More Than a Mistress (18 page)

Merry picked up the water, but Caro waved it away. She struggled upright in the bed. ‘If you believe such a thing, I must leave.’

‘I don’t believe it,’ Merry said, feeling her own throat become thick and damp. She sniffed. ‘Not for a minute.’ Well, it was only a small white lie. She gazed up at Charlie. ‘And nor does his lordship.’

‘Not any longer,’ he said abruptly, as if he’d finally made up his mind. ‘I keep thinking I had heard the man’s voice before, though. Did you recognise him at all, Merry?’

Merry thought back to the dank cellar, to the few words she’d heard, before the conversation became muffled.

She shrugged. ‘He sounded like a toff. And he knew you right away.’

Caro frowned at Charlie. ‘A friend of yours?’ She tilted her head. ‘An odd coincidence. Was it also merely chance you found her on the road, my lord?’

Charlie’s lip curled. ‘Nice try, Mrs Falkner.’

‘Stop it, both of you,’ Merry said. She stared at the counterpane, a gorgeously embroidered work of art. She ran her fingers over the threads, tracing the outline of entwined roses. ‘We know Jane is involved. If we find her, we will find our answer.’

‘I don’t agree,’ Charlie said. ‘I think it is the man we need to find. He was clearly in charge.’

‘But Jane will surely lead us to him. Or her accomplices will. They would probably betray their mother for a guinea or two. I know their type.’

‘I don’t doubt you are right on that score,’ Charlie said. He looked down at Caro. ‘I am sorry if I was overly harsh, Mrs Falkner. My concern is for Merry.’

Caro looked at him for a moment. One of her all-too-rare sweet smiles curved her lips. ‘Mine too, your lordship. I apologise for voicing my suspicions also.’

He grinned at her. ‘We will leave you to rest. Come, Merry, you are exhausted. We will decide our next step in the morning.’

There he went, ordering her about again. But it had been a gruelling day and her head felt filled with thick wool; she could do nothing more than take his arm.

Aware of Merry sleeping in her chamber upstairs, Charlie paced his study. He would not go to her. She needed her rest.

God, she’d seen him naked, his very soul exposed, and she’d been wonderful. Calm, courageous and kind. Unbelievably, the sound of her voice in that cellar had held his dark visions at bay.

He’d found a light in the darkness and now duty required he let her go.

Earlier today he’d proposed they marry, out of a sense of frustration, but then when he thought she might say yes he’d felt an unexpected flood of joy. Until she turned him down.

Why shouldn’t he be happy? Like Robert. Nothing Father could do would harm Robert any more. He had married an heiress.

What harm would it do if he also married where he willed? Where he—God was he even thinking this?—where he…loved.

Was love this strange restlessness inside him, this need to meld with Merry, to be as one? Or was this just him again trying to escape? Had he lost any sense of himself, who he was, what he owed his position, his father, the men who had died because of him? Had sleepless nights and guilt finally taken their toll?

It seemed more than likely, given that men in his position did not marry for love. They married for political reasons. For reasons of power and increased status. To acquire a suitable hostess. And to beget heirs.

They married women like Allison Purtefoy because the arbiters of his world said women like Merry weren’t good enough.

They were wrong. So bloody wrong.

Merry was worth twice most of the females of his acquaintance and three times the vapid Lady Allison. He pressed his fingers to his aching temples in an attempt to ease the residual headache from the blow to his skull.

Only Merry had no interest in marrying him. She’d made that perfectly clear.

He rubbed at the pain in his chest.

She was right not to want him. He was little more than a shell since Waterloo, going through the motions, clinging to his duty to stop himself from tipping into darkness.

Which meant he had no right to hold Merry to their promised betrothal. The only thing he could do for her was rid her of whoever was trying to harm her. He’d at least have the satisfaction of knowing she was safe.

Damn it. All that torture in that bloody black cellar and he’d walked away with nothing. He put his glass down on the table.

The man who had come to their prison beneath the barn had spoken with power and authority. He was a far more dangerous opponent than Jane Harper. Merry was right, though, the woman was the key. And he needed to find her quickly.

He rang the bell.

While he waited for Logan, he went to the pigeonholes at one end of his bookshelf and pulled out a map. He spread it flat on his desk. He stared at the map of the moors and villages around Durn. ‘Where are you hiding, Jane Harper?’ he muttered.

‘My lord?’ The butler looked as if he’d dressed hurriedly.

