Escape with A Rogue (23 page)

“No, of course not.”

A footman entered and deposited a tea tray. Catherine quickly poured two brimming cups. “Jack Travers cannot be innocent.”

“He is.” They had spoken of this many times, but Catherine steadfastly believed in Jack’s guilt. “He was found guilty only because the magistrate did not have all the evidence. Philip said he saw Jack and Miss Highchurch argue, and Philip left the maze to wait. As soon as he saw Jack leave the maze, Philip went back in. Once Jack was on the lawns, I saw him. We walked together until I left him to search—” She had to swallow hard. “For Amelia and Sarah. Jack did not go back into the maze from the time I saw him until I went in.”

Catherine gave her a sharp, accusatory look. “You were very friendly with
Jack
.”

A flush raced to her cheeks. Without thinking, she had used his first name.

Catherine’s teacup and saucer smacked against the table. “It must have been Travers. He must have killed Grace out of jealous rage, then Sarah. His
kerchief
was found beside Sarah! And now he is at large. You are in danger, Madeline!”

Startled by the vehemence, Madeline shook her head. Catherine could be very dramatic. “I am not in danger from Jack. And I believe in him.”

Pain and sorrow were etched on Catherine’s face. She looked as though the argument had aged her by a decade. Madeline could not understand. Wouldn’t she want justice for Sarah, who would have been her stepdaughter if she’d lived?

“Jack did not have his kerchief when I saw him on the lawns,” she reminded Catherine.

“Are you certain of that, Madeline? Or is that what you want to remember?”

“Grandfather was quite convinced of Jack’s innocence.”

“Laurentide was eighty years of age. His mind must have been quite foggy.”

“I think his mind was very sharp.” Madeline softened her voice. “People in the village have accepted Jack’s innocence. Even your husband has. There was no other reason for him to pick a fight with my brother in the village inn’s taproom.”

At Catherine’s look of shock, she knew she had gone too far. She regretted it. Was she destined to push her one good friend away over this?

Male voices drifted in through the open window on a warm breeze. Madeline glanced out. Philip, Braxton, and Deverell were strolling across the lawn from the direction of the stables, all dressed in riding breeches and form-fitting topcoats. They walked jauntily, and Deverell was carelessly twirling a walking stick. It irritated her to see them looking so carefree when one of those men, Braxton or Deverell, could be a murderer.

Catherine stood and walked to the window. “Deverell cuts a fine figure, doesn’t he?” she said. “Astonishing that he is still unwed. Scheming matrons have tried every trick in the book to force a match. He’s discovered more scantily dressed young innocents in his bedroom than a sheik has concubines. I suppose you have invited Mayberry also—the mild-mannered earl who spoke of nothing but antiquities and archaeological digs. And the handsome musician? The one with the marvelous . . . singing voice. Is he coming back also?”

“I couldn’t invite Peregrine Rhodes. He was killed two weeks after the murders, by a footpad in London.”

“Good heavens,” Catherine gasped. “Well, perhaps
he
did it. Would that make you happy? Why are you trying to recreate that tragic house party? Foolishly, I spoke of this to Lindale. He was upset to know the house party was to happen again.”

“I’m not trying to recreate it. In the haste to arrest Jack, the magistrate barely questioned the other men at the house. I want justice for Sarah and Grace. I want to see the guilty man punished.”

Catherine moved to the bell pull as an actress would cross a stage, with theatrical grace that would mesmerize an audience. She tugged hard on the cord. “Tea is all well and fine, but I think we need something stronger. We shall have sherry.”

A headache pounded in Madeline’s temples. She hated to cause Lindale more pain, but if she did not delve into the past, she would never be free of danger, her family would never be free of suspicion. And Lindale’s daughter’s murderer would never pay. Wasn’t that worse?

The mantel clock struck three. The Earl of Mayberry would be arriving soon. There was dinner to be faced. Dinner with her suspects.

“Don’t you see, Madeline?” Catherine implored. “He had almost put it behind him. After two years of mourning, he was opening his heart again. Opening it to me. Now he is retreating into dark, withdrawn despair.”

