Lily (Flower Trilogy) (27 page)

All through her bath Lily told herself that Rand’s running did not equate to running away—at least not from her. By the time Etta laced her into a fresh peach gown, she almost believed it.

“Jerome, you may leave us now. And inform the others they are not to enter unless I ring.”

The aging footman bowed and backed away, looking grateful to escape as he shut the door behind him. Rand watched his father pick up his fork and stab a piece of buttered and sugared turnip. The staff was still wary of the man’s moods, he thought with an internal sigh. If employment were easier to come by, he imagined most of the old-timers would have left long ago.

“Now,” the marquess said, looking pointedly at Rand and Margery. “You are both here. It is time to seal this betrothal and get on with our lives.”

“My lord,” Lily started.

“No.” The man waved his fork. “You are not part of this family, my lady, and there is nothing you can add to this discussion.”

She shared a look with Rand, then set to silently picking at her food.

Seething, Rand lifted his goblet. “You’re wrong,” he said tightly. “Lily has an inheritance that she is prepared to put at your disposal in exchange for your blessing on our marriage. Ten thousand pounds, plus her dowry, which brings the total to thirteen. I believe that adds quite a bit to this discussion.”

Regardless of the fact that it was an enormous sum of money, the marquess barely blinked. “And where do you suppose that leaves Margery? Your foster sister, promised to my heir on her father’s deathbed?”

“Free to marry Bennett Armstrong.” Rand sipped smugly.

The man’s face turned red as his fork clattered to his plate. “Bennett Armstrong!” he bellowed. “I’ve forbidden that name to be mentioned in this house!”

Seeing Lily shudder beside him, Rand reached over to squeeze her hand. Margery, however, was apparently used to this sort of tirade.

“Uncle William—”

“Do not ‘Uncle William’ me, young lady. I have raised you like my own daughter, and I would think you’d have accepted by now that no amount of pleading on your part will make me consider marrying you to a murderer.”

Rand’s jaw dropped open. “Murderer?”

Margery turned apologetic eyes on him. “I tried to tell you, but you wouldn’t listen.”

“Bennett Armstrong is a murderer?”

“No!” Margery said at the same time the marquess snapped, “Yes!”

Lily gasped, and Rand tightened his hold on her hand.

But his gaze was fixed on the marquess.

“He murdered my son and heir,” the man said. “And I intend to see him hang.”

“Bennett is not a murderer!” Margery burst out.

“’Twas in self-defense!” She turned to Rand, her eyes frantic. “Alban came after him in the first place.”

But all Rand could absorb at the moment was that the man Margery wanted to marry had killed his brother. The hows and whys were beyond him.
And where does that
leave Margery?
the marquess had asked. Where indeed?

Even Rand could understand the man’s unwillingness to wed his ward to the man at whose hands his own son had died.

Lily’s money was not going to solve all their problems, after all.

“My Alban,” the marquess said, glaring at Margery,

“was not a man capable of killing.
Your lover
murdered my son in cold blood. Of course he would claim otherwise, and I’ve no doubt that a besotted, addlebrained woman like you would believe him.”

“Alban
would
kill,” she shot back. “I’ve seen him kill, time and time again. A rabbit, a lamb. My very own cat when she pounced on him as he was forcing me to kiss him.”

Lily hid her face in her hands, and Rand reached to rub her back.

“’Tis Bennett who is incapable of killing without just provocation,” Margery added.

“And he undoubtedly considered a man determined to wed his lover as ‘just provocation.’” The marquess pointed his knife at her, emphasizing each syllable. “Unfortunately, with only his word against a dead man’s, I’ve not evidence enough for an arrest. Yet. But I intend to get it.”

“He’s offered a reward for information,” Margery informed Rand in a voice made high by rising panic. “A hundred pounds.”

Lily looked up at that. “A
hundred
pounds?”

“A hundred pounds,” Margery repeated, her eyes filling with tears. “Bennett is as good as dead.”

Rand couldn’t find it in himself to disagree with her. To do so would be a lie. A footman wouldn’t earn a hundred pounds in ten years, let alone a groom or coachman or maid. For that kind of money, someone would come forward with damning evidence, honestly acquired or not.

