The Taste of Innocence (55 page)

His eyes locked with hers. “I see you’ve recalled—it was the work of a minute to take it from your escritoire.”

Astonished, she frowned more definitely. “But why?”

He glanced at the diary. “Because your aunt and I had met before. When you reached the entries for May, you would have read that your aunt believed that I was if not responsible for, then certainly the architect of a scheme involving white slave traders that the authorities had just shut down.” His lips twisted. “She was correct.”

His gaze grew unfocused. “She was a remarkable woman—already old, tending toward feeble, yet with needle-sharp wits and so astute. She’d known my parents, apparently quite well. She called me in, told me to my face that she knew my mind was the one behind the scheme, that although I wasn’t the villain who had set it in motion, that didn’t absolve me of all blame, then she warned me against allowing my schemes, as she called them, to be used by others in the future.” He grimaced and refocused on the diary. “Then she wrote it all down and left it to haunt me.”

Sarah continued to frown. “But if Aunt Edith said you weren’t the one at fault, and the authorities saw no reason to charge you, then surely what she wrote, while perhaps pithy and true, related to you as a young man—as you must have been then, in 1816. An indiscretion of youth. I might have noted what she wrote, but I wouldn’t have said anything.”

Malcolm met her eyes, and smiled. “No, you wouldn’t have—not publicly. But, you see, I’d decided to remain in the area, to buy a property and make my home here, and I’ve come to value both Charlie’s and your good opinion. More, given Charlie’s interest in investing in the railways, I couldn’t take the risk you might mention what Edith had written, or worse, show him.”

“Why?” Suspicion was rising, instinctive and compulsive, but of what Sarah couldn’t yet fathom. “What would Charlie have seen in my aunt’s writings that I wouldn’t have?”

Malcolm held her gaze for a long moment, then said, “With what Charlie already knows of me and my reputation, combined with Edith’s insight into the way my mind works, together with the information that I had once before strayed from the straight and narrow—with all that before him, Charlie would have wondered if I wasn’t still indulging in such schemes.

“And as I am”—his voice hardened—“that didn’t seem wise. From merely wondering, it’s a very short step for a financial mind as brilliant as Charlie’s to see the possibilities. To imagine what schemes I might have devised. Once he had, he would have felt compelled to check…and once he did, he might well have stumbled across enough information to suggest that at least one such scheme was indeed in operation. And while he couldn’t have connected it with me, simply having him with that suspicion in his mind wouldn’t have been at all comfortable for me.”

Sarah licked her suddenly dry lips. “You just admitted you’re operating some scheme—what?”

His hazel eyes held hers; when his lips curved again, she felt very much as if he could read her mind.

“Charlie really doesn’t deserve you—you’re much quicker of mind than he realizes. But yes, you’ve guessed correctly—as Charlie eventually would have if he’d ever read your aunt Edith’s words. The investor set on buying Quilley Farm is me.”

Sarah stared at him. Despite his words, she couldn’t really believe…“You are the villain behind…behind all the accidents at the farm?”

Her temper sparked—ignited. She swung her arm out, dramatically pointing across the valley to the ledge where the blackened ruin still smoked. “You are the one who burned the orphanage to the ground?” Abruptly she realized, blinked and let her hand fall. “No—you couldn’t have been.” Confusion swamped her. She refocused on his face. “You were with us—sitting beside me at my parents’ dinner table—while someone was firing flaming arrows at the orphanage.”

He looked at her as if irritated she’d quieted—that she hadn’t kept railing at him. As if he wanted her to rail at him.

When she didn’t but just frowned at him, waiting for an explanation, he frowned back. “No, I didn’t.” His tone had turned precise. His lips tightened. “But that’s not the point. If you read that”—with one long finger he tapped Edith’s diary—“you’ll understand. I have never, not at any time, done anything illegal. I’ve never harmed anyone or caused any accidents, let alone arranged anyone’s death. I have committed no crime. Not personally, not directly. However—just as Edith states—that doesn’t absolve me of the blame.”

