The Spring Bride (6 page)

“You mean is there anyone who will vouch that I am who those documents say I am? Yes, of course.” Zach listed half a dozen names, mostly former schoolfellows, adding, “And Gil Radcliffe, at the Horse Guards, can vouch for my activities during the late war.”

Smith, busily noting down the names, brightened. “During the late war? You were a soldier, then?”

“Not quite.”

“Oh. Some kind of spy, I gather.” The disapproval in his voice told Zach a good deal. Smith belonged to the majority of Englishmen who regarded spying as an ungentlemanly occupation. Gentlemen fought in the open, man-to-man, face-to-face. Spies lurked in the dark, trading in lies and secrets.

Zach rather enjoyed the life. And ungentlemanly or not, spies risked their lives for information that saved hundreds, sometimes thousands, of others. He gave a faint smile, neither confirming nor denying the charge.

“Your father might vouch for me too, assuming his memory is still intact. I was just a lad the last time we met, and no doubt I've changed a good deal, but we met several times.”

Smith nodded. “I don't doubt it; now I know who you are. You aren't much like your father, but your resemblance to your
late grandfather is unmistakable, especially around the eyes. Ill health forced Father to retire, but his brain is as sharp as ever. He'll gladly identify you.”

Zach added with a glimmer of dark amusement, “No doubt Cousin Gerald will also identify me, though not, I fear, gladly.”

Smith pursed his lips. “I did advise him to wait until all legal ends had been tied up, but . . .” He made a faint gesture of frustration.

“Always was a greedy little tick. So is that all? Can you have the hearing stopped, or must I appear and prove my identity?”

“I will try, but I think—I am sure, in fact, that your cousin will insist on the hearing. It has been, as you know, twelve years since you've been seen in England, and well, he—”

“Having considered himself owner of all that is mine, he will be bound to dispute my claim,” Zach finished for him. “He can carry on all he likes—and knowing Gerald, he will—but there's no denying I'm alive and well. So is that all, then? I can leave it in your hands?” He rose.

“Ah, no.” Smith looked, if possible, even more worried now than when Zach had arrived. “There is”—he swallowed—“a complication.”

Zach seated himself again. “Complication?”

“Something rather more serious.”

“Indeed?” Zach waited.

“I foresee no difficultly in establishing your identity, sir. But that in itself is the problem.”

“I don't follow you.”

“The difficulty is—” Smith took a deep breath. “The moment you have proved your identity, you will be arrested.”

There was a short silence. “On what charge?”

“Murder.”

Surprises are foolish things. The pleasure is not enhanced, and the inconvenience is often considerable.

—JANE AUSTEN,
MANSFIELD PARK

“M
urder?” Zach repeated mildly. He'd personally killed five men in his life, each one an enemy of his country and killed in the line of duty. And in time of war. And though he'd been indirectly responsible for the deaths of several others—again, overseas and in the service of his country—not one of those acts could be called murder.

“Yes,
murder
.” Smith seemed to feel the need to stress the word, to underline the gravity of the situation.

“And who, pray tell, am I meant to have murdered?”

Smith seemed astonished that he would have to ask. “Your mother, of course.”

“My
mother
?” Zach eyed Smith narrowly. “This is a joke, I apprehend.”

“A joke?” Smith said, shocked. “I would
never
joke about murder.”

“Then to accuse me of murdering my mother is simply ridiculous.”

“You didn't kill your mother, sir?” Smith looked relieved.

“I suppose in a manner of speaking I was responsible for her death,” Zach admitted with a careless shrug. He was hungry and wanted to get this nonsense over with.

Smith's jaw tightened.

“But I can't honestly be blamed for it,” he continued. “Don't tell me they're charging babies with murder these days?”

Smith said in a scandalized tone, “Sixteen is hardly a baby.”

“Sixteen?” Zach shook his head. “I was three weeks old when my mother died of childbed fever. I was, some might say, responsible, but it was hardly my fault.”

“Ah. No.” Smith flicked through the documents that remained in front of him, and gave a
tsk!
of annoyance. “My apologies, my—sir, I inadvertently misrepresented the situation. I am referring to your father's second wife, your
step
mother. It's her murder you're accused of.”

Zach sat forward. “Cecily is dead? When did this happen?”

“Twelve years ago, sir. The night you left Wainfleet.”

Zach sat back. “Nonsense. I saw her several weeks after I left Wainfleet—we left there together—and she was in the pink of health. And she's written to me on and off over the years. I think the last letter was at Christmas.” He frowned. “Or was it the year before? Oh well, she's not dead, that's the important thing.”

