A Bride by Moonlight (18 page)

“And this Lord Percy, your sister’s intended—he had a long-standing quarrel with Lazonby,” Napier mused. “So of course, to the police it looked like a plausible crime.”

Lisette felt the old, familiar nausea well up in her again. “And we all of us believed he’d done it, didn’t we? You did. I did. I went . . . good God, I went to Newgate. To the hanging
.
” She set a palm hard against her forehead as if it might block the memory, but it never did. “I was twelve. I remember how the rope snapped taut. Lazonby just dangled there, dead—or so we believed. Then Ellie fainted in the mud. Somehow, I got her up. And the next day, Lord Rowend’s solicitor took us to Bristol and put us on a ship to Aunt Ashton’s.”

Wordlessly, Napier set an arm around her shoulders, and this time she did not flinch. There was no reaction left in her.

“Ellie was dead a fortnight later,” she whispered. “A fever, they called it. But I think her heart was just broken. And now . . . dear God, now I look back on all that has happened—all that I believed—and it’s like a horrific nightmare.”

“I know the feeling,” muttered Napier grimly. “Whatever our disagreements, Elizabeth, I’m sorry you had to live through that. But if Hannah was a rich, willing widow, why didn’t Sir Arthur marry her?”

Lisette felt her face flush with heat. “Because of Elinor,” she finally answered. “Elinor told Papa she would never forgive him if he sullied our family’s name in such a way.”

“In what way, exactly?”

Lisette lifted one shoulder lamely. “Elinor had just come out that Season,” she said. “Papa borrowed horribly to launch her, and many gentlemen were captivated. But she’d set her sights on Lord Percy Peveril, for he was a duke’s son. The duke was a frightful snob, and Ellie knew it. She told Papa that Hannah was a pariah who would ruin her chances. That Hannah was a jumped-up shop girl who’d got rich on Jewish money, then used it to run with a fast crowd . . .”

“And?” Napier gently prodded.

Here, Lisette’s voice hitched humiliatingly. “—and yes, Napier, the irony does not escape me,” she continued, “that the
fast crowd
Elinor disdained was Papa’s crowd. And Sir Wilfred’s crowd. But men can be forgiven such indiscretions. Women, apparently, cannot.”

Napier was very quiet. “I recall vaguely that Hannah’s first husband was a wealthy trader in the City.”

Lisette sighed. “She was not herself Jewish, I don’t think—not that I cared,” she said. “And it’s true Hannah’s father was just an apothecary. But she made Papa laugh, and I do sometimes wonder . . .” Her words broke away, and she shook her head.

Napier squeezed her hand. “What do you wonder?”

I wonder if my sister wasn’t a selfish bitch.

But Lisette snatched back the thought as soon as it entered her head.

Ellie had been special: beautiful and charming. People had loved her for that, just as they had loved Papa. And Elinor had been proud of her connection to Lord Rowend—proud of her blue English blood. Was that so very wrong? Was not aristocratic pride the very thing that sustained the English upper class and provided a backbone for the nation?

And yet Lisette knew that in America blood accounted for almost nothing, and the nation little suffered for it. Indeed, some would argue the country was stronger and more equal without it. Mr. Ashton
had
argued it—blatantly, belligerently, and on a weekly basis—in his radical newspaper. And for the most part, Lisette had agreed with his politics, if not his execution.

Yet another irony that made her head hurt. Oh, why could the world not be black and white? Sometimes, yes, she did find herself angry with Elinor and with Papa—more and more of late, and it shamed her. She told herself she was just looking for someone to blame for her family’s misfortunes now that Lazonby had been vindicated.

She gave a soft, sardonic laugh. “Do you know, Napier, what Hannah used to call me?”

“No,” he said tentatively.

“Elizabeth the Unfortunate,” she said. “I once heard her tell Papa that Ellie was a diamond, but that I was going to prove ‘difficult.’ I was too gangly, too pale, my hair too red.”

“What utter balderdash,” said Napier. “I hope you didn’t heed it.”

Lisette forced a shrug, a little embarrassed by her childish confession. Indeed, she had indulged her maudlin notions for far too long—and this time, far too openly. She did not want anyone’s sympathy, nor had anyone ever given her much.

It was just as well, she imagined. Papa’s life had proven one rarely knew who to trust. Napier, moreover, was simply watching her; weighing her, she thought. Wondering, perhaps, if this was all just a cheap theatrical, and if she meant ever to actually answer the one question he
had
asked.