His voice hadn’t risen, but had gained in intensity, as had the glare with which he pinned her, as if from being quick-witted she’d suddenly become obtuse. “So no, it wasn’t me who burned down the orphanage—and no, I didn’t know it would happen, not then or ever—I hadn’t given any specific orders about the orphanage at all. I was horrified when you were shot and injured—I spent the next two days hunting my agent to try to call him off. All I’d told him was that I wanted the title to Quilley Farm, and that there was no rush, as long as it eventually became mine.”

Caught in his gaze, Sarah saw the anguish—entirely real and unfeigned—that flowed into his eyes.

“Then last night…I was with you, Charlie, and the rest when we heard that the orphanage was alight. I rode with you, worked with Charlie and the others to try—totally futilely—to beat back the flames.” He focused on her eyes. “No one there had a better reason than I to fight that fire. But I was helpless to stop it—I had to stand there with you and watch the place burn, see and hear the terror and upset of the children—see and know how much pain and heartache I’d caused with my scheme.” He held her gaze unwaveringly, his expression unshielded, his emotions entirely unscreened. “On top of it all, I had to watch Charlie and Barnaby risk their lives to save babies I’d put at risk—and know, beyond question, that I lacked both their courage and their compassion.”

He paused, then went on, his voice lower but still clear, “I had to stand there knowing that the anguish visited on you and everyone else was my fault— my responsibility. That as Edith had warned all those years ago, it should be laid at my door.”

Again his gaze grew distant; Sarah watched, too caught in the moment, in his revelations, to think or move. Despite his confessions, she felt not an iota of threat from him.

“I’d always thought I was so clever—thought I was so successful.” His voice had dropped to a murmur she had to strain to hear over the thundering crash of the falls. “Instead, the truth is, I’ve been an abject failure.”

He refocused on her, then drew in a breath and seemed to come out of his trance—to return to the here and now. His lips twisted, wry and self-deprecating; he raised his voice so she could more easily hear. “And now everything’s falling apart. The authorities are finally on my trail, and crime or no, this time they won’t let me escape.”

She stared at him. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I want you to understand. I want someone to understand before I go.” He searched her eyes, clearly wondering if she did. “I can’t tell you how much I regret not listening to your aunt. If I had…but I can’t change the past. I arrogantly did precisely what she’d warned me never to do, and now I’m reaping my just reward.”

Sarah looked into his eyes and knew he was sincere. She wasn’t quite so sure he was sane. He seemed determined to embrace his guilt, to own to it—to make a clean breast of it. Even though he intended to escape.

But while his confession had made her wary, she could still sense no threat from him; no matter his words, she found it hard to fear him. She sincerely hoped that wasn’t because he looked so much like an older Charlie that her instincts had become confused.

“So.” She moistened her lips. “What now?”

“Now…” His gaze went past her; he looked back along the track toward the clearing. As if he’d heard something.

She glanced back.

And heard him murmur, voice once again low, “Now I intend to put one thing right before I leave—do one thing of which Edith Balmain would approve, and how fitting that it should be for her niece.”

Turning back, Sarah looked at his face. There was something there, becoming clearer in his expression—a sense of refined strength and purpose—that had her edging back.

Quick as a flash, he shackled her wrist. She twisted it, tried to tug free, but although his grip wasn’t tight enough to hurt, it was unbreakable.

“Don’t fight me.” He glanced briefly at her before again looking over her head toward the track. “I have absolutely no intention of harming you, or Charlie, not in any way.” Unbelievably, his lips quirked up at the ends. “That would be counterproductive, to say the least.”

She stared at him, then glared. “You’re talking in riddles.” Like one demented.

He glanced at her; his face had resumed its usual impassive mien. “I’ve said all I want to—need to—say to you.” Lifting his head, he looked at the track. “But I haven’t yet finished with Charlie.”

She finally heard the hoofbeats he’d been listening to nearing the clearing, their thunder a more regular tattoo above the rumbling roar of the falls.

