Scandal of the Year (34 page)

Blythe sprang up from the chair. “What are you saying?” she cried out. “Do you dare to suggest that my father is a murderer?”

Her outrage was a blow to his heart. But he could not back down now. “That question is for him to answer.”

George lifted his head, his face desolate. “I assure you, sir, I am no killer. But you’re right, it
is
time the truth be known. It has been a millstone around my neck all these years.”

“No,”
Edith whispered, pulling away from Mrs. Bleasdale. “Keep silent, George, you mustn’t say a word.”

He slashed his hand through the air to silence her. “Enough! The charade is over.” He turned his somber gaze on James. “As you’ve already guessed, my wife is really Mercy Bleasdale. She was personal maid to your cousin’s wife when they sailed to Calcutta. At the time of their arrival, I was a shipping agent in George’s firm. I was known then as Timothy Arkwright.”

Blythe made a strangled sound of distress. She was sitting on the edge of her chair again, her eyes fixed on her father, her fingers gripping the folds of her skirt. She did not even look at James. How devastated she must be to learn that her own father had been born with a different name, that he had been living a lie.

Just as James had lied to her, too.

“Mercy and I met and married,” Arkwright went on. “Shortly thereafter, there was an outbreak of cholera. People were healthy in the morning and dead by nightfall. Since the Cromptons had two young daughters, they decided to take the children out of the city and to the hills, where they would be safe from contagion. I went along, as did Mercy. But we were not far down the road when George and Edith took ill. Neither of them lasted the night.”

Was that the truth? James had to conclude so. George—Timothy Arkwright—looked too haunted to be lying. And this time, he had no trouble meeting James’s eyes.

“Why did you not report their deaths?”

“People were dying by the hundreds. Everything was chaos, we were traveling … and so we decided to pretend to
be
George and Edith, just for a time. The ruse began for the purpose of protecting the girls, so that no other English authorities we encountered might attempt to take them from us. Eventually, we decided to continue the deception. Instead of returning to Calcutta, we traveled to the other side of India, to Bombay, where no one would know us.” He opened his hands. “You must understand, Portia and Lindsey were so very young, hardly more than babies. We couldn’t abandon them to strangers.”

“You might have brought them back to England,” James said.

Edith lifted her head from her hands. “There was only your father,” she said scornfully. “He was a known profligate. Were we to send two innocent children to live with such a man?”

James conceded the point, although he suspected she’d also been driven by her own ambition to live as a wealthy lady. “So Blythe is your only true daughter, then.”

“Yes, she was born shortly thereafter,” Arkwright said, directing a beseeching look at her. “But I assure you, all three girls were raised as sisters. I never showed any favoritism. I love them equally.”

Blythe turned her head away, her eyes tightly closed. Her beautiful face was a mask of anguish. James had to leash the frantic need to console her. And not just about the crime of her parents. She must be horrified to learn that Portia and Lindsey were not her sisters by blood.

“I had a knack for trade and commerce,” Arkwright went on. “As George Crompton, I had the means to build his shipping company into an extremely successful enterprise. So you see, it is not so terrible a tale. Edith—Mercy—and I acted with the best of intentions.”

“The best?” James mocked. “You stole my cousin’s identity. You took my inheritance, as well. All of the property should have come to me upon my cousin’s death.”

Arkwright regarded him steadily. “No. Your father was still alive then, and it would have gone to him. He would have squandered the lot at dicing and cards. Instead, I have increased the Crompton wealth tremendously. The girls were able to make excellent marriages—”

He broke off, no doubt reflecting on the bad marriage his youngest daughter had made in being duped by James.

“We’ve done no wrong,” Edith said brokenly. “No one was harmed. George, he must not be allowed to take everything from us.”

“I’m afraid he has the right to do so,” Arkwright told her. “The wealth is not ours—it never was. It belongs to him—and to Portia and Lindsey. They are the blood relatives.”

Tears in her eyes, Blythe glared at James. “I see now why you eloped with me. You needed me as a pawn in order to lure my parents here. So that Mama could come face to face with”—she glanced at Mrs. Bleasdale—“my grandmother. You did it for the money.”

