmere, pressing his big black gelding as fast as he dared.
He would rent a fresh horse at one of the inns and make even better time.

He just hoped Miles Whiting didn’t get there first.

“T
here it is!” Tory pointed toward the knoll. “Just up the hill.” But instead of urging the horses ahead, Griggs pulled the carriage over to the side of the road.

Tory heard him mutter a curse. “We got us a problem, milady.”

“What sort of problem?” But just then she heard it, a grinding crack as two of the carriage spokes snapped and the conveyance tipped sideways.

“Broken wheel, milady.” He jumped down to examine the damage. “The iron band’s come off. Looks like we’ll ’ave to find a smithy to fix it.”

Tory gazed back up the hill toward the house. That wasn’t the very best news, but neither was it much of a problem.

“There is a blacksmith in the village. And I can walk the rest of the way quite easily. Once you get it fixed, you can come up to the house and get me. I’ll probably be busy for quite a while, so there is no reason to hurry.”

“I’d better come with you.” Evan jumped down
from his perch next to the coachman and started walking toward her.

She thought of the hours she might need to spend. “As I said, I may be there quite a while. The gardener and his wife live on the property, so I shall be perfectly safe. I’m sure Mr. Griggs could use some help, and there is a tavern in the village. While the blacksmith is working, the two of you can get yourselves something to eat.”

Evan helped her down, then turned toward the yellow stone house on the knoll. The danger lay on the road, not in her childhood home.

“As you wish, milady.”

As the men began working on the wheel, Tory started up the hill. It didn’t take long to reach the house, and once she did, getting inside proved not to be a problem.

Mrs. Riddle, who lived with her husband, Jacob, in the gatehouse, remembered her from the last time she had been there with her mother and sister, after her father had died.

“Why, praise the saints! ’Tis Lady Victoria come home to Windmere.” A big-boned Irish woman with graying auburn hair, Mrs. Riddle had a smile that still contained all of her teeth. She and her husband had been at Windmere since Tory’s grandfather had owned the house.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Riddle. It’s good to see you.”

The woman glanced toward the empty drive leading up to the carved front doors. “How did ye get here? ’Ave ye come by yerself, then?”

“There was a problem with one of the carriage wheels. The coachman took it in to the village to have it fixed.”

“What brings ye here, child? After so many years?”

“I just learned that my stepfather is selling the house. I wanted to see it one more time before it belonged to someone else.”

“Aye, Windmere’s a special place, and no doubt. Queen o’ the valley, she is, and always will be.” Mrs. Riddle shook her head. “Ah, but ’tisn’t joyous, the way it once was. Not with your da and ma gone.”

“That is one of the reasons I came. I think my mother may have left a few of her things in the house.”

“Well, then, ’tis past time ye came to collect them.”

Mrs. Riddle led her up the gravel drive to the front of the big stone manor house and opened the door. “I’ll be goin’ into the village for the rest of the afternoon. Jacob’s workin’ the fields. Take all the time ye like.”

Tory watched the woman leave and turned to survey the inside of the house. Memories enveloped her. She could almost hear the sound of laughter coming from upstairs, hear her father’s deep baritone and her mother’s saucy reply. Tory closed away the painful thoughts. She didn’t have time for the past. She had to find the journal.

Pulling the ribbon on her fur-trimmed bonnet, she tossed it onto the table in the entry along with her cloak. For more than two years, the place had been locked up. White sheets draped over the sofas and chairs, and most of the curtains were closed, but the heavy oak tables had recently been dusted, and the carved wooden beams and leaded glass cabinets gave the house a familiar air.

Considering the size of the house and knowing her search might take some time, Tory set to work. But two hours later, she was still searching. She found some of her mother’s clothes still hanging in an upstairs ar
moire, found a stack of stitchery with the threads beginning to fade, a few of Claire’s baby toys, and some of her own infant clothing.

But no sign of the journal.

She went through the sideboards in the dining room, but really held no hope of finding the journal there.

If it’s here, it has to be somewhere Mama would feel it would be safe.

But where would that be? She made her way back up to her mother’s bedchamber. When her father was alive, her parents had slept in the master’s suite. After her mother’s disastrous second marriage, she had moved into the adjoining room.

If she had kept the journal in there, the baron might have seen her putting it away. He might have discovered her hiding place.

Tory made another thorough search, but wasn’t surprised to find it not there.

She had twice checked her mother’s sewing room, which seemed the most likely hiding place. Still, she went back down the hall, into the small room her mother had favored. A rosewood settee sat in front of a small stone hearth. Next to it perched the rocking chair her mother had sat in while she stitched samplers, crocheted or read.

A portable oak writing desk sat on a table in the corner. When Tory’s father was alive, the journal had been kept inside. But she had already looked there and found it empty.

Where did you put it, Mama?

It struck her then—if her mother had gone to the trouble of hiding it, perhaps she had hoped that one day her daughters would find it.

Tory left the sewing room and hurried down the hall. During the last week of her life, her mother had begged the baron to take her and Claire home to Windmere. Tory had been away at school, unaware how desperately ill her mother was. She had died here in the house before Tory had time to get there.

If her mother had wanted her to find the journal…

She raced into the bedchamber that had once been her own. She had chosen the soft rose counterpane herself, to complement the heavy rose damask curtains at the windows. Memories of the fun that mother and daughters had shared the day they went shopping crept into her head, but she ruthlessly forced them away.

Hurrying toward the bed, she lifted the feather mattress and made a thorough search beneath, then checked the drawers in the armoire in the corner.

Nothing.

There were still a few items of her clothing in the rosewood dresser against the wall.

