Wed Him Before You Bed Him (20 page)

Very well. Perhaps she would indulge this mad urge to continue as his lover. She had set the rules of their association, and she would see if he could follow them.

If he could not, woe be unto him. She was fully in charge of her own life, so if he tried to get in her way, she would leave him in the dust.

D
avid rode back to town in a fury. He hoped to catch up to Pritchard on the way, but apparently the man had turned off the road somewhere.

No matter. David would find him tomorrow and warn him away from Charlotte. Because warning
Charlotte
away wasn't working—and he had only himself to blame for that. Since she didn't know the truth, she had no reason to suspect that Pritchard had designs on the school's property as well.

David gritted his teeth as he navigated the crowded roads. Didn't that idiot see that provoking her was unwise? It made her dig in and fight, instead of accepting the inevitable. David could understand why, after she'd told him about her father's cruelties, but it didn't change the fact that her opposition could be disastrous. If she continued to fight Pritchard, he'd have no choice but to tell her the truth.

A groan escaped him. He could well imagine how
that
would go. Years of lies would have to be explained. His whole sordid scheme for revenge would come out. She would despise him. What he'd done smacked too much of the cruel manipulations her father had practiced. How could she ever trust him again?

By the time he reached his town house, he was in a foul mood. It was bad enough that she'd refused his offer, but
he'd managed to put her back up as well. Charlotte was proving every bit as difficult to handle as he'd feared.

He climbed the steps to his front door, but it didn't open at his approach as usual. Using his key to get in, he stalked inside and caught George, the first footman, napping in a chair. Though the man had been shirking his duty quite a bit of late, David normally wouldn't give a damn—but tonight it reminded him of a far more egregious lapse, one he'd meant to discuss with George for two days.

Slamming the door, he watched as George shot awake, then leaped to his feet in alarm. “My lord! I did not…that is…”

“I wish to have a word with you in my study, George.”

The man paled. “Yes, sir.”

David marched up the stairs to his study as George followed. When they entered and David said to close the door, the footman looked as if he might faint.

“My lord,” he began, “I know I shouldn't have fallen asleep, but—”

“That isn't why I called you in here.” David went to stand behind his desk. “Two nights ago, I was accosted by Ned Timms. Do you know who he is?”

George paled even more. “No, sir.”

The bloody hell he didn't. “He's a moneylender. And it seems that he acquired the Kirkwood sapphires sometime before my wife died, when she apparently gave them to him as a surety for gambling funds.”

“I-I wouldn't know anything about that, my lord.”

“Are you certain?
Someone
accompanied her to Spitalfields, where the man does his business. As first footman, you would have been the one to do it.”

The footman was already shaking his head. “No, sir,
I would never have let her ladyship go to such a part of town, I swear.” He swallowed. “Perhaps her brother took her. They often went out alone together.”

It was plausible, but David didn't believe the man. Something about George had struck him wrong for a long time. He wasn't sure why.

“Very well. I'll ask my brother-in-law about the matter.” He leaned forward to plant his hands on the desk. “But if I find out that you were the one to take her there, that you hid such a thing from me and that you're lying about it now, I'll turn you off without any references. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” he squeaked. He'd begun to sweat profusely.

David narrowed his gaze. “You're better served telling me the truth. I can be lenient, especially since I know how persuasive my wife could be when she wanted something from a man.”

George sucked in a harsh breath, but his gaze didn't waver from his master's. “That's true, sir. But I didn't take her there. I swear it.”

David's gut told him the man was lying, but he needed proof before he acted. He didn't believe in turning off servants without reason. “All right. You may go.”

After the man left, David dropped into the chair behind his desk. Once again, he was reminded of how little he'd known his wife. He stared about at what had been his sanctuary during his marriage. Perhaps he shouldn't have spent so much time in it. Perhaps he should have made more of an effort with Sarah.

