Lily (Flower Trilogy) (35 page)

And a lone, leather-bound journal.

Rand reached for it and hurried her out, closing the door with a
bang
.

Kit took the candle from Rand, reopened the panel, peeked in, and slammed it shut again.

Lily’s limbs shook. “What—what were all those things for, Rand?”

“I’m not certain I want to know. But I imagine this diary will reveal all.”

“Will you show your father that space?”

He was silent a long moment. “No. Not unless I have to. Not unless the diary fails to reveal Alban’s plan to kill Bennett, or the marquess refuses to believe my translation.”

She nodded. ’Twas a sound decision. The marquess had clearly loved Alban, and there was no sense disillusioning him more than was necessary. After all, Alban was already dead.

Never had Lily, nice Lily, thought she’d be glad for a man’s demise. “Never say never,” she whispered.

Rand slanted her a glance, then slowly opened the journal and flipped to the last entry. “‘Nineteenth of August, 1677,’” he read aloud, then looked up. “The day Alban died.”

“We’ve got him,” Kit said with a smile.

Lily dropped to her knees and buried her face in Rex’s neck, wetting his fur with her tears. After a long moment, she got to her feet, reached for the bowl of meat, and set it on the floor.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

•

•

•

All the way back to Trentingham, Lily and Rand and Kit reminded each other that the diary might not reveal anything incriminating.

But they couldn’t help but believe that it did.

’Twas late when they arrived, and Lily was exhausted.

She’d hardly slept a wink those long nights waiting for word from Rand.

The rest of the family were already abed. After a yawning Parkinson let them in, Rand drew Lily close and dropped a kiss on the top of her head. “Go to sleep,” he told her. “You cannot help with this, anyway. In the morning you’ll feel better, and with luck I’ll have good news.”

She nodded and took herself off to her room.

Parkinson led the way up to the library, then lit a few candles and went back to bed himself. Rand and Kit settled at a round wooden table to decipher the diary.

No sooner had Rand opened the cover than Rose walked in, carrying another candle and wearing naught but a white night rail with a red wrapper tied over it. Although the garments were concealing, their effect was undeniably intimate.

She set down the candle and rubbed her eyes. “You found the journal?”

“We did,” Kit said. “Would you like to help us decode it?”

Rand opened his mouth to protest, but before he could, she took a chair. “Of course. I’m good at that sort of thing.”

She
was
good at that sort of thing. Inside of an hour, they had Alban’s final entry translated, Rand and Rose doing most of the work while Kit sat back and watched.

He watched mostly Rose, not the diary.

“What does it say?” he asked.

“‘I’m going to do it,’” Rose quoted. “‘The time has come.’”

“’Tis not enough.” Rand rubbed the back of his neck.

“We need to find something that clearly implies murder.

The rest of this entry is just a recitation of his day.”

“Then we do the one before it,” Kit said.

Rand sent him a wry glance. “We?”

“Hey, we all do what we can. I found the thing, didn’t I?”

“With Rex’s help,” Rand conceded. Rose went to a cabinet and poured them each a measure of Madeira, herself included. Then they went back to work.

Another hour passed, an hour of slow but steady progress. “We’re going to find the evidence,” Rose said, adding to the ever-growing column of words they’d managed to decipher. “’Tis here. I know it.” She looked up.

“He was a wicked man, wasn’t he, your brother?”

Rand nodded, afraid to be so optimistic, but feeling Rose was right. They were going to find their proof. Then all that would remain would be convincing his father.

They puzzled out a few more words of an entry dealing with the sale of some cattle. “You’re going to take care of my sister, are you not?” Rose asked while scribbling some notes. “And be kind to her all your days?”

He looked up. “I will cherish her like no man has ever cherished a woman.”

“You’d better,” she said darkly, then jotted another word.

Watching her with a smile on his face, Kit sipped his Madeira.

“‘The date draws near,’” Rand read when the entry was complete. “‘If she is to be mine, steps must be taken.’”

“Not enough,” Kit said. “He could be talking about a horse.”

“But he isn’t.” Rose reached to refill his goblet. “He’s talking about murder. Another entry. Let’s get back to work.”

She seemed tireless, and Rand never had been wont to sleep when faced with a puzzle. Especially one this important.

“Lady Rose,” Kit started.

