Desire Becomes Her (42 page)

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Authors: Shirlee Busbee

BOOK: Desire Becomes Her
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“St. John will kill him.”
Gillian gasped and Luc bent a fierce glance on her. “As I would in the same position. Stanton murdered the woman St. John loved and planned to marry.”
“But how do you know that?”
“The brooch. St. John had it made especially for her. It was one of a kind. He recognized it that day we met him and the others in the village when I was escorting you home to High Towers.” His eyes fastened on the doorway of the cottage where the light from the lantern danced, Luc added, “There was no time for full explanations, but St. John suspected Stanton killed her. He needed proof. Tonight he got it.” His gaze shifted to her. “I’m not certain whether to kiss you or wring your neck,” he said dryly.
Gillian looked up in the gloom. “I would much rather you kissed me.” When he only stared at her, she said, “Luc, I had to get the vowels. I can’t explain it, but it was wrong to expect you to untangle something that Charles had caused.” He snorted and she added indignantly, “I did leave a note for you. Along with the note Stanton had sent me. Nan was to give it to you at seven o’clock if I hadn’t returned.”
Luc’s hands closed around her shoulders and he dragged her next to him. “You little fool, you would have been dead by then.”
She smiled mistily at him. “But I’m not ... wouldn’t you much rather kiss me than scold me?”
He laughed reluctantly. “Yes,
ma coeur,
I would indeed.” His mouth came down on hers and he kissed her, feeling all the rage and terror he’d felt when he knew she was in danger fade away. She was safe. And in his arms and he intended to keep her there forever. Lifting his head a long while later, he murmured, “You ever do anything like this again and I
will
beat you.”
Nestled against him, Gillian smiled, not believing a word of it. “Never.” Her eyes moved to the cottage and she shivered, knowing a man would die tonight. The wind was howling, the rain lashing against the hooded gig and any sound that might have carried from the cottage was drowned out by storm, but she could not help imagining what was going on inside and she shivered again.
Luc felt her shiver and pulled her even closer. Dropping a kiss on her temple, he said, “It won’t be long now.”
“What if ...” She swallowed. “What if St. John fails?”
“That’s why we’re still here,” he answered simply, taking out his pistol again. “If St. John doesn’t come out of that cottage and Stanton does ... I’ll kill him. One way or another St. John will have his revenge.”
Not even the storm could mute the sound of a shot that came from inside the cottage. Gillian jumped, and her eyes fastened painfully on the doorway.
Luc stiffened, relaxing when he recognized the tall, dark form that appeared in the faint light seeping out from the doorway of the cottage.
In swift strides, St. John closed the distance between them. There was barely enough light to reveal a cut over his right eye and an ugly gash along one cheek. “Poor fellow,” St. John said quietly. “He killed himself.” He looked expectantly at Luc. “And now if you will be so good as to give me the confession, I will see that it surfaces at the right time and in the right place. The confession will clear your wife’s name and explain his suicide.”
Luc reached inside his greatcoat and handed it to him. “I’ll trust you to do so,
mon ami.
”
St. John nodded. “It will be my pleasure.”
Gillian spared no sympathy for Stanton; he had already murdered two people and if events had turned out differently, he would have murdered her. She fumbled around for her reticule and opening it, found the brooch. She handed it to St. John, saying shyly, “I think this is yours.”
He held it in his hand for a long moment. His voice thick with emotion, he said, “Thank you, Madame.” And then he was gone into the night and the storm.
Luc slapped the reins and turned the horse, then, one arm around his wife, their bodies close together, they slowly drove away into the rainy night.
Epilogue
C
hristmas at Windmere that year was one of quiet joy. Sitting cozily ensconced in a tall wingback chair of blue velvet by the fire roaring in the fireplace, Cornelia sighed with pleasure, enjoying the warmth.