Madeline understood. Catherine feared she was losing Lindale’s love. Before, when he had been so sunk in grief, they had all worried about the state of his mind. He would sit in the dark, refuse to eat, and fly into fierce rages. Catherine had been terrified that grief would make him descend into madness. She had helped him to fight his way out of the pain.

“I’m so sorry,” Madeline said. “But I cannot believe it is better to accept a lie than to hunt for the truth.”

“It is hurting your family, too,” Catherine cried. “Your brother is being persecuted by rumors. Your father is drinking heavily. Your mother is agitated and imagines terrible things. You are wallowing in tragedy and letting your life pass you by. Do you not see you are a fool to tear your family apart—risk your own life—for the sake of Jack Travers?”

Chapter Fourteen

Madeline heard grunts and muffled thuds from behind the stables as she rounded the corner. A bag filled with hay hung from a hook on the stable wall. A broad-shouldered giant of a man held the bag while the Marquis of Braxton—six inches shorter, but heavily muscled—punched it.

This was her first chance to question Braxton.

She managed a smile for the bigger of the two men, Anthony, a local pugilist also known as the Billingston Bruiser. Jonathon, Lord Braxton turned away from his punching bag. Sweat plastered his brown hair against his head and his white shirt clung to his muscular frame. She’d known Braxton since she had been ten years of age. He loved sport—hunting, riding, fighting. Last spring, he had climbed in the Himalayas.

She’d hired Anthony to keep Braxton amused. Grandfather had insisted she and Amelia learn to shoot, fence, ride, and practice techniques to protect themselves. He had employed Anthony to teach those things.

A footman followed her and set down a tray bearing a pitcher of lemonade and three glasses. The Bruiser took one, strolled over to a log, and sat to drink.

Braxton poured her a glass, then one for himself. “See you invited Deverell.” He spoke in truncated sentences, as though he didn’t have time for unnecessary words. “For his help, or you suspect him?”

Braxton always came directly to the point. “Do you think he could have been having a love affair with Miss Highchurch?” she asked, equally blunt.

She felt as disoriented as she had with Deverell. She had known Braxton for so long—heavens, he’d kissed her more than once beneath the mistletoe over the years—but, again, she could not guess whether he was guilty or innocent. Could a man who’d kissed her shoot at her? Braxton had hunted wild game in Africa and he’d hit targets that could run like the wind. He would not have missed her.

He stared down at his large hands. Fabric had been wound around his knuckles to protect them. “Thought it was Travers,” he said. “Saw Miss Highchurch talking with him at the stables a few times.”

She felt empty, knowing she might never see Jack again. But her determination to find the truth should not depend on whether Jack was here or not.

“The killer was not Jack Travers,” she said. “Deverell does have a reputation as a rake. I believe he has seduced any number of maids and governesses.” She hoped that by pretending to be suspicious of
another
man, she could make each one talk. Two years ago, the magistrate had questioned each man, even if only with perfunctory haste, and obviously, the murderer had taken care not to incriminate himself.
She
had to coax the men to be less circumspect with their words.

Braxton gulped back his drink. “Things a lady shouldn’t know about.”

“We ladies do know. We know quite a bit about gentlemen’s secrets.”

Lemonade flew from Braxton’s mouth and he sputtered.

“I wondered whether one of the gentlemen could have been . . . intimate with Miss Highchurch. It appears she was carrying a child.”

A deep flush began at Braxton’s hairline and swept down. “I’ve known both Deverell and Mayberry since Eton. Can’t countenance that either one would have killed two women.”

“There was Philip.”

Braxton drew back in shock. It was as though her suggestion made her unclean. But she could not let masculine displeasure stop her. “I thought Grace had fallen in love with Philip. Perhaps someone else was in love with her, too.”

Braxton flinched, then set down his glass. “Wouldn’t know, my dear. Barely noticed her—not my type of female.” He stood. “Should resume my training.”

At least Braxton had not proposed marriage. He began to lightly bounce on his feet, and his muscles rippled beneath his shirt. He certainly had the strength to strangle someone. “What
is
your type of female?” she asked.

“I—uh—er . . .” His blush deepened. Was it a sign he’d lied, or just awkwardness?

“Where were you on that afternoon?” she continued. “I wondered whether you had seen anyone in the maze.”