Suddenly not at all sure of her safety—of his sanity—she looked up at him. “What is this all about?”

For a moment, she didn’t think he would reply, then he stated, coolly, collectedly, “As I said, my life is unraveling before me, entirely out of my control—what remains in my control is how I deal with that.”

The hoofbeats drew nearer. She looked up as Charlie reined in before the lip of the steep slope. His face stony and set, he looked at her, then at Malcolm. From where he was he’d be able to see the hold Malcolm had on her wrist, and Edith’s diary in her other hand.

Without a word, Charlie dismounted. He looped Storm’s reins over the saddle, then pushed the big hunter back toward the clearing; the gelding ambled off toward the other horses.

Charlie started down the track, nimbly switching to the rough-hewn steps as he descended. The roar from the falls made it futile to speak until he was closer.

“Stop!”

Charlie looked up at Malcolm’s sharp command. Stepping down to the second last step before the bridge, Charlie studied Sarah; she appeared as shocked as he felt and if anything even more confused, yet although uncertain, she was still calm.

Halting, he raised his gaze to Malcolm’s face. Despite what he now knew, and what he’d guessed, in meeting Malcolm’s hazel eyes he still saw…the same man he’d until half an hour ago admired. “It was you all along, wasn’t it? The investor wanting to buy the orphanage? You are the one behind the land companies profiteering from the development of the railways.”

Despite the lack of evidence, the connection had clicked into place in his mind—and fitted. It might even explain why they were there—Malcolm had realized he could lure Sarah with her aunt’s diary, and through Sarah lure him…although what Malcolm hoped to gain by having them there was presently beyond him.

Malcolm’s brows rose, but his expression remained impassive. “I wondered how long it would be before you worked that out. I didn’t think it would be so soon.” His tone suggested he was pleasantly impressed, then his lids flickered and that sense of plea sure faded. A second ticked by, then he said, “Ah…of course. It was you, wasn’t it, who thought of directing someone to search in retrograde—to seek the source of the funds rather than try to follow where the profits went?”

Charlie held his gaze, and didn’t reply.

Malcolm’s lips quirked. “Indeed—who else?”

There was one big problem with the scenario forming in Charlie’s mind. He’d seen Malcolm’s horror when he’d heard Sarah had been shot, had seen him fighting as desperately as any of them to beat back the flames that had engulfed the orphanage. Eyes narrowed on Malcolm’s, he tilted his head. “What happened? Did your henchman run amok?”

When Malcolm stilled, but didn’t respond, Charlie asked, “Who is he?”

Malcolm dismissed the question with a flick of his free hand; his other hand still gripped Sarah’s wrist, resting on the rope handrail between them. “Don’t worry about him—you’ll learn his name soon enough. At present he doesn’t concern me.” Malcolm’s voice hardened. “You, however, do.”

Charlie hesitated, then held his arms out to either side, palms displayed. “You told me to come—here I am.”

He shifted to step down to the next rock.

“No!” Malcolm’s tone made him freeze. Catching his eye, Malcolm nodded to the piers anchoring the bridge. “Look at the ropes.”

Charlie did, and felt his lungs seize. The stout, reliable ropes that had anchored the bridge for years had been cut, and spliced with thinner ones. The ropes now anchoring the bridge on which Sarah and Malcolm stood were significantly less able to support weight.

“Both ends,” Malcolm said. As Charlie’s gaze swept past him to check, he continued, “I’ve calculated the forces, the strain—you know how it’s done. The ropes as they now are will support the weight of two people, but not three.” Malcolm paused, then went on, “So if you attempt to join us, the bridge will collapse and you will be responsible for sending us all, Sarah included, to our deaths.”

With his head he indicated the raging water breaking over jagged rocks below. “And it is, indubitably, death waiting down there.”

“He’s telling the truth.” Sarah spoke for the first time since Charlie had arrived. Pale, she met his eyes, her expression quietly horrified. “The bridge swayed when I stepped on it.” Her gaze dropped to the spliced ropes. “I didn’t realize why.”