“Hmm?” She crossed out a word and wrote another.

“Rand led me to believe you were, ah, a mite antagonistic concerning his relationship with your sister.”

“Well, that,” she said, “was before I got to know the man properly. I didn’t feel he was good enough for her at first. But now . . .”

Her soft smile said it all. Although she’d had other reasons to oppose the match than those she was willing to admit, Rand knew her new attitude was genuine. Miraculously, she seemed truly happy for him and Lily. And approving.

’Twould be an enormous relief for Lily, he knew, and for him, too. And now, when it seemed everything might work out after all, that seemed more important than ever.

They worked through several hours and four more entries before they hit gold. Rand sat back, staring at the page.

“Read it,” Kit said.

“‘Margery begged and begged,’” Rose read softly,

“‘but Hawkridge refused as always.’” She paused, glancing up at Rand. “He called your father Hawkridge?”

Rand shrugged. “Ours is not a warm family.”

“You’ll be warm now,” she warned, “with my sister.

Or—”

“Peace, Rose. I love Lily more than my life. Read the rest, will you?”

Kit laughed. At a time like this, he laughed. If Rand hadn’t been so tense, he’d have reached over and slapped him. But in his present mood, he feared he might do his old friend permanent damage.

“‘Hawkridge refused as always,’” Rose continued slowly. “‘I followed Margery to Armstrong’s place, her sobbing all the way. And there, they plotted to elope.’”

She reached for her Madeira and took a swallow. “Here,”

she said, handing Rand their notes. “You read the rest.”

He took a deep breath before reading, for the first time, the individual words they’d translated, all pieced together. “‘When I overheard their plans, I felt I couldn’t draw air. My heart swelled to such a size it filled my chest, squeezing my lungs, robbing me of sustenance. I cannot allow this to happen. Margery will be mine. They leave in a week, and before that, I must kill him.’”

“There it is,” Kit said admiringly.

“Yes, there it is,” Rose said with a satisfied sigh.

“Thank God.” Rand sent a quick thanks to heaven.

“And both of you. If—when—Lily and I wed, I will be silently thanking you as we recite our vows.”

Dawn was breaking when they left the library. Rose had made peace with the fact that he’d chosen Lily over her, and amazingly, she and Rand were friends. But Kit, Rand was sure, wanted to be more than friends with Rose.

A shame she hadn’t even seemed to notice him.

“Go to Lily,” she told Rand. “Go tell her what we’ve found.”

“Go to her in her chamber? You’ll . . . you’ll come along, will you not?”

“No.” She flashed the sort of smile that only Rose could flash. “But if you’re not out in five minutes, I’m coming in. Even you, Rand Nesbitt, cannot ravish a woman in five minutes flat.”

Rand didn’t need a second invitation.

Lily looked like an angel, her hair a dark halo on the pillow. But her mouth was turned down in a frown. Her dreams, he knew, were not sweet.

He leaned down and pressed a kiss to those pouting lips. They curved up, and her arms rose to wrap around his neck. She smelled of sleep and lilies.

“Rand?”

“Yes, sweetheart. I’m here.” Was it silly of him to be so glad she hadn’t called another man’s name? He knew she was his, knew it as well as he knew which English words came from Latin.

Her eyes slid languidly open. “Could you read the diary?”

He smiled and sat beside her on the bed, his fingers playing idly in her hair. “Alban Nesbitt,” he said, “has never contrived a code I couldn’t decipher.”

She sat up, suddenly wide awake. “What did it say, Rand?” Her hands twisted together in her lap, her fingers rubbing the faint scars. “What did it say?”

“It said he planned to murder Bennett. I love you, Lily Ashcroft, and we’re going to be married.”

He would make it so. He hadn’t come this far to fail now. Before Lily rose for breakfast, he was riding hard for Hawkridge, the diary and notes in one hand.

Rand arrived at Hawkridge to find the marquess and Margery at breakfast, sullen and silent.

His arrival took care of that.

“’Tis here,” he said, striding in and waving the diary and some papers. “In Alban’s own hand. His plans to kill Bennett Armstrong, here in black and white.”

Margery’s face lit like a full moon on a cloudless night.

The marquess took one look at her and frowned. “Sit down, Randal. I’ve not finished with my breakfast.”