But after their first year of marriage, he'd found it harder and harder to endure her company. Instead, he'd come here to sketch designs and pore over his investments.
That was the only thing that had given him a purpose beyond the mindless drinking and gambling his friends engaged in. It had been his salvation.

The school became my reason for living, my salvation.

He winced, remembering Charlotte's words. He was beginning to understand her determination to protect her academy. Sometimes one had to guard the only corner of one's life where sanity reigned.

Still, the place teetered on the brink of disaster and he could only save it if she would heed his advice.

Yet why should she? In her eyes he was an intruder, someone who'd popped back into her life and could pop out just as easily. Even the fact that he wanted her as his wife only made her wary. He was asking her to give up a great deal, after all, and in exchange he could offer her nothing but the security of marriage. Since Charlotte's marriage had ended in disaster and so had his, why should she trust in that?

It began to appear that the only way he could gain her was to make concessions he wasn't sure he was ready to make.

Over the next few days, that possibility plagued him continually. What if she really couldn't have children? What if she refused to give the running of the school over to a subordinate? Could he endure a marriage where he had to share her with her damned school?

Even as the questions ran around and around in his head, he had to fight the urge to ride over and see her. It didn't matter that he knew Charlotte needed space to breathe right now. He didn't want to give her space. He wanted to drag her to the altar and make her his forever.

His obsession with her should have slackened after he'd
slaked his thirst for her body. But if anything, it consumed him even more. Only answering the letter she'd sent to Cousin Michael about purchasing the school gave him a small measure of relief. That damned fool Watson had given him an idea of how to break her reliance on her cousin once and for all.

What he was writing would make her hate the man, while prodding her into trusting David more. And the more she trusted him to help her, the more chance he'd have to change her mind about marrying him.

Once that was done, he buried himself in other matters to take his mind off her. Spending half a week on the business of Charlotte and the school, he'd neglected his own affairs, and those needed to be handled. He also had to pay visits to Pritchard and his brother-in-law.

To his annoyance, he discovered that Pritchard had gone off to Bath, probably to celebrate the impending sale of Rockhurst. And according to Linley senior, Richard had disappeared into the bowels of bachelor hell—drinking and gambling and whoring with his friends.

At least Stoneville was around to give him permission to look over the property again. To his surprise, the marquess, generally a nosy sort, didn't seem remotely interested in why David wanted to revisit it. Apparently he was having problems of his own that occupied his attention. He told David to keep the key, and then ushered him rather summarily out of his town house.

Odd, that. But not nearly as odd as the terse message that arrived from Baines on the morning before David was supposed to see Charlotte.

It is urgent that I speak with you.

They'd been communicating only through notes, since
David hadn't wanted the solicitor to risk encountering Charlotte at the Kirkwood town house. No point in making her wonder why David was friendly with Cousin Michael's solicitor.

Baines generally reserved the word
urgent
for dire mattersm, and David was wondering what that might be when his brother strode into the breakfast room and headed straight for the pot of coffee on the sideboard.

“What are you doing here?” David asked, buttering his scone liberally. “Don't tell me you lost your bachelor lodgings again.”

“No, this was just closer, and I have to be in court early today. Didn't want to ride all the way out to Chelsea, then ride all the way back this morning.” Taking the entire pot to a spot at the table, he filled a cup with shaky hands, then drank deeply from it. “I've got to stop spending my nights in the stews. I'm getting too old for this.”

“I've heard that before,” David said dryly. “Quite often.”

“I mean it this time. No more carousing.”

“My lord,” came the butler's voice from the doorway, so loud that it made David wince. “There is a Mr. Jackson Pinter from the Great Marlborough Street Magistrate's Office to see you. He says he's a Bow Street runner.”

Before David could even react, Giles's head shot up. “What does he want?”

“Send him in,” David told the butler. As the servant hurried off, David glanced at his brother. “It might have to do with Richard.” Or Timms.