“So there, I’ve apologized to you,” she managed, drawing in a steadying breath. “Beyond that, my personal tragedies are utterly a waste of your time. The business of Papa’s death is done, and Ellie’s, too. But you . . . you wished to know exactly what Sir Wilfred said about your father.”

“Yes,” he said tightly.

Lisette realized that his arm was no longer around her shoulders. She half turned on the bench, and forced him to hold her gaze. “Exactly?” she pressed. “I have, regrettably, the gift of near-total recall.”

“Exactly,” he demanded.

Lisette closed her eyes, and felt the cool, thick air of the dairy furl about her like a musty blanket. She could still hear Lady Anisha, half conscious and sobbing; could still smell the sharp tang of soured milk. No matter how many nights she’d spent trying to get that scent out of her nostrils—no matter how many times she’d shut away the thought of Sir Wilfred’s blood trickling over the flagstone into his own spring box—the memory clung like a dampness, a nightmare to be lived over and over again.

“Elizabeth?” said Napier.

“Wait, I’m remembering.” Her eyes snapped open. “All right. Sir Wilfred said, and I quote:
‘I didn’t touch Arthur. I just stabbed Percy. And, yes, I bribed Hanging Nick Napier and that porter chap. And fixed the blame, I suppose, on Lazonby. But that’s it. I liked Arthur. I did. And after I persuaded Hannah to marry me, I meant to visit him. In France. Or wherever he ended up.’ ”

“Christ,” muttered Napier.

“I think that’s exact,” she said.

And oddly, having to say it aloud had somehow stiffened her resolve. It was over—or would be, she prayed, once this business of Napier’s was done. As the rage inside her had slowly settled these past few days, it was coming increasingly clear to Lisette that somehow she must put this long and awful madness behind her.

Somehow she had to find a way to salvage from the wreckage something like an ordinary life. She had to, for there was no one left to blame. No place else to seek revenge. Her family was dead and she couldn’t bring them back. And now she had to forgive herself, somehow, for the horrific injustice she’d done Lord Lazonby—even if the man himself never forgave it.

But the one thing she must not do was lean too hard upon Royden Napier. She no longer disliked him, but Lisette knew that he was the sort of man who would place his pursuit of justice above all else, even his own interests. Hadn’t he just proven that with his grandfather?

She straightened on the bench, and set her shoulders resolutely back. “I take no joy in repeating that, Napier,” she said quietly. “And just because Sir Wilfred said it, doesn’t mean it was the whole truth.”

“Aye, but was it a part of the truth?” he muttered, his gaze fixed almost blindly on the distant lake. “I have the sickening suspicion it was.”

“Have you ever looked at your father’s accounts?” asked Lisette pointedly. “At the time of his death, you must have done.”

Napier nodded, swallowing hard. “I did. Once or twice.”

“Money like that would be hard to hide.”

“There were . . . occasional infusions of cash into the household accounts.” Napier’s voice sounded strained, almost disembodied. “Yes, more money than his salary could account for. I told myself it was horse racing. Something like that.”

“Perhaps it was.” Lisette shrugged. “And after all that trickery, Leeton’s plan didn’t even work. There was no flight to France; Papa took one of his morose spells, tamped it down with a bottle of brandy, then shot himself. A niggling detail, of course, to Sir Wilfred. He still got Hannah’s money—and for a time, he was rid of Lazonby, too.”

“A tragedy all the way round.” Napier fell silent for a moment. “Elizabeth, may I ask one other question?”

She hesitated. “I suppose.”

But the question, and the sad look in Napier’s eyes when he asked it, threw Lisette off her guard. “When Sir Wilfred said what he said about my father,” he pressed, “was Lady Anisha there? Did she overhear?”

Lisette could see that, for whatever reason, Lady Anisha’s opinion greatly mattered to Napier. But she also remembered Lazonby’s warning. “I think you would have to ask Lady Anisha,” she hedged, “if Lord Lazonby will permit it.”

Sudden anger exploded across his face. “I’ll be damned,” Napier growled. “I shall ask the lady what and when I bloody well—”

“
Shh!
” said Lisette abruptly. “Hush!”

Napier halted. “I beg your pardon. My language—”

“No,
over my shoulder,
” she hissed, turning on the bench so that she might lean in and set her cheek next to his. “Lord Hepplewood is watching us through the shrubbery—and he appears, miraculously, both sober and unscathed.”

“And we should care?” Napier grunted.

