The Secret Pearl (35 page)

She was not sure she had enough. She was not at all sure. But if there was just enough for the ticket, she would not worry about food. She could go without food for a few days. She had done it before.

She could, of course, try to borrow a small sum from Ned Driscoll. But she would probably never see him again to repay the debt, and perhaps she would never have the money with which to do so.

Besides, Ned was already making a sacrifice for her. He had agreed to take her in the gig before dawn into Wollaston to catch the stage. He had been very unwilling to do so, and she was quite sure that if she had offered him money—if she had had money to offer—he would have refused quite adamantly.

But she had had only her persuasive powers and her knowledge that he had a soft spot for her.

Perhaps he would be dismissed for helping her. But she could not think of that. She could not take yet one more burden on her mind. There was no other way of getting to Wollaston on time beyond stealing a horse. She had never stolen anything.

She looked again at the small bundle of clothing that she had tied inside her old gray cloak and wondered if taking the clothes she had bought with his grace’s money in London was theft. But the thought of putting on the old silk dress and gray cloak made her shudder.

She was leaving Willoughby Hall. That much she had decided in the course of the day. She had felt rather like a bear chained to a post all day long—indeed, she had felt much the same for almost three months. She could take no more. If she stayed even one day longer she would lose a part of herself, of her innermost being, and when all was said and done, that was all that was left to her.

She was going to the only place she could go and maintain her pride and integrity. She was going home—to Heron House. By doing so, of course, she was only going to certain destruction. But there were some things worse, she had discovered in the course of three months, than the prospect of facing charges that she could not defend herself against. There were some things worse than the fear of the ultimate punishment.

If she were hanged, she would lose her life. If she remained as she was, she would lose herself.

He could help her, he had said. He would help her. As Matthew had done? He would save her from imprisonment and death in exchange for certain favors? He had denied it vehemently and she had believed him—almost.

But how could she believe him? How could he help her? And why would he wish to do so? To him she was only a
whore whom he had pitied—perhaps. Or a whore he hoped to entice into a more lasting relationship.

She wanted to believe him. She wanted to trust him. But how could she? She had been alone for so long. Even Daniel, who was gentle and godly, would not have been able to help her in her predicament. He would have had a crisis of conscience if she had asked for his help after admitting to him that she had killed Hobson—even though it had been in self-defense.

She wanted so badly to believe him. She sat on the edge of her bed and closed her eyes. And she realized what had been happening to her over the past weeks. He had been turning—so gradually that she had scarcely noticed the transition—from her nightmare into her dream.

Because she had come to know him as a man worthy of respect, liking, and perhaps even …? No. No.

Because he had planned it that way? Gradual seduction by patient steps, more skilled than Matthew?

She dropped her head forward until her chin rested on her chest. She did not know what to believe, but she did know that she must go away from him as much as she must go away for other reasons. He was a married man and perhaps an evil man.

She had an image of him standing in Mr. Chamberlain’s garden, talking with Miss Chamberlain, Lady Pamela sitting up on his shoulder shrieking excitedly into his ear.

She had been his prisoner all day. Jeremy had been outside the library that morning and outside the schoolroom all afternoon. He had escorted her downstairs for dinner and back to her room after she had sat with Mrs. Laycock for a couple of hours.

Had she been his prisoner? Or had he been merely protecting her? Jeremy had told her that Matthew had come upstairs during the afternoon and had been very annoyed to be told that Miss Hamilton had been ordered by his grace to work with her pupil all afternoon without interruption.

But she had felt like a prisoner. Like a prey to both of them. Like a chained bear to their hounds.

She had to leave. She had to go home. Matthew would follow her there, of course, and they would play out the last scene of the drama that had begun almost three months before.

There was no mystery about the conclusion of that drama, of course. But she would no longer avoid it. She had to go back and somehow come to terms with what she had done and with what the consequences were to be.

Better to go back freely than to be taken back in fetters. And better to go back alone and independent than as Matthew’s bride or mistress, her integrity forever gone.

She finally blew out the candle and lay down fully clothed on top of the covers of her bed. She stared up into the darkness.

I
T WAS RAINING AGAIN THE FOLLOWING MORNING. That long warm, dry spell seemed to have deserted them for good, the Duke of Ridgeway thought as he stood at the library window looking out. It seemed that they must face a more typical British summer than the spring had been.

Perhaps it was just as well that it rained. He had been able to plan his talk with Lord Brocklehurst more carefully than he would have done if the sun had shone. He strode restlessly to the desk, gazed down at the unfinished letter lying on its surface, and put it away in a drawer. There was no point in trying to concentrate on writing.

She had not come down to practice in the music room that morning. Just on the day when more than ever he needed the soothing balm of music, she had not come.

And perhaps that was as well too. He was going to send her away soon. In fact, that was the main topic of the letter he was writing to the dowager Countess of Hamm, an old friend of his father’s. Once he had had his talk with Brocklehurst, he was going to make other arrangements for her—unless by some miracle her fortune could be released to her.

His left hand rubbed absently at an aching hip. He was going to have to learn to live without her music. And without
the daily sight of her. He was going to have to find someone else who would be as good for Pamela as she was.

His hand opened and closed at his side. Perhaps Sybil would not object to his taking Pamela to London with him for a few weeks or months. He could not leave her again for another long spell—he had decided that at this last homecoming. But how would he be able to stand the loneliness and the constant aggravations of life at Willoughby?

Especially now that
she
had been there.

Several of the guests had expressed their intention the evening before of leaving within the next few days.