“All the same, you'd best let me handle it,” Giles said. “I question these people in court all the time. I know how they work.”

“Very well.” His brother did have a point.

Jackson Pinter proved to be a tall, wolfish-looking fellow with thick black brows and an angular jaw. He seemed too young to be a Bow Street runner…until he began to speak in a world-weary voice that had an odd rasp to it.

They started to rise, but he said quickly, “Please, do not trouble yourself. In truth, I am sorry to disturb your lordship at breakfast.”

His words were obsequious. His tone was not. It held an arrogance David found peculiar for a man of such low station.

Pinter glanced to Giles, then back to David. “If I may speak to your lordship alone—”

“I'm his brother,” Giles cut in. “I'm also his barrister. What's this about?”

Pinter's manner underwent a subtle change, becoming more guarded. His expression turned as bland as the white linen cloth on the table. “I've come to clear up one small matter concerning the death of his lordship's wife.”

“Sarah?” David said, a frisson of foreboding coursing down his spine. “I'm happy to help however I can, but I'm not sure what there is to discuss.” He gestured to one of the chairs. “May I offer you some coffee, sir? Toast and jam?”

“No, thank you, my lord,” Pinter said, declining to sit. Instead, he set a large satchel on the table near David, opened it, and removed a sheet of foolscap, which he slid in front of David. It was a draper's bill, with Sarah's signature at the bottom.

“To your knowledge,” Pinter asked, “is this your late wife's signature?”

To his
knowledge
? David gave it a cursory glance. “It appears to be, yes.”

The man pulled out another sheet of paper. As David recognized it, his heart began to pound.

“And this,” Pinter said as he laid out Sarah's suicide note, which the authorities had kept after the inquest. “Is this also your wife's signature?”

“Of course.” David fought the bile that rose up in him at the sight.

For a moment, he flashed on Sarah's lifeless face, drawn in her eerie repose, her robed body floating in the bloodstained water like a leaf on a stream. With an effort, he shook off the horrific memory.

“Are you sure it's her signature?” the man prodded. “Think carefully before you answer, my lord.”

“What is the purpose of these questions, sir?” Giles put in.

Pinter cast Giles a frown. “Two days ago we received a communication from a gentleman claiming that the suicide note is forged. That it does not bear her ladyship's true signature.”

The air left David's lungs in a great rush. Feeling as if Sarah had reached from beyond the grave to close her grasping hands about his throat, he fought for calm.

“Who's the ‘gentleman' making this claim?” Giles snapped.

“I am not at liberty to say, sir.”

David stared down at the two notes. “The handwriting looks identical.”

“At first glance, yes. But we've had an expert in forgery examine the two documents, and he assures us that they differ in marked respects. Since the draper saw your wife sign the bill with his own eyes, the suicide note has to be the forgery. After all, no one saw her write
that,
did they?”

David struggled for breath, spots forming before his eyes as he tried to examine the notes. If the suicide note was a forgery…

“So what are you saying?” Giles demanded.

“I would suspect that his lordship knows what I am saying.”

David's gaze shot to Pinter. “You think she didn't commit suicide at all.”

“Exactly, my lord.” His gaze sharpened on David. “We are now of the opinion that she was murdered.”

David's heart hammered in his chest. Who would want to murder Sarah? “Do you have any suspects?”

“A few,” the man said blandly. “So I must ask you to answer me truthfully, my lord. Are you
sure
that the signature is your wife's? Perhaps you found her in her condition and thought to save a messy investigation by, shall we say, tying things up more neatly?”

David gaped at the man. “Bloody hell, I didn't write that note, if that's what you're insinuating, sir. I would never tamper with the truth in such a foul manner.”

When Pinter pulled out a notebook to write something down, David struggled to contain his temper. This was no time to explode.

“Until this very moment,” David went on, “I believed the document to be written by my wife. Indeed, until I hear otherwise from someone besides you and your ‘expert,' I'll continue to assume that it was.”