Beauty in Breeches (21 page)

‘No, Aunt, I do not, and if I did I would not tell
you—not if it meant Astrid would suffer further heartache.'

‘Your defiance does you no credit. How dare you address me in this impertinent manner? You will pay dearly for this,' she warned Beatrice with a fixed stare. ‘God help me, you will pay the price of what you have done to me. I will not be beaten.' Struggling to maintain her composure, she stood up and crossed regally to the door, where she turned and looked back, her piercingly cold eyes regarding the beautiful young woman, whose eyes were filled with contentment. ‘So it's true what everyone is saying,' she sneered. ‘Your union with Lord Chadwick is working out against all the odds. I believe you have put on a little weight, Beatrice. Marriage clearly agrees with you.'

Beatrice lifted her head and met her stare for stare, reluctant to disclose her pregnancy to this cold woman. ‘Yes. Julius and I are very happy.'

‘And so you should be—after the trouble you caused securing for yourself a most advantageous marriage, you despicable, scheming girl. I know he sent someone to assess Larkhill for its value, which implies he might be going to sell it. It will serve you right if he calls your bluff. You should have thought he might do that when you propositioned him.'

‘Julius no longer owns Larkhill, Aunt Moira. He has made it over to me. So you see, I have achieved everything that I set out to do.'

‘Really? Your scheming is not worthy of congratulations. You think you know Julius Chadwick, don't
you? Perhaps you would not be so cocksure if you knew what the man you married is guilty of.'

Perplexed, Beatrice stared at her. ‘What do you mean? What are you saying?'

‘Ask your lying, two-faced husband,' she uttered viciously. ‘He knows.'

‘Knows? Knows what, Aunt Moira?'

‘The truth. The truth about how your father died.'

Beatrice laughed a little nervously, then her heart began to beat with a new intensity, as though perceiving she was about to be told something that had been hidden from her. ‘What are you talking about?'

A slow smile stretched the older woman's mouth, a smile that was pure evil. ‘Why, Beatrice, that your husband is a murderer. After he took Larkhill from your father and found the estate was mortgaged up to the hilt, he killed him.' Her smile became one of satisfaction when her niece's eyes widened in deepening incredulity. ‘There, you have it.'

Pain and disbelief streaked through Beatrice and a tiny hammer of panic began to pound in her head. ‘No. You are lying.' She swallowed past a constriction in her throat. Something inside her had begun to die. ‘This is preposterous,' she uttered shakily as terror began to hammer through her. Everything in her recoiled from believing Julius was capable of such evil. She knew in her bones he would not do something so wicked as to kill her father and then marry his daughter. None of it made sense. Julius couldn't do that. He wasn't a murderer—but then, how would she know?

‘I know you are bitter about what I did, when I challenged Julius, but to say…that—why would you say such a cruel thing?'

‘Because it's true.'

Her entire body vibrating with horror, a scream of hysteria and denial rose in Beatrice's throat. But then she recalled what her aunt had said before Julius had taken her from Standish House, that when she came to know the true nature of the man she aspired to marry, how he dealt with those who dared to cross him, she would learn to hate him. Was this what she had meant?

Facing her aunt, she felt each of her enraged words as if it was a blow to her head. ‘I do not believe you. Unable to live with what he'd done, my father killed himself.'

‘If that is what you want to believe, then do so—it's what your husband wants you to believe—but do you know that for a fact?'

‘Yes,' Beatrice answered implacably.

‘And I have reason to know,' her aunt said with equal implacability, ‘that the man you married shot him.'

Beatrice was trying so hard to concentrate and not to give way to the terror of her aunt's accusation that she dug her nails in her palms. ‘I cannot—will not—believe this. I will speak to Julius. He has to have a chance to deny this—this slander, to explain.'

‘He has no defence. Your mother knew—in one of her more lucid moments she told me when she came
back from London, before she took to her bed and turned her back on the world.'

Beatrice's blood already ran cold, but those words froze her heart. ‘My mother,' she whispered. ‘She told you that?'

‘She was there. She saw Julius leaving the house. I promise you, Beatrice, I do not lie.' Her smile was one of venomous satisfaction. ‘Think about it. How does it feel knowing you are married to the man who killed your own father?'