Smith leaned forward and gave him a searching look. “Do you have those letters?”

Zach shook his head. “Of course not. Why would I keep them?”

Smith sighed. “They might have helped prove she was alive. You'll have to prove she is, you know. Can you?” The man still seemed to have doubts.

Zach shrugged. “I expect so. It'll be a damned nuisance, though.”

“A
nuisance
?” Smith echoed him, incredulously. “You are facing
a murder charge
.”

“Yes, and it's a blasted inconvenience. But tell me, I'm curious—setting aside the fact that I had no reason to want poor Cecily dead, how am I supposed to have killed her? And why, for heaven's sake?”

“The ‘why' is a matter of speculation. As to how”—Smith consulted his notes—“you—er,
someone
hit her over the head and threw her body in the lake at Wainfleet.”

Zach snorted. “Rather crude of me, I would have thought. Oh, don't look at me like that, man, it's a mistake.”

Smith looked troubled. “Your stepmother's body was most positively identified.”

He raised a brow. “By whom?”

“By your father.”

“My
father
?” Now that was a surprise.

“And at least three servants.” Smith glanced at the file before him and added, “The body had been stripped of jewelry: her rings, in particular, were missing. And . . .”

Zach's stomach rumbled. Outside he could hear carts rattling over the cobbles and a pie man calling his wares. He hadn't yet broken his fast, apart from the ginger nuts. “And?” he prompted after a moment.

Smith cleared his throat uncomfortably. “A young man answering your description sold some jewelry in London some weeks later, jewelry which your father identified as belonging to his late wife—your mother, I mean. And some belonging to your stepmother. The jeweler swore an affidavit and your father identified the jewels.” Smith scanned Zach's face. “Do you have any explanation for that, sir?”

Zach wrinkled his nose. “It's true I sold my mother's rubies,” he admitted. “But they were hers by right, and not entailed, and were therefore mine to sell. I sold some jewels for Cecily too—jewels that my father had given her and not part of the estate—and I gave her the money. What else was she to live on? My father never made her an allowance.”

“And the rings?”

Zach made an impatient gesture. “I know nothing of any rings. I never touched the dead woman, whoever she was. As far as I know, Cecily is still wearing her rings. Or if she isn't, she will still have them. Probably,” he added. Cecily had no reason to keep the rings, not for any sentimental reasons.

“So you didn't do it, sir? Kill her, I mean.”

“Of course I didn't do it. I don't hurt women,” Zach said irritably. He'd helped Cecily to escape his father for her own protection, dammit. “But it'll be a blasted nuisance having to prove it.”

“More than a nuisance, I fear,” Smith said. “Forgive my blunt speaking, sir, but in my view—and Father's too—the evidence against you is quite strong. It's been twelve years since the murder, and for almost all of that time you have been absent from this country. It's going to be very difficult to disprove.” Judging by
the expression on his face, the lawyer thought it more like impossible.

Zach wasn't the slightest bit worried. He knew Cecily was alive and well and living in Wales. It was almost amusing. Or it would be, if it wasn't so blasted inconvenient. He'd planned to leave England almost immediately. After seeing Gil, he realized that he'd be delayed by having to prove his identity and deal with the various matters arising from his father's death. But this . . . a murder charge could hold up things for a ridiculously long time.

“So the instant I prove my identity, I'll get clapped in irons and hauled off to prison?”

“Not in
irons
.” Smith sounded horrified by the suggestion. “You are
a
gentleman
, after all. But prison certainly.”

“You relieve my mind,” Zach said dryly. He gave a short laugh. “So my choice is to claim my inheritance and risk hanging for murder—unless I produce, alive and well, the stepmother I have not seen for twelve years—or to remain Zachary Black and live by my wits, as I have the past twelve years.”

Smith nodded. “In a nutshell. And until we locate your stepmother, it would be better if you continued under your current name. If you give me her last known address, I will have her traced and obtain a certified witness statement.”

Zach nodded. He'd given Cecily his word not to divulge her whereabouts to his father, but his father was dead, and Cecily now had nothing to fear. He gave it.

“In
Wales
?” Smith exclaimed in surprise. From the way he said it, it might have been Outer Mongolia.

“Yes, with an old school friend who'd been widowed. And her letters came from the same village, so you should be able to locate her easily enough.”

“I hope so, sir. If we're not able to find her—”

“I'll go to Wales myself, find her and fetch her back here.” She probably would welcome a visit to London after all this time. Cecily did like to shop.