Damn it! Every word she spoke was true. James knew he deserved to be castigated by her. Yet it wrenched his chest to see her look at him so. “Blythe, let me explain. I
did
start out to deceive you. But then I fell in love—”

“No!” She stood up, her fists gripped at her sides. “There will be no more deceit. Not from you … not from any of you.”

At that moment, Edith also surged to her feet. “He mustn’t be allowed to ruin us,” she cried out. “I won’t let him!”

She lifted her arm and something glinted in her hand. A tiny pistol. It was pointed straight at James.

Chapter 30

Her mother’s feral-eyed look shocked Blythe to the core. James stood across the library, near the door. Too far away to save himself.

Blythe acted on instinct. She charged at her mother and seized her arm, thrusting it upward.

A shot exploded. The bullet went wild, striking one of the bookcases. Dust and bits of paper fluttered down from the top shelf.

In the ringing silence, Blythe felt her heart beating so fast that spots swam before her eyes. The acrid scent of gunpowder hung in the air. Dropping the spent pistol, her mother sagged against Blythe.

Papa rushed to take hold of his wife. “Have you gone mad? You could have killed someone!”

“We’re ruined, George.
Ruined
. I can’t bear it. I simply can’t.”

Appalled, Blythe stepped back until she bumped into a table. Her legs felt as insubstantial as jelly. Sickness roiled in her belly. Her mother had nearly
killed
James. For the sake of money and status, no less!

Mrs. Bleasdale hovered in the background, her hands to her wrinkled cheeks. Looking at the stooped old woman, Blythe felt separated from reality. Because of her parents’ deception, she had never even known her grandmother existed.

Strong arms clasped her from behind. The scent and warmth of James enveloped her. For the barest moment, she leaned into him, craving his comfort. Only hours ago, they had found such perfect happiness together.

But he, too, had been deceiving her.

Swallowing hard, she thrust him away. Tears blurred her vision. “Don’t! Don’t come near me.”

Grim-faced, James regarded her. “I never meant to hurt you, Blythe. I’ve no excuses to offer except that … I had to find out the truth. I can only hope you’ll find it in your heart to forgive me.”

He extended his hand to her in supplication. As if he expected her to forget his betrayal just like that.

Holding her weeping mother, her father said, “This is my fault. I should never have embarked on such a deception. I blame myself.”

“As well you should,” Blythe said, needing an outlet for her pain. “Now I know why you and Mama pushed me to marry the duke. So that you’d be above suspicion and no one would ever dare to question your presence in society.”

Her father made no reply. He bowed his head, which told her more than mere words could never express.

Heartsick, Blythe glared at all of them.

At her mother, who would kill for profit.

At her father, who was a common thief.

At her husband, who had orchestrated her seduction.

Half an hour ago, they had been the dearest people in the world to her, yet she had not known who they really were. She had been living an illusion, believing herself loved, never doubting her place in the world. But it had just been a charade.

“You are strangers to me, all of you,” she lashed out. “I hope never to see any of you ever again.”

Then she turned and ran from the library.

*   *   *

Blythe found herself outdoors. She could not remember opening the door or going down the front steps. But she was sprinting into the hills, following a drystone fence, clutching her skirts to keep from tripping on the uneven ground.

She could scarcely see for the tears in her eyes. The world had become a watery blur of blue sky, green grass, and wretched despair. The need to escape drove her onward. She wanted only to put as much distance as possible between her and the people she no longer knew.

If only she could outrun the anguish in her heart.

Nearing a copse of willows by a stream, she grew aware of a thrashing in the bushes behind her. Had James come after her? How dare he!

Stumbling in a rabbit hole, Blythe caught her balance and furiously dashed away her tears. Devil take him! She would give him a dressing-down unlike anything he’d ever known. She hated him for being a liar, despised him for tricking her into loving him …

She glanced back over her shoulder. A small furry shape bounded in her wake. Minx!

Slowing to a stop, Blythe sank to the ground. Her breath came in ragged gasps that hurt her lungs. The mutt trotted straight to her, tail wagging.