Lady Standish made to leave. Beatrice watched her, feeling quite ill to have confirmation of something she had sensed, but could never put her finger on—that when Julius had opened up to her he had not told her everything. His betrayal of her trust was like a stab in the heart.

A tremor of fury rippled through her, and with a sudden spurt of anger, she said, ‘And what does that make you, Aunt Moira? If, as you say, Julius is a murderer, how could you bear for him to marry Astrid? Was your greed for title, wealth and power so great you were prepared to sacrifice your own daughter on the altar of matrimony with a man who is capable of such evil? Where were your principles then?'

Lady Standish looked at her hard before raising her head and leaving the house.

Drowning in a black pool of despair, Beatrice couldn't stand it. She understood everything her aunt had said, but she could not seem to move or feel. Was it really true that Julius had killed her father? If he
had, how could she bear it? She was in pain, a constant searing pain that would not ease.

Mechanically she moved to the window, her arms wrapped round her waist in an agony of suffering, staring blankly at nothing. Feeling sick to the stomach, she tried to collect her wits. What on earth should she do? She didn't think she could confront him just yet, to look into the harsh, handsome face she adored and hear that beautiful baritone voice. And yet could she stand the uncertainty of not knowing the truth? Could she go on living with him, spending days and nights together, pretending—living with the lie that would be their lives? Or could she bear the torment of living without him?

But as she considered the awfulness of his crime, she could not believe he had done this to her. Anger began to burn in her breast. If what she had been told was indeed true, how dare he make a mockery of her faith in him? Little wonder he had been so secretive. Little wonder he had wanted to conceal what he had done. She told herself to be fair and give him the benefit of the doubt, but deep down she knew there was some truth in it.

She had half a mind to seek him out at his place of business and demand that he tell her what he was playing at, but no doubt he would prevaricate and lie and continue treating her like the stupid idiot he took her for. If he had gone to great pains to conceal the mystery, then how could she think he would oblige her and tell her the truth now?

Resentment burned through her. They had an agreement to be open with each other, to be on equal terms, to tell each other the truth in all things, yet, despite his promise, her husband had persisted with his deception. How dare he conceal something as important as this from her? There was nothing equal in what he had done. She wanted answers and explanations and nothing would stop her from finding out exactly what had happened.

 

When Julius arrived home he went into his study to look over some papers. He was seated at his desk and just about to raise a pre-dinner brandy to his lips when the door was flung open and Beatrice came in like a hurricane.

‘Good Lord!' he spluttered, dabbing his chin where the brandy had splashed. ‘What's got into you? Beatrice? I'm always glad to see you, but could you not knock or…?' His voice died away in bewilderment at the sight of the expression on her face and he placed the brandy glass on the desk.

Beatrice knew she must look odd. How could she help it when the words she wanted to speak—shout—at him were roiling at the back of her throat in an effort to get out, to tear him to pieces in her fury?

‘What have you done?' she managed to say at last.

Julius's face showed astonishment. ‘Done? What have
I
done? What can you mean? I have merely come home after concluding a successful day's business and come in here and poured myself a drink, which, if I am allowed to, I shall relax and enjoy.'

‘Stop it, Julius. Don't you dare pretend you don't know what I mean.'

‘My love, believe me, I haven't the slightest idea.'

‘Then you should.'

‘You do seem to be annoyed about something…'

‘
Annoyed!
Dear Lord, annoyed doesn't half-describe what I'm feeling right now you—you blackguard, so will you stop prattling on and tell me the truth or I swear I shall scream,' she uttered vehemently.

He was getting annoyed and it showed in the narrowing of his eyes and his scowl. Julius Chadwick was not accustomed to being called names of any sort or brought to task about anything; though he adored this woman and knew he always would, he was not about to let her throw her weight about like a street woman looking for a fight. He didn't know what had awoken her temper, but something had and it seemed it was aimed at him.

‘It's you who are prattling on, Beatrice,' he said irritably, ‘and unless you tell me what all this is about I cannot answer your accusations over something I know nothing about. Is something wrong?'