“Yes.”

Acting on impulse, Elizabeth lightly brushed her lips over his hard cheekbone. “
There
,” she whispered against his ear. “Now we look like lovers caught out.”

She pulled away to smile up at him, but Napier’s eyes had gone dark as onyx—and about as penetrable. Worse, the tantalizing scent of his shaving soap had come away on her lips.

“
Elizabeth
,” he whispered, “we can’t keep—”

The soft crunch of gravel cut him short. “Ho, what’s this!” cried a cheerful voice, severing the moment. “A romantic tryst?”

Lisette looked up to see Hepplewood sauntering around the greenery toward the arbor’s entrance. Napier cursed beneath his breath.

“Well met, cousin!” said the earl when he finally drew up before them. “And Miss Colburne. I beg your pardon for interrupting.”

His golden locks, Lisette noticed, were still tousled, his eyes still drooping heavily.

Napier stood, and shook his hand. “How do you do, Hepplewood,” he said a little churlishly. “May we be of help?”

“Indeed, no, it is I who may be of help to you.” With a little flourish, Hepplewood produced a letter, the flap of which was already open. “But first, an apology.”

“An apology?” Napier took the letter.

Embarrassment that was obviously feigned sketched over the earl’s face. “A letter came for Lord Saint-Bryce,” he said, “and Marsh gave it to Gwyneth—just as he’s been instructed. I fear none of us considered the possibility that it was
not
for her late father.”

“Heavens, no, why would you?” murmured Lisette.

“
Ooh,
was that a leveling blow, Miss Colburne?” Hepplewood winced theatrically. “But you may be unaware that, in his youth, Gwen’s father was quite the world traveler and forever receiving letters from points afar and people unknown to us. Since his death, Gwen opens them and sends the sad tidings in turn.”

Lisette cast a sarcastic glance at the London postmark. “And this one was from . . . ah, yes. East Kalimantan, Borneo.”

Hepplewood laughed. “No, Upper Grosvenor Street,” he said. “Miss Colburne, you are quite the pip! And the letter is from Ruthveyn House—Lady Anisha Stafford, to be precise.” Here, he turned to Napier. “I had heard, cuz, that you were cutting a swath round Town with a beautiful widow on your arm. How convenient she knew to write you here.”

“The lady is a dear friend. I like her to know how to reach me.” Napier shoved the letter inside his coat, unread. “Thank you, Hepplewood, but you needn’t have troubled yourself.”

“Not at all! Not at all!”

Napier turned and bowed to them at once. “My dear, I’m off to Marlborough,” he said. “I shall see you at dinner. Hepplewood, your servant.”

With that, Napier put his hat back on his head, and set off toward the far end of the arbor.

“Be careful, my dear!” cried Lisette after him. “I shall be here, counting the hours ’til your return.”

Napier merely threw up a hand, and kept going.

On impulse, she rushed after him, and brushed his cheek with another kiss. “Will you tell me what you learn in Marlborough?” she whispered, looking brightly up at him. “Tonight?”

Napier cut a glance back at Hepplewood. “If I can.”

“You must,” she pressed. “And I need to tell you about my conversation with Gwyneth.”

“We’ll see,” he murmured.

Frustrated, Lisette let him go and walked back up the path. Her mind had turned to Napier’s letter, and to his reaction upon hearing Lady Anisha’s name. They had once been a little more than friends, unless she missed her guess. The notion piqued her curiosity even as it left her oddly unsettled.

But Hepplewood was watching Lisette’s approach, a curious little smile on his face. When she reached him, he cut an exaggerated bow and presented his arm.

“May I see you inside, Miss Colburne?” he said blithely. “I should find it the highlight of my day.”

“Nothing could give me more pleasure,” she said with a tight smile. “I would not miss a moment of your charming company.”

“Nor I yours,” he said, urging her back up the path. “After all, one ought never cower from the competition. Now which of us, do you reckon, is the better actor?”

She looked at him askance. “My dear Lord Hepplewood,” she said, “you’d get my vote. I came up in a hard school, and know a scoundrel when I meet one.”

“Do you, by Jove?” he chortled. “And I think
I
know what a woman in love looks like.”

“Indeed?” said Lisette, cutting another glance up at him. “I shouldn’t have thought you the type to much dwell upon such a prospect.”

But the warmth had faded from Hepplewood’s smile. “Ah, now there,” he said pensively, “you might be wrong, Miss Colburne. But I doubt it much matters.”