There was a tap at the door and Jeremy opened it to admit Lord Brocklehurst.

“I’m sorry about the ride,” the duke said after the two of them had exchanged morning greetings. “Have a seat. Can I offer you a drink?” He glanced toward the half-open door leading to the music room.

“I have just had breakfast,” Lord Brocklehurst said, sinking into the chair Fleur had occupied a few evenings before and waving a dismissive hand at the offer of a drink. “Devilish weather, Ridgeway. The ladies will be climbing the walls out of boredom. They love to stroll.”

“They must do so in the gallery,” his grace said. “I understand you are planning to deprive me of my governess, Brocklehurst.”

The other’s eyes became wary. He laughed. “Miss Hamilton is a very attractive lady,” he said.

“It is my understanding that the two of you have an unofficial betrothal,” the duke said. “You are a fortunate man.”

Lord Brocklehurst was silent for a moment. “She has told you this?” he asked.

The duke took the chair opposite his companion’s and smiled. “I hope I have not got her into trouble with you by speaking up,” he said. “But I am sure she has not been announcing the news to everyone. She probably thought that
as her employer I should be given some notice of her leaving. She will be going with you, I believe?”

Lord Brocklehurst relaxed back in his chair and returned the duke’s smile. “I am not at all annoyed at her telling you,” he said. “I wished to announce our betrothal officially here, but she has been reluctant. The fact that she is a servant has made her shy.”

“Ah,” the duke said, resting his elbows on the arms of the chair and steepling his fingers, “it is true, then. Congratulations are in order. When are the nuptials to be?”

“Thank you,” Lord Brocklehurst said. “As soon as possible after we leave here. I hope you will not be too greatly inconvenienced, Ridgeway.”

The duke shrugged. “Miss Bradshaw has given me a week’s notice,” he said.

The other nodded, and then his glance sharpened. “She has told you that she has been living here under an assumed name?” he said.

The duke inclined his head. “If the wedding is to be immediate,” he said, “you must have decided not to press charges. Of course, when the charges are theft and murder, the decision is not a justice’s to make. What you must have decided is that the death was not a murder and the removal of the jewels not a theft. Am I right?”

“What has Isabella been saying to you?” Lord Brocklehurst was sitting up in his chair and gripping the arms.

“Nothing at all,” his grace said, crossing one booted leg over the other. “Not even anything about marrying you. I have another source of information.”

Lord Brocklehurst was frowning. “What is going on here, pray?” he asked.

“It seems that I have employed a governess who is not who she claims to be,” the duke said, “and who may or may not be a murderer and who may or may not be a thief. My daughter’s
safety and well-being are at stake. I wish to find out some facts from you, Brocklehurst, if I may. I need your assistance.”

The other sat back in his chair again. “Perhaps I could have that drink after all,” he said.

The duke got to his feet and crossed the room. “Is Miss Bradshaw a thief?” he asked.

“I don’t know where you got your information,” Lord Brocklehurst said, “but you probably know that some of my mother’s jewels were found in a trunk that Isabella was about to take from the house. They were the more costly jewels, which my mother had not taken to London with her.”

“Inside the trunk,” the duke said. “How did she steal them? If they were so costly, were they not kept very carefully under lock and key? To whom did your mother entrust the key when she left?”

“To me, of course,” the other said. “But Isabella has lived in the house all her life. She must have known where the jewels were kept. It is altogether possible that she had a key.”

“There was more than one, then?”

Lord Brocklehurst shrugged.

“Was Miss Bradshaw with her trunk until the moment of discovery?” his grace asked.

“The trunk was opened and the jewels discovered after she had run away,” Lord Brocklehurst said.

“And where was the trunk while she was speaking with you and after she ran away, before someone decided to open it?” the duke asked.

“It was in the gig she planned to take, and then taken back to her room,” the other said.

“I see.” His grace handed him his drink and took his seat again. He had not poured a glass for himself. “How many people would have had access to that trunk after Miss Bradshaw last saw it? Was it locked, by the way?”

Lord Brocklehurst was frowning again. “This sounds remarkably like an interrogation, Ridgeway,” he said.

“My servants must be above reproach,” his grace said, “my daughter’s governess, in particular. Is there any possibility that the jewels might have been planted on her?”

“But who would have a motive for doing such a thing?” Lord Brocklehurst asked.

The duke rubbed his chin. “I see your point,” he said. “But Miss Bradshaw herself had a motive, of course. You had refused to allow her to marry the local curate, I believe, and she was not to come into her fortune for at least another two years. She was eloping presumably without a penny to her name.”

“Your source is well-informed,” Lord Brocklehurst said.

“Yes,” his grace agreed. “My sources usually are if I pay them any heed. Tell me about that death. Was it murder?”

“She was threatening to kill me,” Lord Brocklehurst said. “She was beside herself with anger. Both my valet and I were concerned for her. He tried to prevent her from hurting herself, but she pushed him and killed him. He would not have fallen alone. I believe her action constitutes murder.”

“There is no chance that she misunderstood?” his grace asked. “She was, I believe, alone in the house with you, apart from the servants. In that particular room she was alone with two men. Could she have believed that you meant her mischief?”

Lord Brocklehurst laughed. “Isabella has lived as one of my family since she was a child,” he said. “She is like a daughter to my mother, like a sister to me. Except that she has come to mean more than a sister could. She has been aware of my regard for her for a long time and aware of my hope that she would be my bride. There was no chance of a misunderstanding. Unfortunately I am her guardian and had been forced on that day to the painful task of thwarting her will when it would have led her to unhappiness.”