True Story (The Deverells, Book One) (43 page)

Ransom wanted to know what Inspector
O'Grady had wanted.

"He tried to make me agree with him
about a lady of my acquaintance. Sadly I could not do so. It seems
I know her better than he does."

"What lady?” Ransom frowned. "The one
mother told me about? The black widow you hired?"

Of course, Charlotte wasted no time
spreading the vile gossip once she got back to London.

"You should be careful with that
woman, father. She's killed three men already."

Amusing counsel coming from a son who,
two years ago, shot him in the shoulder.

"Ransom," he replied steadily, "Have
you not learned by now that rumors are exactly that? Only that.
Never believe until you know it for yourself. As a Deverell you
ought to know that better than anybody. Always get the true
story."

His son looked skeptical. "Perhaps, in
this woman's case, you don't want to believe the
gossip."

"Well, when you meet her, I'll let you
decide for yourself." He smiled archly. "Hopefully you're a better
at judging women and their motives these days."

"Women!" Ransom's lip jerked in
disdain, his handsome face stern. "As you used to say, father, the
wretched creatures are always underfoot, waiting to trip a man."
Then he added with a knowing look. "I hope you still heed your own
advice."

"Worry not about me, son." He clapped
the boy on his wide shoulder. "I've had twenty or so years more
than you. You're just beginning to learn that women aren't all
bubbies and soft parts. I've known that a long time."

His son's eyes were wary. "What's
changed about you, father? There's something new."

"I'm...maturing. Like a fine
brandy."

"Mother says you're writing your
memoirs." He folded his arms. "Are you ill?"

"Me? Ill? Never." In fact, he'd seldom
felt better. What did the doctors know anyway? "I'm writing my
story for you. For all of you, but mostly I suppose for you." He
laughed. "You're the one who prompted me into action when you put
that bullet through me."

Ransom's face turned gray and he
uncrossed his clenched arms. "I didn't mean to—"

"Oh, yes you did. We all make
mistakes, son. We all act on impulses we will later regret. I
realized then that I'd foolishly kept a great deal from my sons,
thinking it would protect them. But I was wrong. Ignorance is not
bliss. Every child needs to know the truth of where they came from
and what they are. I hope my story will help you understand some of
the choices I made— even the mistakes."

For a long moment his son studied his
face, then he said, "I've never heard you admit to a single error
before."

"See? I
am
maturing."

* * * *

When Lady Charlotte's
first son was laid in his arms, he did not know what to do or feel
or say. This tiny, squealing creature was made by him. He was
responsible for it.

Overwhelmed, he wanted to
pass it back to the midwife, but she had already returned to his
wife's chamber and shut the door. So he took the babe to the light
of a window and examined it carefully to be sure it had all its
parts. The eyes were dark, like Charlotte's, and they stared up at
him, slowly opening wider as the wrinkled mouth continued making
noise of a terrible, ear-piercing tenor.

Well, he had brought this
being to life. It was up to him now to teach the child how to live.
Fortunately he knew something about survival.

But he could not coddle
the child when it cried. That he could not do, for he had no
knowledge of how.

As if the babe knew this,
it's wailing petered out. Man and boy studied each
other.

"I'll do what I can," True
muttered gruffly. "I make no promises."

It was all new to him. To
them both.

The babe raised a fist
toward his face and shook it.

"Just like your mother,"
he sighed.

It was some time before he
realized it was trying to reach his nose, not blacken his
eye.

They would be at similar
cross purposes for many years to come.

Chapter Thirty

They took the mail coach to
Launceston, but learned it would be impossible to travel farther
that evening. Christopher grumbled at having to pay for a room at
the inn and, to save himself a few pennies, he rented a small
chamber for one, sneaking Olivia in behind the busy landlord's
back.

"You have gone to great expense to
fetch me home," she muttered sarcastically. "Was it really so
urgent?"

"Yes. I don't suppose you have given a
thought to my engagement. I am only weeks away from the wedding,
and I cannot afford to have your behavior spoiling things for
me."

"
Me
, spoil things for
you
?" The paradox was
lost on him, however.

A servant brought them supper, but
Olivia had no appetite. She watched as her stepbrother fussed with
his hat and gloves. The umbrella leaned against the arm of his
chair, that thick silver neck and beak gleaming in the firelight.
She remembered those beady little eyes made of jet. There was only
one now. The other must have become dislodged and lost somehow.
Perhaps from a hearty blow against...

She closed her eyes, scrambling to
pull herself back from this edge of suspicion.

Surely not. It couldn't be. Why would
he do such a thing? What had Christopher to gain from killing her
husband? The two men did not like each other, but it was no more
than a clash of personalities. Nothing more than that.

It was simply her dark imagination at
work again and that was all.

Taking a deep breath, she opened her
eyes and said, "I suppose you and Lucinda will require a bigger
house when you are married. For all those children you
plan."

Christopher looked annoyed. "I suppose
so. Eventually." He poured ale from a large jug, and the foamy
amber liquid splashed up the side of his tankard like waves at the
base of Roscarrock island. A little pang of homesickness shyly made
itself felt, as if it didn't feel fully entitled. She had only
lived there four months, but yes it was home to her now.

And her stepbrother had dragged her
away from it, intent on moving her about like a chess piece,
ordering the path of her life the way he always did. Or
tried.

"
Perhaps you have got that out of your veins now, Livy, and
you see the error of an impulsive choice."

