Miss Carlyle's Curricle: Signet Regency Romance (InterMix) (20 page)

And his wife, should she be carrying his child. Yes, he should not have married her. It put her in that much more danger.

***

The ride to Vicar Southworthy’s house was not long, which was fortunate, for Gavin felt uncomfortable leaving Diana behind at Brisbane House, even though there were servants aplenty around her. But he did not want to tell her fully of his fears, for she would certainly begin to question him, or worse, other people, and he did not want the killer’s attention brought upon her. It was a fine line he walked, whether to tell her all, or only enough to keep her safe. Discretion being the better part of valor, it was no doubt wise to say as little as possible.

He knew that he could easily be killed himself; the murderer could hide behind a tree or tall bush, and shoot him. But that did not seem to be the man’s style. It was indirect, always, whether it was abduction or causing some accident or other. Except for his own abduction, it seemed to center around horses or races of some kind; the late Lord Brisbane had told him that, at least. At present, he would make sure to be in no race, and if someone planned to abduct him again and falsify an “accident” around it, he had a small pistol in his coat pocket, already primed. He had, also, his dagger in its sheath, tucked neatly in his boot. His instincts told him he would not need it once he was at the vicar’s house, but one could never be sure.

He smiled grimly. Few gentlemen would think to carry a dagger; it was fortunate, therefore, that he had not thought himself a gentleman for a very long time. An unexpected weapon was always an asset.

The road curved around a hillock, and the vicar’s house appeared, a large, neat building of gray stone, the property around it clearly well-maintained. The living was a generous one, and Gavin saw no need to change it at the moment until such time Mr. Southworthy deemed it necessary to marry and have a family. So far, the man seemed not interested in matrimony, if the local gossip was correct; he was devoted to his parish, and worked harder than most clergymen Gavin had known.

He dismounted and tied the reins of his horse to a post, then knocked on the door. A maid opened it and curtsied, gazing with awe at him when he announced who he was. His smile turned wry after he nodded at her and she turned away to tell the vicar. She obviously thought him very grand indeed, when even as much as five years ago, she would not have thought twice about him, nor would any other servant. A title was all that separated the Earl of Brisbane from plain Mr. Gavin Sinclair, but it made all the difference in the world, it seemed.

He did not expect it when Vicar Southworthy came to meet him personally; he had thought he would send another servant to direct him to his parlor. Perhaps earls and such were accorded such distinction. But the vicar, indeed, entered next.

Mr. Southworthy’s steady gaze might have made Gavin think the man’s mind was untroubled, but his pale face and tightly pressed lips as the vicar gave his stiff bow told him differently. It would not do to put the man at a formal distance; the earl had found that a certain informality often disarmed a man of his mental defenses and one could procure more information far easier than if one maintained formality. He held out his hand, therefore, and the vicar hesitantly took it, then shook it firmly.

“If you will come this way,” Mr. Southworthy said. “I have ordered the maid to bring refreshment into the parlor.”

“My pleasure,” Gavin replied, and followed him through a door.

The room was austere, with few decorations, but pleasant enough, and the furniture was comfortable. They sat, and the vicar poured the tea when it came, but when Gavin opened his mouth to speak, Mr. Southworthy held up his hand.

“Please . . . I know why you have come here.” The man put his cup on the table, rattling the saucer, then stood, gazing defensively at Gavin, his chin raised.

“Do you?” Gavin said, watching him carefully. A tight expectant knot formed in the pit of his belly, but he kept his face bland.

“The church—Sir James’s outburst—” The vicar swallowed, and misery entered his eyes. “You must not think I would allow any doubt to be cast on your inheritance, for of course you are indeed the heir, as you well know.”

He wanted to release a sigh of relief, but he did not; it was important not to let Southworthy know more than he should. Gavin merely nodded and gave the man all his attention.

The vicar began to pace, his steps agitated. “I cannot keep it a secret—the shame—I have remembered it all these years, and thought there was nothing to be done, and then you returned, the heir, and I knew it was only a matter of time.”

“I am listening,” Gavin said, and made his voice gentle.

The vicar threw him a grateful look and returned to his chair, briefly pressing his palms to his eyes. He rested his elbows on his knees, clasping his hands, and sighed. “I remember, when I was a boy, and lived with my father in London, there was a noise in the night, and I woke up, wondering what it was. I crept down the stairs, and frightened by steps coming toward me, I hid in the cellar.” He grimaced and glanced at the earl. “I knew well my father’s temper and did not want to risk it.”

He sighed. “A lantern shone, and curses and a cry, and there was my father with a boy not much older than myself. I did not know who he was, but thought he looked somewhat familiar.” He swallowed and bitterness crept across his face. “My father then began beating him, demanding papers—marriage lines, letters, whatever it was that he could not find when he went searching. But the boy would say nothing—he just stared at him.”

The vicar covered his face again with trembling hands, then gave a deep sigh and pressed them against his knees. “I did not know why my father wanted these things, or why he treated the boy so, but I was too cowardly to stop him.”

A glimmer of memory stirred . . . Gavin could not quite bring it forth, but the vicar’s words formed an image in his mind, strangely familiar, and his back stiffened, as if in readiness for a blow.

“I hid and did nothing until it was done, until the boy, unconscious, was taken away. Then I crept out, and returned to my bed and did not sleep at all until the dawn.”

Questions built up behind Gavin’s lips, pushing to be asked, but he clenched his teeth tightly together. His mother, his father—no, he would not ask about them, not yet.

The vicar’s face turned wretched. “I watched and listened and learned—quietly, out of the way of my father, for I knew how easily his violence could turn on me and my mother. And I did nothing, still nothing.”