He glanced at the Bruiser, who was pounding his fists into the swinging bag. “Chased the two ladies though the maze for about half an hour. Much shrieking and giggling when I caught Amelia. But had to go then—Philip had arranged a prizefight. Rode out to the makeshift ring to take a look at his champion. Came back just after the uproar started.”

“Were any of the other gentlemen with you?”

“Philip was and Deverell but I lost track of them in the crowd. Didn’t see either of them until I returned to the house.”

“You didn’t see Sarah or Miss Highchurch?”

“No, indeed—good God.” Braxton stopped his footwork. “Is
that
Amelia?”

Madeline froze in surprise. Her sister had strolled from the lawn to a terrace, a book open in front of her. Reading intently as she walked, her sister adjusted her spectacles. Why had she forgotten that gentlemen would notice Amelia, who was now nineteen? With golden curls, a heart-shaped face, and large gray eyes, Amelia possessed a fragile beauty.

She had her answer. Apparently, Amelia was his type of female. Until she could be certain Braxton was innocent, Madeline had to keep him away from her sister.

She watched Braxton watch Amelia walk into the house.

A high-pitched whinny came from the rear of the stables, followed by soothing noises made in a deep male voice. Jupiter, Philip’s newest horse, and a groom moved to the edge of the stables, half-hidden by shadow. The skittish Arabian, who’d thrown every rider who’d tried to seat him, gave a gentle nicker and nuzzled the groom’s hand.

Madeline’s breath fled in a fierce whoosh.

The groom with the horse was not one of the regular ones.

Slowly, Madeline rose. What she was thinking was madness. It could not be possible. The danger would be too great. She left Braxton and the Bruiser to their punching bag. She darted around the corner of the stone stable to follow the tall, broad-shouldered groom.

He wore a cap and a white linen shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. His forearms bulged, muscular and hard. She watched each soothing stroke he laid upon Jupiter’s withers, and her skin tingled as though she could feel his palm running along her skin.

Madeline’s heart thumped crazily. She could only see a bit of his profile, and she breathlessly assessed each feature. High cheekbones. A firm, well-shaped jaw. Dark brown brows and a sweep of lashes that were not quite black.

But beneath the cap, it appeared his hair was auburn and shaved almost to his scalp.

She longed to run out, grasp his face by his chin and force him to turn. But she heard O’Meara, the head groom, whistling behind her. O’Meara had been hired two years ago to replace Jack. Jack’s skill with horses had quickly made him the head groom; when he’d gone, Father had felt not of the other grooms had enough experience.

“Who are you?” she asked softly, and the groom turned.

It was Jack. He was here, risking his life, when he could have been halfway across the world.

He doffed his cap and bowed with a flourish that weakened her knees. But she instantly tamped down the joy uncoiling in her heart at the sight of him. What if Oberon’s story was true?

O’Meara strode up behind her, a saddle draped over his arm. “This is Henry Roberts, my lady.” The head groom nodded toward Jupiter, who appeared to be a different horse than the angry one she’d seen before she’d left for Dartmoor. “He came looking for work as a groom. I saw how Lord Philip’s new gelding took to him. So I hired him.” He looked nervous. “Should have spoken to you first, my lady? The Crown’s men said—”

“I can assure you they are not looking for Mr. Roberts,” she said briskly.

Jack must have got here ahead of Oberon, Livingston, and her—he’d arrived before the Crown’s men were positioned to watch the house and estate. It also meant he had been on the estate for two days but had not let her know it.

She stroked Jupiter’s muzzle. “The transformation does seem remarkable. It appears the choice was wise.” She wanted to scream because she couldn’t even speak honestly to Jack in front of her head groom. She must dismiss O’Meara and warn Jack about the men watching the house. She had to force Jack to leave—

She couldn’t. She had always been the responsible, dutiful member of the family, had always been able to overcome selfish desires. But she could not let Jack go.

She wanted to believe in him. She had to drag the truth from him. How could the London gamester, wanted by the Crown for funding treason, be the same man who could tame Jupiter? She turned to O’Meara. “Perhaps we should put his skills to the test. Roberts, would you saddle up my horse Penelope and bring her out to the south field?”

* * *

The last thing Jack intended to do in the south field was kiss Lady M.