Silas, sitting in the twin to Cornelia’s chair on the other side of the fireplace, said, “That’s precisely how I feel.” His eyes twinkled in his little gnome face. “It has been a most exciting and enjoyable day, but I find that this quiet time by the fire is my favorite part.”
Cornelia nodded. Silas was right. After partaking of the rich meal of chestnut soup, oysters, roast goose, haunch of venison and sirloin, new peas from the greenhouses of Windmere, creamed cauliflower, mincemeat, apple pies and a damson dumpling, to name a few items served, it was pleasant to doze by the fire.
The scent of evergreens wafted in the air; archways, mantels and banisters dripped with branches of evergreen and holly; mistletoe hung in strategic places throughout the grand house; and silver bells with scarlet ribbons festooned either side of doorways. Even the weather had cooperated for Christmas, and while drifts of new-fallen snow blanketed the countryside, it hadn’t prevented guests from traveling to Windmere to share the holiday with Lord and Lady Joslyn and their firstborn child.
Ten days previously Emily had given birth to a daughter, Noel, named for the season of her birth. If Barnaby had been disappointed at not having sired an heir, no one could tell from his demeanor or manner. He doted on Emily and his daughter. Girls, he explained proudly to anyone who would listen, didn’t run in the Joslyn family; his sister, Bethany, was the only girl in over three generations, yet he was lucky enough to be the father of what had to be the most beautiful female born in all of England. Next to her mother, he added, his dark eyes, warm and loving, gazing upon Emily’s face.
At present, Noel’s eyes were the solemn blue of a newborn, but Cornelia suspected that in time they would be the same brilliant azure for which the Joslyn family was famous. Right now pale downy fuzz covered the baby’s head and would, no doubt, grow out to be the same silvery-fair color of her mother’s hair. Of Barnaby’s swarthy coloring there was no sign, but Cornelia and the rest of the family had already recognized the confident curve in the tiny jaw and the willful jut of her chin as having been inherited from her father. It was fortunate, Cornelia admitted, that Noel had inherited many of Emily’s far more feminine and lovely features than her father’s bolder facial characteristics.
A laugh broke into her reverie, and she looked across the room at the group gathered around a table littered with plates of sweetmeats, sugared plums, delicate lemon biscuits and bowls of punch and hot cider.
Barnaby and Emily stood side by side, Luc and Gillian next to them, Luc’s arm possessively around Gillian’s waist. Mathew and Simon were nearby, as were Sophia and Stanley. Cornelia was sorry that dear, sweet Anne and Hugh and Althea hadn’t been able to be here, but she understood. Jeffery may have made himself thoroughly disliked, but he had been Althea’s son and Hugh’s brother and the wound of his death was too raw to allow for a celebration.
Watching Luc smile at something Barnaby said, she nodded to herself. They all had much to smile about these days, especially, she thought, after the shocking events at the end of November and early December. She shook her head. Canfield, an accidental death. Townsend, dead by his own hand. And Stanton shooting himself in that abandoned cottage by the cliffs. Three such sudden, shocking deaths, each in close proximity to the other, had set the tongues in the neighborhood wagging.
The discovery of Stanton’s body by an itinerant ragman the morning after the storm had sent a firestorm of horror over the area, but that was nothing compared to the uproar that erupted when Stanton’s confession to the murder of Elizabeth Soule and Charles Dashwood had been discovered. Padgett and St. John, as friends of the deceased, had been helping the constable and a local attorney go through Stanton’s belongings at Woodhurst, when St. John discovered the incriminating evidence the next day in a desk downstairs.
Once the confession was made public, it was amusing, Cornelia thought, the many members of the
ton
who exclaimed and declared that they had known all along that Gillian couldn’t possibly have had anything to do with her first husband’s death. To think otherwise was ridiculous! These days Gillian was hailed as a respectable, charming young woman who had been unfairly vilified, and she and Luc had been bombarded with invitations to visit some of the most illustrious families in the
ton
. Gillian took her sudden return to the bosom of the
ton
with aplomb, but Cornelia was convinced that the young woman didn’t care a fig for the opinion of the
ton
. The only opinion that mattered to Gillian, Cornelia thought with a smile, was Luc’s.
