The Women of Eden (65 page)

Seated in her chair before the fire, she realized that she had been rudely staring. "Forgive me, Mr. Stanhope," she murmured, "but I've seen you before."

"You have."

Surprised, she looked up. "Where?"

"At Eden, at the Festivities last spring. I was with Mr. Delane," he went on, "John Thadeus Delane. I believe 3^ou are an acquaintance of his. We shared a carriage for about three minutes, and you appeared to be under duress."

Then she remembered—the approach to Eden, her argument with Mary raging, trying to draw her back and almost tumbling headlong through the open carriage door.

"I'm afraid it was not one of my better moments"—she smiled ruefully—"and, since I've not tumbled out of any carriage doors of late, to what do I owe this—"

"I have—come," he began, "on a matter of great importance, a matter which has almost driven me to distraction." His hands were interlaced so tightly that they appeared to tremble. "I have come to inquire about—Mary."

"What about Mary? Do you know her?"

All at once another veil of memory lifted. Of course he knows her, from that same occasion, the Eden Festivities, the disastrous ball. This was the gentleman with whom Mary had been dancing when John had—

"You do know her, don't you, Mr. Stanhope? It was the night of the ball."

"I know her," he admitted softly. "I knew her long before my journey to Eden."

"May I ask where?" Elizabeth went on. "Mary was living here with me at the time, and I thought I knew all—"

"I—never called on her," he said. "I didn't even know who she was. I just knew that every Thursday night there was only one place

in London for me, and that was Jeremy Sims' Song and Supper Club."

Moved by the tribute and eager to understand all, Elizabeth walked briskly to the fire. Without warning, a grim thought intervened. The Mary who had captivated this gentleman and the Mary now in residence in Cheltenham bore no resemblance one to the other.

'Those days at Jeremy Sims' are over," she said firmly, "and it was my hope that they had been forgotten as well."

"They haven't," he said with matching firmness. He, too, stood. "And, as you know, I saw her again at Eden Castle."

Elizabeth laughed, trying to ease the tension. "Indeed I do remember. A bit of unscheduled excitement, I believe someone called it." She paused, noting that he did not share her amusement. She felt compelled to offer a belated apology. "I am sorry, Mr. Stanhope. I can imagine your humiliation, and over so slight a cause, a harmless dance."

"The cause was not slight, nor was the dance harmless."

"I don't understand."

He drew a step closer. "Halfway through that dance with Mary I knew what was happening, and she knew it as well." He bowed his head. "We were—forgive me—falling in love," he said simply.

Elizabeth gaped. Falling in lovel How innocent that might have sounded if it had been pronounced in any other fashion and by any other man. But this was not a callow youth standing before her, or a pampered dandy or a self-centered young lord.

"Sweet heavens," she murmured, and suflfered a pang of grief. Obviously he did not know the fate that had befallen his beloved. Was this the purpose of his visit. If so, God help them both.

"Mr. Stanhope," she said, "why are you here? Why are you telling me this?"

"I have lost her," he confessed. "We had made—arrangements upon our return to London, arrangements built on deception, I'll admit, but what choice did we have? I begged her repeatedly to let me announce myself and call for her here. But she was terrified—"

"Of what?" Elizabeth asked.

"Of her cousin, Mr. Eden, and in a way, of you."

She bowed her head.

"I'm sorry."

"Please," she said and took advantage of the digression to gain the

sideboard and the reinforcement of a small brandy. Without words she lifted the decanter to him, but he declined.

"She felt," he went on, "that the two of you were in collusion against her. Of course, she knew that you both would remember me from the unpleasantness at Eden."

"And what were these—arrangements of deception?" she asked, holding her position by the sideboard.

"We met daily, every afternoon, under the pretense of riding."

Elizabeth looked up. Of course. It made sense now. How happy Mary must have been each day as she descended those stairs, knowing that shortly she would be in his presence. "May I ask one question, Mr. Stanhope?"

"Yes?"

"Did Mary—return your love?"

"She said that she did, and I believed her."