The marquess wielded a lot of power in this small piece of England, and if he meant to see Bennett hang, Rand had no doubt he would accomplish it.

Plainly seeing the truth in Rand’s eyes, Margery let out a pathetic moan and rose from her chair, rushing to kneel at the marquess’s knees. Her black gown pooled around her. “I beg you, Uncle William, do not do this. I’ll have no will to live should Bennett die. Let him live long enough for me to prove his innocence.”

“Impossible,” the man snapped, “given that he is guilty.”

She looked up at him, the tears overflowing, making tracks down her pale cheeks. “Then you’ll be killing me along with him.”

Just then, she looked entirely too capable of doing herself in, and Rand watched, amazed, as the marquess’s features softened with compassion.

But ’twas not long before they hardened again. “He’s not dead yet, girl, but I mean to see him pay for murdering my son. In the meantime, should the two of you think to plan anything, I will be sending a contingent of men to keep the whoreson under house arrest.” A bell sat by his elbow, and now he raised it and jingled it fiercely, as though venting his frustration on the sterling silver might help. “Jerome!” he called, and the man rushed in.

In moments, it was done. A dozen men were on their way to surround Bennett Armstrong’s home.

An hour later, Rand, Lily, and Margery were on their way there, too.

Lord Bennett Armstrong’s house was smaller than Hawkridge Hall and Trentingham Manor, and from the mishmash of styles and the way the house sprawled this way and that, Lily surmised it was older than Hawkridge and Trentingham, too. Sections looked medieval, other parts Tudor, and still other portions modern-day. But regardless of all that, it was obviously the home of a wealthy man.

Each of the three doors had one of Hawkridge’s men assigned to guard it, and two more men were posted on every side of the house—in case Lord Armstrong decided to lower himself from a window.

At first, the guard at the front door had no intention of letting their party pass through. But Rand remembered the man, and soon he was pumping his hand and asking after his wife and children. Rand swore on his mother’s grave that he wasn’t there to break Bennett out, and—

since the man had apparently adored Rand’s mother—in no time at all, they were ushered into the dark, paneled house.

That, Lily knew, was because of Rand’s innate charm.

She also knew it was because he still had strong ties with Hawkridge’s people. Strong ties that would make it impossible for him to go back to Oxford if it meant the people left behind would suffer.

A butler directed them to a study, where they found Lord Armstrong writing a letter.

“Bennett!” Margery streaked across the chamber and threw herself at him. “Oh, Bennett, Uncle William means to see you hang!”

“I know, love.” He cupped her face in both his hands.

“I was just writing to my uncle with instructions of what to do should that come to pass.”

“Oh, Bennett.”

With a heartfelt groan, he crushed his mouth to hers, kissing her as though he would never let her go. Margery cooperated fully, running her fingers through his longish, dark hair, then wrapping her arms around his middle. As Lily watched, Margery worked her hands down Bennett’s body, pressing herself against him.

Rand’s jaw dropped. “Apparently she is not as proper as I thought,” he whispered to Lily.

“Hmm?” She knew she shouldn’t watch, and in truth, she felt like a peeper. But seeing them made her want to do the same with Rand. And sadly, with the new developments, she felt almost as desperate as the other lovers looked.

At least Rand’s life was not in danger. Only their lives together. She turned and pretended to study a shelf of books, trying to convince herself that things were not that bad.

At last the couple parted and Lord Armstrong noticed Rand and Lily were there. His pale green eyes widened.

“Randy? Is that you?”

“I’m called Rand these days.” He strode forward to shake the man’s hand. “And this is my betrothed, Lady Lily Ashcroft.”

“Lord Armstrong.” She curtsied, trying to dredge up a smile. He was quite good-looking, although his gaze didn’t make her melt like Rand’s did.

“Let us not stand on ceremony. Call me Bennett, please.”

“Oh, Bennett.” Margery’s bottom lip quivered. “I thought that while I was gone, Uncle William would come to his senses. But if anything, he’s become even more determined.”

“I’ve seen evidence of that,” Bennett muttered, striding to a window to glare down at the guards.

“He’s offered a hundred pounds for information that leads to proving your guilt.”

“Bloody hell.” Bennett shut his eyes, then opened them and sent Lily an apologetic glance. “Pardon the language, my lady.”