And in the bottom drawer, beneath a shawl her mother had knit for her one Christmas, rested the journal.

Tory’s hand shook as she lifted the shawl away and ran her fingers lovingly over the smooth red leather cover, worn over the years from so much use. Dear God, she had actually found it! She swallowed against the lump that formed in her throat as she lifted it out of the drawer, and the book fell open, revealing her mother’s feminine script.

She didn’t read the beginning, those first years after Charlotte Temple had wed the handsome young man she had fallen so deeply in love with. Her mother’s thoughts were her own.

Instead, she skipped to the final days of her mother’s life, those last weeks when she had been so desperately ill. And there it was—the proof Tory had been searching for—exactly as she had imagined.

Tory stopped reading and took a deep breath, fighting to control her racing heart.
Oh, Mama.
She turned the pages, revealing her mother’s growing suspicions—and her fear.

Every page filled Tory with anger and pain.

How could her mother have married him? How could she not have recognized the sort of man he really was? But her mother had been so desperately lonely, so deeply buried in grief. And in the end, she
had
seen.

Tory stared at the lines that were beginning to blur in front of her. She blinked to clear her vision and tears rolled down her cheeks.

He had killed her mother, too!

She brushed away the wetness, despising Miles Whiting, vowing she would see him hang.

She forced herself to continue, though little more was written over the next several days. Then,

It was her final entry. She had died that same day. But somehow she had found the strength to hide the journal in a place she believed Tory would find it. Perhaps she had meant to warn her.

Or to see justice done.

“Well…I see you have finally found it.” Miles Whiting’s voice sent an icy chill down her spine. She whirled to see him standing in the doorway. “It would have been far better had you not…but then you never were a sensible sort of young woman.”

“You killed her! You killed them both!”

“Ah, so that is what your mother had to say. She was delusional, you know…there toward the end. No one will believe a word of what she has written.”

“Oh, I think they will—once I show them my father’s ring! It was supposedly stolen by the men who
killed him. My mother found it in your jewelry case and now I am the one who has it.”

His lean face hardened. “Is that so?” She saw his hand move inside his coat, and an instant later, his long fingers wrapped around the handle of a pistol. Sweet God, confronting him here was the worst possible thing she could have done.

“A ring is hardly proof enough to see me hanged, though your accusations would certainly be enough to cause me unnecessary trouble.”

“How did you find me?” she asked, trying to control the tremor in her voice, trying to give herself time to think. “How did you know I was here?”

He gave her a tight little smile. “Your Mrs. Rathbone has been quite helpful in that regard. She doesn’t care for you much, you know.”

She glanced toward the door, but Harwood blocked her way and the second-story window was too high off the ground. She had the babe to think of. She couldn’t possibly jump.

He motioned with the pistol. “Come. You began this game. Now it is time we finished it.” He backed away from the door so that she had room to get past him, then fell into step behind her, close enough a pistol shot wouldn’t miss.

“Where are we going?”

“You were searching for your mother’s journal. Surely you would want to look in the basement.”

A shiver of fear went through her. Unconsciously her hand came up to the slight rounding of her belly where the babe nestled. She shouldn’t have come. Nothing was worth putting her unborn child at risk.

“I’m not going down there.” She stopped in the
hallway and started to turn, but he shoved the pistol into her ribs.

“If you prefer, I can shoot you right here.”

He would do it, she knew. He would murder her and the child.

“I didn’t come here alone. If you pull the trigger, one of my men will hear the gunshot. They’ll come looking for me.” That wasn’t true, of course, since the men were still in the village.

“Perhaps, but by then you’ll be dead. Since no one knows I am here and I shall be gone within seconds after I fire, it really won’t matter.”

“My husband will know. I left him a letter explaining where I have gone and why. Cord will know you are the one who murdered me and he’ll kill you.”

He laughed. “There is no letter. I instructed Mrs. Rathbone to burn it. Your husband will believe you have gone off with your lover, as you did before. Perhaps he’ll think the man is responsible for your death. Yes…I believe he might think that exactly.”

She clamped down on another round of fear. God in heaven, he knew everything about her! And he had destroyed the letter! If she weren’t at the house when Cord returned and she had left no word of where she had gone, he would believe she had gone to Julian.

He pressed the gun into her ribs, nudging her forward, and she started walking, her legs trembling beneath her skirt. Evan and Griggs had not yet returned. Jacob worked somewhere in the fields, but even if he heard the shot, it would be too late.

“A little faster, if you please. I have plans for the evening.”

Plans that would prove he had been in London the
night she disappeared. There had to be something she could do!

Outside the windows, dusk had begun to fall, a soft purple haze that floated over the landscape. She thought the dim light might work in her favor, but Harwood paused on the landing and instructed her to light the small glass lamp on the Sheraton table.

She held it out in front of her, the flame wobbling, the unsteady light betraying her fear. Continuing forward, she went over her options, of which there seemed none, and fought to control her growing terror.

Perhaps Mrs. Riddle or her husband would come up to the house. Perhaps Evan and Griggs would get the wheel fixed and come to get her. She thought of calling out, but there was no one to hear, and Harwood might simply shoot her.

Still, she couldn’t give up hope. She refused to let him win again.

She held up the lamp and kept walking. Down the broad staircase, along the hall to the short flight leading down to the big, low-ceilinged kitchen. It smelled of long-dead fires, dust and old yeast. As they entered, she glanced toward the wall near the back, where a stairwell led into a storage area below the house.

“Set the lamp on the table.”

She considered throwing it in his face, but he was pointing the gun directly at her and she knew if she made the slightest move, he would pull the trigger. She set the lamp down on the table.