‘Yes—yes, you might say that.' Looking at him across the desk, she rested her hands on its surface and leaned in, her face on a level with his. ‘It's about honesty, openness and trust. Stupidly I thought we had agreed to that in our marriage. I now find I have got it so very wrong. How can I trust you when you are up to your eyes in deception? This is not the marriage I agreed to when I came back from Larkhill.'

‘And why is that?' His voice was icy.

‘My father, Julius.' She met him look for look and her eyes were green ice. ‘I want the truth about the manner of his death, and who better to ask than the man who killed him.'

For a moment his face took on an expression of total incomprehension. He frowned as though he were doing his best to unravel her words, make sense of them, then his face hardened when realisation of what she was accusing him of hit him.

‘Who told you?' He spoke mildly, but his amber eyes had sharpened. ‘Aunt Moira.'

‘And when did you see your aunt?'

‘A short time ago. She came to tell me that Astrid is missing and accused me of hiding her here. She also told me that not only did the man I married take Larkhill from my father, but that he also killed him. I have to ask you if there is any truth in this, Julius. And please don't lie to me.'

‘Do you believe I am capable of such an act, Beatrice?' He was watching her warily, having schooled himself well in the necessity for restraint in trying circumstances like the one he now faced.

‘Before my aunt came here I would have said no, never in a thousand years would I have believed you could do anything so—so vile. I don't want to believe it, but it would appear that my mother bore witness to the whole sorry affair—and my mother was not a liar.'

‘I'm sure she wasn't, but perhaps she mistook what she saw.'

‘Did she? Then perhaps you can explain what did
happen that caused my father to lose his life. Either he shot himself or someone murdered him. Tell me the truth—if you can.'

Julius got up and walked round the desk to stand in front of her, where he stood looking down at her upturned face. Despite the fact that they were hurling daggers at him, her eyes were also full of hope that he would deny he'd had any part in her father's demise. But he could not alleviate her doubts. Telling her about her father and the manner of his death would change the whole picture for her and he knew she would not be pleased with what she saw. It might make it worse. Maybe she would be better off not knowing the burden that lay so heavily on him, that there had been times when he thought he would be crushed by it. Unfortunately after her aunt's visit, she now knew half of the story and would assume the rest and assume wrongly.

His face became tense and he looked away. ‘I'm afraid I can't do that.'

‘Then tell me this—did my mother see you leave the house that night?'

Julius pushed his hand through his thick hair. His face was becoming dangerous and the gentleness, the concern, was replaced by grinding anger. His eyes darkened and he spoke through gritted teeth. ‘Damn it, Beatrice. Can't you leave it?'

‘No, Julius, I cannot. Don't you understand? Ever since my father died I believed he had killed himself and that my mother—who found his body—was so shocked she retreated into herself because she couldn't bear to live without him and the knowledge of what he
had done. Now I know that she couldn't bear to live with what she had witnessed—that he did not die by his own hand—and, being the gentle person she was, she was too afraid to speak out. I have a right to know what happened and I demand that you tell me. Were you there? Did she see you leave the house shortly after my father was killed?'

Julius looked at her hard, seeming to consider very carefully what to say next. At length he said tightly, ‘Yes, Beatrice, she did.'

Beatrice stared at him with eyes wide with horror. She had hoped and prayed he would deny it, that he would tell her there was no truth in what her aunt had told her and that what she had said was merely the rantings of a vicious old woman.

‘Then you have deceived me most cruelly,' she uttered with a rage that was buried bone deep. She stepped back from him, as if she couldn't bear to be near him. ‘How could you? When I married you I did so for no other reason than to gain access to Larkhill. The opportunity was too beautiful for me to resist. Suddenly you were more to me than the whole world, more than my own future, more than fortune. I would have been a fool to turn away from what you could offer me—and then I fell in love with you.' She gave a hard, contemptuous little laugh which bordered on hysterical. ‘How stupid was that? I now find that the one man I have ever loved is worthless, utterly vicious and corrupt, without principle and without honour—a man who killed my own father. Do you think I could
ever forget that? No, Julius, that memory will burn within me as long as I live.'