With a cry of despair, she gathered the dog close. As if sensing her unhappiness, Minx solemnly licked her chin and snuggled in her arms.

All the wild energy of running abruptly left Blythe. Holding the dog, she lay on the bank of the stream and wept in great noisy sobs. Every thought stabbed into her; every memory caused fresh agony. Laughing with her sisters, who were not her sisters anymore. Playing with little Arthur, who was not her nephew. Holding baby Ella, who was no longer her niece. What if she never saw them again?

The possibility was too unbearable to contemplate.

What would happen to Mama and Papa? They were servants who had assumed the identities of a dead gentleman and his wife. They had stolen a fortune and two young children. The very notion of their deception made Blythe sick.

Would James bring charges against her parents? Would they be tried before a judge and go to prison? Or be transported to one of the colonies? Worse, would they be sentenced to death?

No
.

No, she could not imagine even James being so cruel. Perhaps he would just take her father’s money and let her parents walk away free.

Where would they go?

She shouldn’t care what happened to them, but she did. Her affection for them was too deeply ingrained to ignore. But they were not the honorable people she’d believed them to be.

Nor was James.

How she hated him! He had tricked her into believing his words of affection. He had made love to her so passionately. All the while, he had been lying to her. He had lied about being a servant, he had lied about being poor, he had lied about saving every penny to go to India. He had just been trying to worm information out of her about her parents.

She recalled the night when he’d come into her father’s office and they had kissed for the first time. James had made an excuse about needing to check the lamps. But his true purpose must have been to find proof to implicate her parents.

Dear God! James had ripped apart the fabric of her family. She had no one left. No one at all.

It was too much to absorb.

Hugging Minx, Blythe felt drained and empty. Weariness settled over her, and she didn’t want to think any-more. She closed her eyes and concentrated on the trill of birdsong, the burbling of the stream. The hard ground was more welcome than the pain in her heart. So was the blessed oblivion of sleep.

*   *   *

Upon awakening, Blythe didn’t know why she was lying outside beneath the trees. Pushing up onto her elbow, she felt stiff and chilled. The position of the sun told her it must be mid-afternoon.

Memory struck like a fist. The awful confrontation. The shocking discovery that her parents were criminals. The jolt of learning that James was a wealthy gentleman, and not an impoverished servant.

They had all lied to her.

Too heartsore to think about it, she rose to her feet. Where had Minx gone? If the dog had abandoned her, too …

As if summoned by her thoughts, a small furry shape appeared over a grassy slope. Tail wagging, the mutt yapped at her, then vanished again on the other side of the hill.

Blythe trudged after the dog. When she reached the top, she could see Crompton Abbey in the distance. Her throat closed with pain. There was no sign of life around the ivy-covered manor house. Her parents’ coach was no longer in front. Had they left—or had the vehicle merely been moved to the stables? And where was James?

She didn’t want to know. He could die for all she cared.

Catching a glimpse of Minx trotting away from the house, Blythe followed. She had no purpose in mind except to avoid those who had hurt her. She trudged across hillocks and through dips, uncaring that the undergrowth snagged at her skirts. Once, she crossed a brook by balancing on flat stones. The occasional grazing sheep paid her no heed.

Every now and then, she caught sight of Minx roaming far ahead. The dog would stop and look back as if to make certain Blythe was still in pursuit. Eventually, she came to a road and saw the dog trotting several hundred yards ahead. Cresting a hill, Blythe spied rooftops in the distance and the stone steeple of a church.

She had no wish to encounter people in her bedraggled, woebegone state. But she feared Minx might become lost, so she walked faster. At the last bend in the road before the village, the mutt sat down and waited. As Blythe approached, the dog ran briskly down a narrow lane that had been hidden by a field of daffodils.

“Minx! Come back!”

Worried, Blythe hastened down the dirt track. All of a sudden, she came upon a thatch-roofed cottage with roses climbing up the sides. A low stone fence surrounded the place, and a riotous garden grew in a pleasing tangle. Several chickens pecked at the earth.