Elizabeth nodded. It had been a foolish question. Shaking her head, she returned to the fire. "Mary was right. It would have been pure disaster for you to come here."

"I conceded as much, though the seasons were against us. We knew that we couldn't meet forever in the park, and the last time I saw her I begged her to let me introduce myself to you." He paused. "For some reason, I sensed in you—an ally."

"So now you've lost her."

'Tes. I was to have met her one day as usual when I received this note"—and he retrieved the folded piece of stationery which Elizabeth had placed on the tea table. "As you read, she instructs me not to come, informs me that certain circumstances have arisen and that she would explain later."

"You didn't go to the park as usual that day?"

"No. Knowing that she wouldn't be there, I had no reason to do so.

Elizabeth studied his face. She knew nothing about him. He was, in all respects save one, a stranger. Yet that one exception was of vast importance and consisted of little more than an emotional recognition. He had told her the truth; she was certain of it. In spite of the overpowering odds against him, he obviously was deeply in love with Mary Eden, to the extent that he had disrupted his entire life.

Then she would test him to the fullest, and her next step would depend upon his reaction to her tragic message. "It was—an appointment you should have kept, Mr. Stanhope, in spite of the message."

She was aware of him approaching her, drawn by her mysterious manner.

Then inform himl "You see, Mr. Stanhope, she waited for you that evening, too late, and under the veil of darkness was—attacked by assailants who are still unknown."

His face seemed to grow pale, though he did not take his eyes off her. "Go on."

"She was brought home shortly after ten that evening. By the police. Her hair had been cut off. She had been raped."

His Hps moved, though no words came out. She saw him lift his head as though to accommodate a sharp pain, and the momentum seemed to drag him about where he returned to the chair by the fire and sat heavily, his hands covering his face.

Not faring so well herself, Elizabeth turned back to the vidndow, aware that she must give him time. At least it was over now. Undoubtedly he would digest the truth and leave and start the slow healing process, striking Mary from his mind and heart. It was for the best. In spite of the "good reports" which John claimed to have received from Cheltenham, Mary would never fully recover, was now headed for safe spinsterhood or safer madness.

"Nol"

The angry word came from behind her. Startled, she looked up to see Mr. Stanhope on his feet, the piece of paper bearing the false message in his fist.

"No," he repeated, apparently accepting nothing. "It makes no sense," he said, Hfting the note to her. "Why would she send me a message telling me not to come, then go herself?"

Sharing his bafflement, Elizabeth hurried toward him, trying to offer comfort, even if it was illogical. "I—don't know," she stammered. "Perhaps she—changed her mind."

"Then she would have sent a second message."

Suddenly Elizabeth stopped, remembering her confusion when first she'd read the message. "Let me see that again," she demanded, and took the page from him,

"This—is not Mary's handwriting," she murmured and looked up, aware of the man hovering over her.

'Then who wrote it?" he demanded.

Again she looked down at the note. She couldn't be absolutely certain, but the similarities were astonishing.

"Who wrote it, Elizabeth?" he demanded again.

"I—can't be certain," she stalled. It was not possMe.

"Elizabeth?" Suddenly he grasped her arm. "I beg you."

"It resembles—John's handwriting."

The hand that grasped her arm held on, as though she were a lifeline. She was wrong. Of course she was wrong and, in an attempt to confirm her own tragic error, she glanced down again at the writing.

But she was not wrong. The slant of the letters, the letters themselves, were all too familiar. She'd seen the same penmanship countless times before, on letters from Eden, on notes requesting a special favor, on deeds which she had cosigned.

"Then—there should be another note," Mr. Stanhope said quietly.

"I don't understand."

"A second note," he repeated, "addressed to Mary, telling her to wait for me."

"No!" Elizabeth protested, his implication unbearable. John might have found out about their clandestine meetings and interceded in an attempt to bring them to a halt. But a second note to Mary implied—

"I must ask you to leave me, Mr. Stanhope," she said abruptly.

In response to the dismissal he held his ground. "I have no intention of leaving, Elizabeth. I have nothing to lose by offending you, and we both have everything to gain by uncovering the truth."