‘I’m sorry to disturb your rest,’ Charlie said. ‘I have need of men tonight. Grooms, footmen, anyone you think useful in a brawl.’

Horror filled the butler’s eyes, though he clearly tried not to look as if he thought his master had run mad. ‘Yes, my lord.’

‘Have them meet me in the gunroom in half an hour.’

‘Right away, my lord.’

Poor Logan, he might never be the same again.

He stared at the map. He’d start at the inn. There might be tracks in the snow. If he found nothing there, he would visit every farmhouse and hovel within ten miles. There was nowhere she could hide.

At the inn, the smell of smoke hung in the cold night air, oppressive and choking. While his men waited outside, Charlie spoke to a very disgruntled landlord. Not only had he lost his stores, his guest had disappeared, leaving behind her belongings and her unpaid shot. ‘You have no idea where she went?’

The man glowered from beneath his nightcap. ‘She ain’t been seen since yesterday afternoon. Her and the bully boys she had with her ran off and left me trying to save my barn. Not a hair of ‘em have I seen. They must have done it. I’m ruined.’

Charlie felt a twinge of guilt. He’d have to do something to help the fellow. But not now. ‘I will inspect her chamber, if you please.’

‘Help yourself, my lord. An’ if you finds her, you leave her to me.’

‘The magistrate will deal with her.’ Charlie ran up the stairs to the room from which he’d been so rudely carted that afternoon. The smell of smoke seemed worse up here than it had below.

He rifled through her meagre belongings. Her valise contained a few clothes and some old yellowed letters tied in a ribbon. Love letters? It seemed odd that she’d left without such personal items. Very odd.

He lifted the mattress. Nothing. The pillows. He opened the drawer of a small roll-top desk. Among her handkerchiefs, he found a note in a bold hand. Dated two days ago, it set up a meeting at an abandoned cottage a short distance outside of the village. No signature.

The mystery man? Perhaps he’d find the pair of them at this cottage? He stuffed the correspondence in his pocket in case it gave some clues as to where she might have gone if the cottage proved a dead end and headed down to his men.

The ride took mere minutes. The cottage was dark and silent. He huffed out a breath, the fog of cold drifting away on a breeze. ‘I’ll take a look,’ he said to the head groom, Fred, who had leaped at the idea of a nightly adventure. ‘If anything happens, ride for the magistrate.’ He dismounted.

The man drew a pistol from the holster in his saddle and climbed down. ‘I’ll come with you.’

Charlie tried the door. It swung open. Sprawled on the floor in a patch of moonlight from the window, a bullet hole in the middle of her forehead, lay Jane Harper. The stink of death hit him in the face. A too-familiar odour. His gut churned. Images rushed into his mind. Darkness edged his vision. He fought down the panic. ‘Hold the torch higher,’ he growled at the man at his back.

‘Dear God,’ his groom said, looking over his shoulder. ‘What sort of fiend would dispose of a woman in cold blood that way?’

It had been a long time since Charlie had seen a dead body, but he had no trouble recognising its lack of life. Bile rose in his throat. He swallowed. ‘Someone who feared discovery. Someone she trusted.’

He was no closer to discovering who that someone was than he had been yesterday. In fact, now Jane was dead, perhaps further away.

After a cursory glance around the cottage, he and Fred returned to the waiting men.

‘Fetch the constable and the magistrate,’ he said to Fred. ‘Take a couple of men with you. I’ll search around here to see if we can find anything to tell us who might have done this.’

Fred grabbed his horse, picked two of the four men they’d brought and set off for the village.

‘You two can help me search for tracks,’ Charlie said to the others. ‘You in that direction, you over there. I’ll take the centre. If you see anything, call out and lift your torch high so we can find you.’

The men nodded their understanding and fanned out.

Charlie swung his torch in an arc around him after each step. He’d gone about five yards when one of the other men sang out, ‘Found something.’

Charlie retraced his own footprints back to the cottage, then followed the footprints of the man signalling. The other man followed suit.

‘What have you got?’ Charlie asked. The man, another groom, pointed. ‘Someone tied a horse here earlier this evening.’

Hoof-flattened snow and a pile of dung. Whoever had tied his horse here had not stayed long. The man pointed to boot prints leading away from the horse. ‘He must have circled around and taken her by surprise.’ The boot prints could have been anyone’s. The horse was large. That was all Charlie could tell.