Cornelia’s gaze rested on Gillian’s vivacious face as she smiled up at Luc. Luc’s bride was a vivacious little thing, and it was as plain as the nose on your face that the pair was deeply in love. It was there in the way their eyes clung, in the soft, secret smiles they shared and the way neither was ever far apart from the other. Luc hadn’t cared what the gossip had said about his wife, but it was a good thing, Cornelia decided, that Stanton had so considerately killed himself and then thoughtfully left a confession that St. John had so conveniently “discovered,” which absolved Gillian of any connection to Charles Dashwood’s death. Cornelia snorted. She might be an old woman, but she knew when she was being bamboozled.
The events fit together neatly, but she’d wager next quarter’s generous allowance provided by Barnaby that there was far more to the tale than the authorities or the public knew. Luc had been determined to clear his wife’s name... . Her gaze fastened on Luc’s face, and she snorted again. One of these days, she’d have a word with that young scamp and badger him until he told her the truth, because she didn’t doubt for a moment that he’d had a hand in Stanton’s fate.
At that moment, the group around the table split apart. Stanley and Sophia came over to see if Silas was ready for the journey to High Tower. He was, and the next several minutes were spent in farewells. Mathew was visiting with Simon at The Birches until after the new year, and a half hour later, the two brothers, after another round of feminine hugs and masculine handshakes and all around good wishes, prepared to depart. The women wandered back toward the fire, but Barnaby and Luc followed the other two men outside in the sharp night air.
Simon hesitated a moment, then flashing Barnaby a speaking look, said, “Matt and I are stopping by The Ram’s Head for a few hours before returning home.”
Barnaby cocked a brow. “Be careful,” he said quietly, his eyes following Mathew, who was already swinging into the saddle. “Your brother is ripe for mischief. This cat-and-mouse game with Nolles we’re playing is wearing his patience thin.”
Simon’s eyes darkened. “I know. He needs Nolles either caught or killed. I think only then can he forgive himself for what happened with Tom.”
Barnaby nodded and, once the men disappeared into the darkness, along with Luc returned to the warmth of the house.
The ladies had not lingered in the salon and had disappeared into the upper reaches of the house. Unable to resist, a moment later, as if drawn by magic, the women were on their way to the nursery. After dismissing the nurse dozing in a rocking chair by the crib, much like a trio of fairy godmothers, they hovered around the crib, admiring and murmuring over the sleeping Noel.
Barnaby and Luc retreated to Barnaby’s study, where Lamb joined them. The three men sprawled around the room, now drinking snifters of brandy.
“Simon and Mathew are going to The Ram’s Head before returning home,” Barnaby reported.
“Not very wise,” responded Lamb. “With Padgett and St. John no longer in the area, there’s little excuse to frequent Nolles’s place.”
Luc shrugged. “I wouldn’t say that—one can always find a game of cards or dice, and Nolles provides privacy and willing wenches. Neither Mathew nor Simon are monks.”
“If I thought it was because of women and gambling they were visiting the place, I’d feel less uneasy about it,” Barnaby admitted. He looked at Luc. “You know that they’re both hoping to catch Nolles out or learn something that will enable us to bring him down?”
“I know,” agreed Luc, “but Nolles is a slippery bastard. We’ve been after him for what? Nearly a year now, and we are no closer to bringing him to justice than we were in the days following Tom’s death.”
“I was certain,” Lamb said, “that there would have been a run or two by now, but it’s as if he knows we’re watching him and isn’t willing to take any chances.”
Barnaby grunted. “He’d be a fool if he didn’t know we’re watching him. We’ve made our hostility toward him plain.” Barnaby scowled. “And he has to know that we’re not going to let his attack on Luc go by without retaliation—even with Lamb’s, ah, message to him.”