Gavin nodded, even sympathetically, for he knew that it would bring forth more information. He was quite right; the vicar’s face grew more miserable than ever at his understanding gaze. Guilt pricked the earl. There would have been nothing a boy of that age could do against his father . . . but he could not stop the man now from revealing his shame, for it would also mean he might not find what he needed to know, and that could be a matter of life and death.

“I was helpless!” the vicar cried. “But at least I could find out what my father was after, and in good time reveal it.” He sighed again and shook his head. “My father was mad; he was mad with greed and wanted to be the Earl of Brisbane. Your father had already been lost at sea, and you were beginning to take on the reins of business. Sir James’s father was dead as well, recently, and thank God it was from illness and not from my father’s hand.

“But my father had decided to take fate into his own hands and make sure of his succession; he came masked into your house, bound your mother to her bed, tying her mouth so that no one would hear her screams. I do not know why he could not find the marriage lines, or why he thought you would know, but he could not, and took you from your house.”

“I had them rolled and tucked in my belt,” Gavin said softly. It was the only thing of his family he had had when he woke up on Mr. Goldworthy’s ship, that and a small portrait of his mother in his jacket pocket.

“My father thought he would rid himself of you and Sir James—accidents, you know—and then finally the earl.” Mr. Southworthy looked down at his hands, nodding absently. “I suppose my father thought you dead from the beating—I certainly thought so, for you would not wake. He took you away, and I did not see you again until the day the will was read.” He gazed at Gavin steadily. “I recognized you immediately. Your face is the same as that boy’s. Weathered and leaner, but the same. I thought you might say something then, but you did not, then I realized of course you would not recognize me, and my father never mentioned his own name in your presence, at least I did not hear him say it in the cellar.”

“What happened to your father?” Gavin asked gently.

“He died of an apoplexy only a few months after that, and before he could do more harm, thank God,” the vicar said harshly. “And released my mother and myself from the daily fear under which we lived.”

“And your mother?”

The vicar’s face softened, and he sighed. “She lives with me here. Her mind has aged faster than her body, no doubt from the mental hardship of living with my father. She does not like to come out of her room, but will come out from time to time.”

“I would like to meet her,” Gavin said.

The vicar shot him a surprised look, then nodded, and left the parlor.

Gavin sighed, and his shoulders ached with the sudden release of tension. So, it was the elder Mr. Southworthy who had abducted him, and left him for dead. And he had planned accidents for the prospective heirs of the Brisbane estate. It made sense; killing the earl and then his heirs would have brought more notice upon their accidents than the other way about. At least he now had the answer to that.

He took another sip of tea, then chewed contemplatively upon a biscuit, gazing at the hearth before him. And he had, at last, the answer for which he had been looking for years: he was truly Gavin Sinclair, and the heir to the Brisbane estate.

When he had come back to England and searched for his identity, for his family, he had come back to the Sinclair house. His parents’ marriage lines and the portrait was all that he had as evidence. Mrs. Sinclair had died of lung fever while he was gone at sea, so she could not identify him. The servants they had had were gone as well, and he could not remember any of them. There was his portrait as a very little boy in the house he had lived in. The miniature he had had in his pocket matched the lady in that portrait; therefore she had to be Mrs. Sinclair. But he had not remembered her, nor the tall man who stood next to her, and for all the little boy in the large portrait in the Sinclair house had had the same coloring, he had stared at him with no recognition at all. All he could feel looking at the painted family had been a distant sadness, as if he mourned the demise of a seldom-seen acquaintance.

There had been nothing to do but sell the house and keep what family belongings he thought he might like—the large portrait, some pieces of jewelry, which he had put into storage under Mr. Goldworthy’s advice. His friend had also helped him contact his father’s business associates, but there was little recognition in their eyes; they had had little to do with halflings and his father had apparently kept his business affairs strictly separate from his family life. But he claimed what savings and income there was, and under Mr. Goldworthy’s instruction, invested it, then sailed off to sea.

But always there had been that doubt, and he had felt like an impostor, for small inklings of images would come to him in the night, only to disappear from his memory again when he woke. It was as if his life before the abduction had been wiped clean, a blank.

He had determined to make a life for himself, build himself anew, and so he did. He had been captured by pirates, had been sold as a slave, escaped, and had more adventures than most men might or would want to have. He had gained a fortune, lost one, and gained another one, and now had a title and property. Gavin smiled to himself wryly. If he had wished to remake his life, he had done so with a vengeance.

Vengeance. Ah, yes. There was that, too, driving him to make a success of himself, so that he would be in a good position to pursue it. He raised his head and gazed around the vicar’s austere parlor. He could, if he wished, do just that, right now. He could strip Southworthy of his living as a vicar, and the man would be as homeless as he, Gavin, had been. Shifting uncomfortably in his seat, he took another sip of tea. And yet, somehow the wish for vengeance had lost the fire it once had. He grimaced. He was becoming too comfortable in his new life. Comfort could rob a man of the sharpness needed for survival.

The door opened, and the vicar entered, his arms supporting a very elderly woman. Or no, perhaps not that elderly. Her hair was white, but her face was not as lined as Gavin supposed a very old woman’s might be. She walked slowly, with a slight limp, and he watched as Southworthy helped her to a comfortable-looking chair, and put a cup of tea in her hands.

“Be careful, Mother, the tea is very warm, so you must sip it and not drink it in a gulp,” the vicar said gently.

Mrs. Southworthy smiled at him and sipped her tea obediently. “You are a good boy, Lionel,” she said, then turned to Gavin and started, her face growing frightened, and almost spilled her drink. The vicar quickly took it from her, and she leaned toward him. “Who is that man, Lionel? Will he beat me?”

“No, no, Mother, he is the Earl of Brisbane,” the vicar said hastily, sending an apologetic glance at Gavin. “He will not touch a hair on your head, I promise you.”