“I’ve heard worse,” she assured him. “Is there no way to prove your innocence?” She knew him not, most especially whether or not he might be innocent, but she was praying he was. Clearing him as an acceptable husband for Margery seemed the only hope for her and Rand.

But Bennett just gave a helpless shrug and dropped back onto his bulky wooden desk chair. “There were no witnesses.”

Rand began pacing. “Tell me what happened.”

Bennett pulled Margery onto his lap and played with a lock of her pale hair while he talked. “I was hunting and, as sometimes happens, had become separated from my companions. Alban rode up almost immediately, as though he had been following and waiting for such an opportunity. He dismounted, pointed a pistol at me, and accused me of plotting to steal his bride.”

Rand turned and leveled him with a stare. “Were you?”

Bennett looked to Margery for help. She met Rand’s gaze. “Your father wouldn’t allow us to marry, so we were planning to elope. I have no idea, however, how Alban could have found out.”

“Alban had his ways,” Rand said darkly. “So then what happened?”

Bennett’s swallow was audible even from across the room. “I dived off my horse to knock the gun from his grasp, and it went off. Then he drew his sword, and I panicked. Alban was known for his swordsmanship, and he wasn’t looking for a duel of honor—he’d made it clear he wanted me dead. I swiped a stout branch off the ground and bashed him over the head. He went down like a sack of flour.”

Rand still paced. “And he was dead.”

“Yes. I didn’t mean to kill him—I could have shot him if I’d wanted that. I was hunting and had a musket, after all. But I wasn’t sorry. He didn’t deserve my Margery—

he treated her abominably.”

“Don’t you see?” Margery slid off Bennett’s lap and went over to Rand, halting him with a hand on his arm.

“’Twas self-defense. If he hadn’t done Alban in, Bennett would’ve been dead instead.”

“But how to prove it?” Lily asked.

“I know not.” Margery looked toward her pleadingly.

“But you must help me find a way.”

“We will,” Lily promised softly.

Rand had too many problems for Lily to burden him with her own, but without her sisters here for support, she was feeling adrift and alone. Margery and she had a common goal. Together, with Rand’s help, they could fight to keep their men.

They exchanged a sad, understanding smile, and Lily felt a little bit better.

The marquess failed to appear for supper that evening, claiming a backlog of work due to Alban’s demise. He took a tray in his study instead.

But later that night, when Rand, Lily, and Margery were passing the hours in the North Drawing Room, Lily playing gentle tunes while Rand and Margery sat nearby and puzzled over what could be done, the marquess appeared in the doorway. Lily’s fingers stilled on the keys, leaving an expectant silence.

“No matter what you believe,” the marquess said, addressing himself to Margery, “I have raised you like my own daughter and care for you as though you were. Your pleas have not fallen on entirely deaf ears.”

Rand saw Margery’s heart leap into her eyes and felt his own heart leap as well. “Yes?” he asked when she appeared unable to speak.

The marquess swung his cold gray gaze on him. “I have a plan to spare her lover’s life.”

“Thank God,” Margery breathed.

“Thank me,” the man snapped. “The truth is I know better than to make this offer. You should be thankful I have a soft heart.”

Rand bit back a retort. The marquess had claimed he cared for her as though she were his daughter. For Margery’s sake, Rand hoped the man believed a daughter should be better treated than a son.

She rose, her black skirts trembling as she slowly approached the doorway. “What is your plan, Uncle William?”

The marquess straightened. “On your twenty-first birthday, one week hence, you will wed my son.”

“No—”

“Yes. Should the two of you fail to marry, your lover will hang. Should the wedding take place, I will see that he is granted a commutation of sentence and transported to the colonies instead.” He paused, drawing breath.

“May God forgive me my weakness,” he said to no one in particular, then turned and strode from the chamber.

As one, the three of them released their breaths.

“This is unconscionable,” Rand gritted out.

Margery’s face was even paler than usual. A pure, bloodless white. “We must marry,” she whispered, casting an apologetic glance to Lily. She focused back on Rand. “We must marry to save Bennett’s life.”

Margery took a few faltering steps toward Rand, then dropped to her knees at his feet. “We must marry.”