Lamb smiled into his brandy. “Well, yes, there is that.”
Luc snorted and glared at Lamb. “I was the one who endured the beating, and you’d think that
some
people would have the decency to let me fight my own battles.”
“It appears we were wrong about Nolles having cleared out The Birches in anticipation of a run,” Barnaby said hastily. “If that had been the case, there’d have been one by now.”
“Mathew and I haunted the vicinity of Stanton’s place, even after his death,” Lamb grumbled, “but we never saw any sign of Nolles or his men at Woodhurst.”
Luc frowned. “I’m of the opinion that Townsend’s death caught Nolles by surprise, and with Simon in residence and a far different kettle of fish that poor drunk Townsend, he dare not try to use the cellars to store his goods. Nolles might be lying low for a while, considering his options.” Luc glanced at Barnaby. “Don’t forget, if Canfield and Stanton were a pair of his investors, their deaths must have been a blow to Nolles’s operation. Certainly it would have meant less money to buy contraband.”
Barnaby stared at his snifter, as if the answer he sought were there. “Which leaves him with only Lord Padgett... .” He made a face. “Padgett certainly cleared out as soon as he could after Stanton’s death.”
“And St. John right along with him,” murmured Lamb.
Luc shifted in his chair. What had happened the night Stanton died was a secret shared by only himself, Gillian and St. John and he saw no reason for anybody else to know about it. The possibility that St. John had been an investor in Nolles’s smuggling operation had occurred to him but, he reminded himself, it had been revenge that had brought St. John to Padgett and Stanton’s circle,
not
greed. “St. John isn’t part of it,” Luc said abruptly.
Lamb cocked a brow and looked skeptical.
“I agree,” said Barnaby. “Although his association with that group arouses suspicion.”
“I’ll wager that you’ll not see St. John rubbing shoulders with Padgett in the future,” Luc muttered. “His reason for having been in the company of those licentious rakes doesn’t exist anymore.”
Both Lamb and Barnaby stared at him, but when Luc remained silent, they exchanged looks and shrugged.
Barnaby finished off his own brandy and said, “We shall have to hope that the new year will bring us better luck at ending Nolles’s smuggling career than we have had so far.”
Luc lifted his snifter and said, “I propose a toast: to the downfall of Nolles within the year.”
The three men drank and dispersed, Luc going in search of Gillian. She was descending the stairs with Emily, Cornelia having sought out her bed, and at the sight of Luc crossing the hall, her breath caught and her knees nearly buckled at the wave of love that washed over her.
Taking her hand in his and dropping a kiss, Luc said, “Shall we go home,
m’amie?
”
Gillian agreed, and not long after that, wrapped in an ermine-lined cloak with a hood that framed her face, mittens and muff to keep her hands warm and a hot brick at her feet, she was seated beside her husband in the hooded gig as they drove away from Windmere. Carriage lamps on either side of the gig cut through the darkness, lighting their way as they drove toward Ramstone.
Her head resting on his broad shoulder as he drove, Gillian could not remember a time when she’d been so happy and contented. She had a husband she loved and one who loved her; what more could she want? The image of tiny Noel, looking like a sleeping angel, flitted across her mind and a secret smile curved her lips. She sighed blissfully.
Hearing her sigh, Luc took his eyes off the horse and asked, “What is it?”
Gillian snuggled closer. “I was thinking of your niece—she is quite adorable, isn’t she?”
“Oui,”
he answered. Grinning down at her, he added, “But not as adorable as our own children will be.”
Gillian smiled shyly up at him. “I agree ... and sometime next summer, the end of August, I think, you shall see for yourself.”
It took Luc a second. But when he realized what she was saying, he jerked the horse to a stop and turned to stare at her, an expression of joyous incredulity on his face. “Do you mean... . ?”
She giggled and threw her arms around his neck. “Yes, my love, I am going to have your baby next summer.”

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