Rand took some spice bread and a bowl of meat pottage from the leather-topped sideboard and carried them to the table. Disregarding formality, he sat at the end by his father and spread his evidence on the cedarwood surface.

The marquess deliberately looked away, focusing on his food.

Margery pushed her pottage around in her bowl, apparently too excited to eat. “What did you find, Rand?”

“The diary ended on the day of Alban’s death.” Ignoring the marquess’s wince, Rand took a big bite of the fruited spice bread. He’d been awake nigh on twenty-six hours without taking time to eat. “Here”—he rustled through the papers with one hand—“here’s the crucial passage.” He held out a page to Margery.

Her hand shook as she took it. Although it was a translation, not Alban’s writing, the words on the paper were his.

As she scanned down the page a soft gasp escaped her lips. Rand’s father looked annoyed even before she started reading. “‘I cannot allow this to happen. Margery will be mine. They leave in a week, and before that, I must kill him.’”

The marquess snatched the sheet from her hand. His eyes narrowed as his gaze shifted to Rand. “This is not Alban’s hand. ’Tis yours.”

“Actually, that is Rose Ashcroft’s writing.” He shouldn’t be surprised the man didn’t recognize his own son’s hand.

The marquess had never bothered to look at any of his lessons. “Her writing is much tidier than mine.”

With a flick of his still-supple wrist, his father tossed the paper onto the table. “I will never believe that is what the diary says. Think you I’m a fool? You’d claim anything in order to wed that Ashcroft chit.” He looked back down to his food, cutting a bite of ham with a fitful, angry motion. “Those are not Alban’s words. I know—I
knew
—my son.”

Rand struggled for calm. “No, Father, you didn’t.”

The man’s gaze jerked up from his breakfast. Rand hadn’t called him Father in twenty years or more. Staring at Rand, he stabbed blindly with his fork.

“You didn’t know him,” Rand repeated. “You knew the son you wished he was.”

“Hogwash.” Having managed to spear some ham, he stuck it in his mouth, taking his time to chew and swallow before continuing. “My son was incapable of pre-meditated murder.”

“Are you aware that your son kept knives under his bed? A collection to rival a museum’s. Most of them stained with blood.”

If Rand could judge from his expression, the man hadn’t known. “There have been no murders in this district other than Alban’s.”

“Not of people,” Rand agreed. “But I’d wager animals have been found senselessly slaughtered.”

From the look on his father’s face, he’d hit home.

“What of it? ’Tis no crime.”

“It could be a small leap from beasts to humankind.”

The marquess pursed his lips and shook his head, but his armor had cracked. Rand could see it in his eyes. He pressed his sudden advantage. “Come to Alban’s chambers. I will show you the blades. After you see the evidence, your imagination will fill in the rest.” With that, he rose and strode out of the room, trusting his father would follow.

When he heard an additional set of footsteps on the marble floor as they crossed the Great Hall, he glanced over his shoulder. “Wait in the dining room, Margery.

This is not fit for a lady’s eyes.”

Lily had seen the knives—and worse, to Rand’s regret.

He had no intention of allowing another woman to witness his brother’s depravity.

But Margery lifted her chin. “I am no lady, as your father has made certain to remind me. Only a mere miss.

And seeing as I was supposed to wed the man, I feel entitled to view what it is I escaped.”

By the time she finished her brave speech, they were all standing in Alban’s bedchamber. Rand sighed and gave up.

“Where?” the marquess asked, clearly discomfited in the disarray that made it seem as though his eldest son were still alive. “I see no knives.”

“They’re under the bed.” Rand stooped to pull out the box. They’d left it unlocked; he lifted the lid.

“Dear God,” Margery whispered, looking away. Her hand went protectively to her abdomen, and Rand winced, hoping his father wouldn’t notice the telltale gesture.

He went to wrap an arm around her shoulders. “He’s dead,” he said softly. “He cannot hurt you now.”

“Or anyone else.” He felt her shudder, then straighten.

“Or any
thing
else.”

He looked to the marquess. “Well?”

The man’s jaw was tense enough to crack walnuts.

“This proves nothing. Alban was an avid hunter, as you well know.”

Margery’s mouth dropped open. “Uncle William, those are not hunting knives.”

The marquess bent and drew one out. “This one is.”