‘Damn it,’ he said. ‘Not a thing to say who the murderer might be.’ And Charlie would have to explain to the magistrate exactly why he was prowling around in the middle of the night and had just happened on the grisly scene.

He also had to decide what to tell Merry.

It was ten in the morning when he handed a distinctly disgruntled Logan his greatcoat. ‘Miss Draycott is in the breakfast room,’ the butler said with a slight curl to his lip.

Charlie ignored the butler’s tantrum. He’d get over it. ‘Wondering where I am, no doubt.’

Logan bowed. ‘I wouldn’t know, my lord.’

He was starving. He flung open the door and caught Merry tucking into ham and eggs.

The smile on her lips drove all thought from his mind. He wanted to hold her close, kiss her lovely lips, nuzzle against the column of her throat.

‘You were up early?’ she said.

He picked up a plate and helped himself to some ham and a couple of coddled eggs. He sat down beside her. ‘I couldn’t sleep.’

A soft smile curved her lips. Sympathy. No doubt she thought him in need of comfort. A weak puling creature. A chilling thought. ‘I had to find Jane.’

She frowned. ‘Are you saying—’

‘I went looking for her.’

‘Alone? Are you mad? Why didn’t you wake me?’

‘Not alone. I took some of my men. We found her.’

‘You did?’ Her voice rose in excitement. ‘What did she say?’

‘She’s dead.’

The pallor in her face grew worse. ‘No,’ she whispered. ‘You can’t—’

‘Blast it, Merry. What do you think I am? I didn’t kill her. She was dead when we found her.’ He spoke more harshly than he intended.

‘I…I’m sorry.’ She bit her lip. ‘So we have no way of knowing who employed her?’

‘None at all. The men with her have disappeared. Likely left the county if they’ve any sense.’ He pulled the letters from his pocket. ‘We found these at the inn. Letters from a brother, forced to leave England from the sound of it, and instructions for a meeting, presumably from our mysterious man. But no clue as to his identity. I went back to her room at the inn to make sure.’

She picked up one of the letters. ‘It seems rude to pry, but perhaps there is some clue as to her identity. Perhaps a family who should be informed.’ She winced.

‘There is an address in Cumberland.’

Merry’s hand stilled. ‘Cumberland?’

He nodded.

‘It can’t be.’ Her hand shook as she unfolded the letter.

‘What can’t be?’

She scanned the note, stopping when her gaze reached the signature. She picked up the next one and the next and with each reading her face held more and more pain.

She let the last one fall to the table. Charlie covered her limp hand with his. It felt cold. Freezing. He picked it up and held it within his palms. ‘What is it, Merry? Do you know something of this woman?’

She turned her gaze to meet his and he had never seen her look so devastated, not even the first time she’d realised someone wanted her death.

‘She was Jeremy’s sister.’

‘Jeremy?’ A cold fist clenched in his chest.

‘A gardener’s boy from school.’ Her voice choked with tears.

‘Merry.’ He put an arm around her shoulders, but she shrugged him off. Rose to her feet and strode to the window.

He wanted to go to her. He wanted to hold her close, but something held him back, as if a shadow stood between them. The shadow of this man Jeremy.

He hadn’t read the letters, just the address. He’d been focused on the note from the man to whom Jane had reported.

‘I never meant him any harm,’ she whispered to the glass.

‘What are you talking about?’

She turned and gestured to the letters. ‘We were close. At school. There was a scandal.’

Charlie winced, his imagination running riot and a sudden surge of anger making him hot. Jealousy. How could he be jealous of something that happened so long ago?

‘It seems Grandfather had him shipped off to the West Indies.’ She covered her mouth with her palm, her eyes wide and moist. She blinked a couple of times and, removing her hand, took a shaky breath.

‘He hated it, according to those letters, but he repeats over and over to Jane not to hold a grudge against the Draycotts. He meant me. Jane must have railed about me in her replies.’

She wrapped her arms around her waist. ‘The last one is started by him and finished in another hand. He died from a fever. By the date, he can have been no more than twenty.’ She lifted her sorrowful face, her eyes focused in the past. ‘So far from his home and his family,’ she whispered. ‘No wonder Jane wanted me dead.’ She bowed her head and covered her face with her hands. ‘I didn’t know.’ Her muffled voice was full of tears. ‘Grandfather never told me. I kept wondering why Jeremy never wrote to me. I even wrote to the school once asking for news. They never answered.’