The news of Freddy Ollerenshaw's death
had come to her from Christopher's lips, moments after the tragedy
occurred. He had even known the details of the wager that enticed
poor, reckless Freddy into that unstable phaeton. Knew it before
anyone.

When Sir Allardyce died, Christopher,
in his usual superior fashion, had commented that he never entered
that particular tavern as it was full of "low company", inferring
that he was shocked Sir Allardyce would patronize the place— that
it was, perhaps, inevitable, such a terrible event should happen
there. Yet, some weeks later, a barmaid cleaning tables outside the
same tavern had seemed to recognize Christopher as they passed on
their way to market. She had called him by another name, however,
and so it was easy for her stepbrother to dismiss the incident as a
case of mistaken identity. Olivia had put it out of her
mind.

And then there was William and that
swan-head umbrella.

Carefully she said, "We should sell my
father's house now then. And divide the profits
equally."

Christopher's head snapped up so
violently she thought his neck would break. He cursed. "This again?
Just like that skinflint Monday, always grinding on the same
matter."

He looked frayed, she thought. Usually
so handsome and well put-together, her stepbrother was decidedly
worse for wear this evening, his boots not so shiny. There was a
little smudge of dirt on his high collar and stubble on his
chin.

"William only wanted what was best for
me," she said.

"Best for him, you mean. He wanted to
get his hands on that money."

She shook her head. "I think it's time
you and I sold the house, collected what we are both due, and went
our separate ways." Her father's house, as much as she once loved
it, had begun to feel like a millstone around her neck, keeping her
tied to Christopher.

He glared through bloodshot eyes. "Is
that what you think?" he sneered. "Well, you're wrong. You'll stay
with me, as it is supposed to be."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I haven't gone through all this just
to let you slip through my fingers at the last damned
minute!"

Olivia's mind fought to make sense of
his cold words. "Last minute? I don't understand."

"Of course you don't. You're a bloody
stupid woman."

There was silence then, while her
stepbrother ate greedily and she sat frozen in anger. Eventually
she had to speak. There was no holding anything back now. True
Deverell had taught her that it wasn't always wise to hide her
thoughts and feelings. That sometimes things simply had to be said
before it was too late.

"I remember the morning William died,"
she said.

Christopher continued his supper, not
looking up.

"I remember he had your umbrella in
his hand when he left the house. That one." She pointed to where
the swan-neck rested against his chair.

Her stepbrother huffed and licked his
fingers.

"You had left it there when you
visited on Monday. I saw him take it in error, but he was so
distracted and eager to get to the church, I don't think he
realized it was yours."

"What on earth are you getting at,
Livy?"

She took another breath of courage.
"When they found William in the lake, the umbrella wasn't with him.
Which means that you took it back from him that morning. Somehow.
Between the time that he left the house and the time his drowned
body was discovered."

Christopher drank his ale, leaned back
in the groaning chair and laughed tersely. "So you think I killed
him?"

She said nothing. Her palms, pressed
together in her lap, were sticky with perspiration.

Suddenly he got up. She had never seen
him move so quickly. The slap was hard enough that it almost
knocked her sideways out of her chair.

She gasped and gripped her smarting
cheek. Tears sprang up to glaze her sight.

"It wasn't
my
fault," he hissed
down upon her head. "The fellow should not have picked another
quarrel with me that day. I had endured my fill of his
grasping!"

Olivia choked on a sob, swallowed it
down. She didn't want to look up at him and let him see her tears,
so she kept her hand to her face.

"I was on my way back to the parsonage
that morning to collect my umbrella," he continued, now walking
around her chair. "When I saw him on the bridge, he confronted me
about the blasted house again. I merely wanted my umbrella. We
struggled over it and he was struck about the head. Then he fell
into the water and began to sink. I had my umbrella, so I walked
on. Why should I help him? He did nothing for me but try to take
away what was rightfully mine."

He was struck about the
head
. As if it was not Christopher who
wielded the weapon that struck. As if he was perfectly innocent of
any crime.

"You have nothing and no one who cares
about you, except me." Her stepbrother returned to his chair. "Now
I do not wish to discuss the matter again. It was an accident for
which he was as much to blame as I. Are you not hungry? We have a
long journey ahead of us, so you may as well eat."

She was in the company of a mad man.
Her cheek throbbed. "You can have the house, Christopher," she
managed on a hoarse breath. "Let me go back to
Roscarrock."

"No. Certainly not. Why should I be
satisfied with the house when there is so much more to be had? Did
you think I could let another man come along again and get in my
way?"

Olivia had no idea what he meant. He
was suffering some sort of delusion, that much was clear. And he
was dangerous.

* * * *

Abraham Chalke was a small, bent man
with two bushes of white hair sprouting above his prominent ears.
His nose was broad and flat, his eyes two stale raisins peering out
from behind smeared spectacles. His gait was like that of a crab,
due in part to his wide curved legs which could not, as the saying
went, stop a pig in a passage. All things considered, there were
few men less prepossessing in appearance than poor Abraham Chalke.
But he was valued for his trustworthiness, loyalty and honesty.
There was not a bad bone in the man's broken body and his only vice
was port.

True Deverell had known Chalke a great
many years and entrusted countless secrets to his care. If the
fellow was not so ancient and had a less shaky hand, he could have
taken on the task of penning True's memoirs himself and that was
the original plan. Until Chalke wearily suggested he wasn't up to
it.