"There was no second message/' she declared angrily, his persistence becoming offensive.

"How do you know? Have you searched her chambers, the garments she was wearing when—" He turned away. "Believe me, this is no easier for me than it is for you."

She did believe him. Still, what he had implied was criminal. Of late John had been guilty of many things, from crass thoughtlessness to arrogant highhandedness. But not this.

"Again, Mr. Stanhope," she said, moving away from the fire, "I must ask you to leave. I'm sorry for whatever grief you may have suffered, but—"

"Then tell me where she is," he asked, confronting her across the distance of the room as though she'd said nothing.

"I can't do that."

"Why not?"

"John has requested-"

Suddenly anger as raw as any she'd ever witnessed erupted from that corner of the room. "John—has requested," he repeated, and

scooped up the note which bore the suspect handwriting and thrust it at her as though it were a weapon. "My God, by your own assessment John Murrey Eden was the one who wrote this message that lured her into the park that evening. And, since you refuse to assist me with the rest of the mystery, at least tell me where she is so that I may go to her."

"That is precisely why I'm not going to tell you," Elizabeth said, sick of the afternoon. "It is John's opinion that she needs—"

"Damn John's opinion!" he shouted. Then the rage seemed to subside as quickly as it had surfaced. He appeared to study the note in his hand, then resignedly tossed it back onto the table. "Mary was right," he said, as though at last he'd exhausted himself. "She was accurate in her inclination to fear both of you, though on several occasions I tried to convince her that you meant her no harm." • ■• •

Elizabeth heard the accusation and started to respond to it, then changed her mind.

He stood before her, having halted his progress to the door. "I will find her," he vowed, and the vow was all the worse for the manner in which it had been delivered. "Wherever she is, whatever she has endured, I will find her and offer her again my love and my protection."

Incongruously he gave a soft laugh. "She was so—lonely, you know. The most foreign emotion in the world to her was happiness. She was suspect of it, certain that it would not last."

He shook his head. "How thoughtful of you both to reinforce her vision of the world."

Elizabeth tried to confront him, convinced that she did not have to endure either him or his accusations. But at that moment, her fagade broke. Suffering an image of Mary as she'd been brought home that night, she stepped back from his accusations and reached for the sofa, where she sat and stared into space. "What—do you want me to do, Mr. Stanhope?"

"A search, if you will, please. I think, for both our sakes, we need to find the second note."

"There was no—" she began and ceased speaking. Words were useless when confronted with that determination. Wearily she rose and was almost to the door when she looked back to see him standing where she'd left him.

"Aren't you coming?" she asked, giving in to a bit of sarcasm.

"You seem so certain. Perhaps you can lead us directly to the place of concealment, thus shortening both the search as well as—"

"I do have an idea."

"I thought as much,"

"We had never exchanged messages," he went on, impervious to her comment. "In spite of its disappointing nature, I recall that for several days I carried her note around with me, deriving pleasure from its presence. After all, it had come from her, from her hand, or so I thought."

"What is it that you are trying to say?"

"Don't you see? If I responded in that way to a message from her, why would she not do the same?"

"I don't understand."

"Her garments," he said bluntly. "Do you still have the garments she was wearing that day?"

"No, of course not."

"Are you certain?"

"Of course I'm certain. They were torn and soiled and still bore—" Without warning she remembered. She had undressed Mary that night. She had been alone. She had stripped those foul garments from her and—

"You do have them, don't you?"

"I remember—but Doris was to have burned them—" She looked up from the staircase. "They were so—terrible," she whispered. "I remember I—hid them in the small cupboard behind the screen, thinking—"

Then they were moving. Halfway up the stairs she was aware of his hand on her arm, whether in assistance or to speed her along, she couldn't say. She gained the top of the stairs, lifted the lamp from the wall standard and led the way down the shadowy corridor, stopping before Mary's door.

She had thought that he might grant her a moment to catch her breath, but instead he took the lamp from her and pushed open the door and was halfway across Mary's chamber before she called out, "No. Over there, behind the screen."