The lawyer shook his head. “Not a good idea, sir. Better if you left it in the hands of, er, impartial witnesses. Don't want any accusations of, er, tampering with the evidence, do we?”

“Rubbish. How could producing the woman I'm supposed to have murdered possibly be construed as tampering with the evidence?”

The lawyer grimaced. “There was a case last year that caused quite a scandal. A noble gentleman's long-lost heir who'd been missing for twenty years appeared to claim his inheritance. He was very convincing, but eventually was proved to be a fraud. Someone had noticed his resemblance to the heir and coached him thoroughly to impersonate the heir.”

He added with an apologetic expression, “People get suspicious now when heirs or witnesses conveniently turn up out of the blue. We wouldn't want to be accused of finding a woman who looks like your stepmother and coaching her, now would we? Best leave it to us, sir.”

Zach considered it. It seemed ridiculous to him, but he gave an acquiescent shrug. He preferred to do things himself rather than to leave them in the hands of unknown people. But having crossed Europe quickly by the fastest—and most uncomfortable—route possible, he could not deny that being spared a journey into North
Wales had a definite appeal. Come to think of it, he was due a few sybaritic luxuries himself.

“In the meantime, I would advise you to, er, lie low.”

“Lie low?”

Smith nodded apologetically. “It would not do if someone recognized you before we located your stepmother. So where can I contact you?” His pencil was poised to note it down. “Your address?”

Zach gave him Gil's address. “That's temporary. I'll let you know if and when I find something more permanent.” He picked up his hat. “Is that all?”

Smith nodded. Zach stood and walked to the door. He glanced back at the lawyer and grinned. “Rather a piquant situation, don't you think?”

“
Piquant?
”
Smith stared. “I'd call it
damnable
.”

“You think so?” He opened the door. “But then, I've always quite enjoyed a challenge.” He winked at the glowering clerk and headed for the exit.

It looked like he'd be staying in England for some time, blast it. He hadn't planned to stay more than a few days, but now he'd found there was a plot afoot to deny him his home and birthright—by Cousin Gerald, the little weasel—he was damned if he'd tamely hand it over.

In the meantime, he just had to stay invisible. No difficulty with that. Staying invisible was what he did best.

*   *   *

Z
ach walked along, munching on a pie—a good, solid English meat pie—and turning the lawyer's revelations over and over in his mind. It didn't make sense.

Who was the dead woman?

Twelve years ago, he'd escorted Cecily to her widowed friend in Wales, traveled back to London, sold the jewels and then returned to Wales to give Cecily her share of the money.

It couldn't possibly be Cecily.

Not unless she'd returned to Wainfleet after he'd left her that second time, and he would have sworn that wild horses wouldn't have dragged her back there.

His father would have if he'd found her, but how could he? Zach hadn't told a soul and Cecily had just wanted to disappear forever—somewhere his father would never find her.

Besides, Smith had said the woman must have died the night he and Cecily had fled Wainfleet, which was nonsense. And in any case, there were his letters from Cecily.

So why had his father identified the dead woman as Cecily? His father
and
three servants. Damn. He should have asked Smith which servants.

His father had been a brute and a bully, but he'd also had a great deal of family pride and it wasn't like him to lie—not this kind of cold-blooded lie, the kind that would make his only son a wanted man. Blackening the family name.

Unless he'd been in a rage . . . In a rage, especially a drunken one, there was nothing his father would not do, up to and including the beating of his fragile young wife and his only son senseless.

Had his father identified the dead woman as Cecily to hide the humiliating fact that she'd left him, fled his house with her sixteen-year-old stepson? Had he imagined, in some blind, drunken, idiotic rage, that they'd eloped? And blamed his son for the murder?

It was possible.

Or had he beaten up some other woman in a rage and identified her as Cecily to cover up his crime? That too was possible.

But it didn't explain the servants who'd also identified the
dead woman as Cecily. Zach kicked a pebble along the pavement. It just didn't make sense.

It wasn't as if he could just walk up to Bow Street and seek answers to his questions. If Smith was right, the only response Zach would get was arrest and imprisonment, followed by a long wait in jail until the case came to trial and his innocence was proved—and that would be damned inconvenient.

No, dammit, he'd just have to lie low until they could prove Cecily was alive and well. It was annoying, but that was all.

In the meantime, he was here, in England. He finished his pie and brushed the last of the few crumbs of pastry from his fingers. An England in which his father was dead. He wasn't sure how he felt about that.