Tanya Anne Crosby (4 page)

When the haze cleared from his thoughts and he looked up again, she was gone.

Merrick leaped from the bed. “Wait!” he called after her. But he didn’t know her bloody name and she didn’t stop.

H
ow dare he look at her as though she’d rent his heart from his breast, Chloe thought as she made her way to the drawing room. She was vexed with herself for feeling remorse where Lord Lindale was concerned. Why should she regret harsh words when he deserved to feel wretched?

In the drawing room she found Lady Fiona engaged in a heated discussion with Constable Tolly, refusing to give quarter. She smiled softly as she watched the mistress of Glen Abbey Manor at work. She guarded her privacy and her son like a lioness.

“My son will be most pleased to receive you on the morrow,” she assured the constable. “However, today I shall not allow it.” When he opened his mouth to protest, she said, “Please forgive me if you feel thwarted. That is certainly not my intention.”

The constable stood with his hat in hand, his face florid with agitation. “My lady,” he pleaded. “How will I capture this brigand if you and the rest of Glen Abbey refuse to cooperate? You above everyone in this town should be most concerned after what he’s done to you.” He was referring to her crippled legs, and straightened uncomfortably, rising to his full height.

His awkward attempt to cow Fiona failed miserably. She was as unrelenting as the constable was persistent.

Unable to rise to the occasion, Lady Fiona straightened in her chair, clearly piqued. “It is my full intention to cooperate with your investigation, William. As you recall, I gave you a full report when I encountered the cad myself. But I simply cannot allow you to disturb my son whilst he recovers, and that is that!”

“But, madame!” the constable protested still. “The time to debrief Lord Lindale is now, while the incident is freshly impressed upon his brain. Not later, when time has eaten away at his memory like tiny maggots.”

“I beg of you, don’t be so melodramatic!” Lady Fiona charged him. Her usually pale complexion suffused with a furious rose. “And by the by, what incident is it that you are speaking of?” she asked him, tapping her nails firmly against her wheeled
chair. “I was told that he fell off his bloody horse!”

The constable gasped at her blasphemy. Lady Fiona never lost her sense of propriety. Still, he persisted. “Attempted robbery, my lady. We have reason to believe there may have been one.”

“Really?” Chloe asked, lifting her brows. “Did someone report a robbery?”

The constable finally noticed her standing in the doorway. For an instant he considered his answer. “Not precisely, Miss Chloe, but last evening there were reports of a strange vehicle in the area—headed toward Glen Abbey Manor. Today the vehicle seems to have utterly vanished. It obviously did not arrive at its destination, nor was it registered at the inn.”

Chloe chewed her bottom lip, contemplating whether to reveal Lord Lindale’s confession.

“I rather hoped Lord Lindale might shed some light on the mystery.”

“What leads you to believe the carriage was bound for the manor?” Chloe asked him.

“Miss Chloe,” he said a little impatiently, “no one ventures this way anymore unless they are bound for Glen Abbey Manor. It is the only estate left of any consequence.”

“I see,” Chloe said. It was true. Thanks to Lindale’s avarice, Glen Abbey was, indeed, a withering township. Too far inland to serve as a port
town, and nearly inaccessible by land, the town had too few resources, very little industry and a landlord who was intent upon collecting and spending every last farthing from his tenants’s pockets.

The constable pleaded, “I beg you…the man is the very ‘seed of corruption,’ which has grown like strangling vines about Glen Abbey’s throat.”

“Please, William,” Lady Fiona said, rolling her eyes, “spare us the theatrics.”

Chloe tried not to smirk. It was no wonder the constable felt frustrated; his sentiments were hardly shared by the townsfolk. And knowing that the Hawk’s efforts brought food to babes’ mouths, Chloe held her tongue. If Lord Lindale wished to speak out against Hawk, he would need do so himself.

Lady Fiona stood her ground. “I never said we would not cooperate, Constable. I only appeal to your sense of decency. Come back tomorrow.”

The constable’s complexion was by now apoplectic. “Very well, you leave me little choice.” He smashed the derby upon his head. “Good day!” he said smartly, and spun on his heels toward the door. “Good day to you, Miss Chloe.” Taking his leave of the drawing room, he stopped in the foyer to speak briefly with Edward. Chloe watched them, wondering when the two had become so friendly.

“I have absolutely fizzled,” Lady Fiona said, turning Chloe’s attention from the low-speaking pair at the door. “I believe I shall take myself out to the garden to enjoy the rest of the morning.”

“Yes, madame,” Chloe said, distracted by the pair at the door. Edward had been Lady Fiona’s shadow since Chloe could recall…at least, until Chloe had come to attend her. Since Chloe’s arrival at Glen Abbey Manor, Edward seemed far more inclined to his own pursuits. She took the helm of the invalid chair and maneuvered Fiona from the room.

The wheeled chair was a cumbersome contraption. Outside, they struggled over stepping stones and patches of weed, which seemed to spring forth overnight. The chair caught at every pebble. As they encountered clumps of weeds, Chloe bent to yank them from the ground and tossed them away from the stone path.

“You shouldn’t have to do that,” Lady Fiona said apologetically. But someone had to. Glen Abbey’s sole gardener had a long enough list of tasks. The poor man struggled to fulfill his duties and to feed his family with meager pay.

“I don’t mind,” Chloe assured her. And she truly didn’t. God had given her two hands to use. Her mother had often labored, by choice, in their little garden at home, coaxing flowers to bloom.
Chloe desperately missed the scent of freshly cut blossoms.

She missed her mother.

Fiona reached back to pat her hand. “You are a godsend, my dear. Whatever would I do without you?”

“You would cow these pesky weeds into lying down for you!” Chloe said as she pushed the wheeled chair toward Lady Fiona’s favorite spot beneath the rose canopy. “I mean to say, not even Mother Nature would challenge you.”

Fiona laughed softly, the sound almost musical. “Oh, but you don’t seem the least bit cowed, my dear. I must be losing my touch!”

Chloe smiled. Hardly, she thought, recalling the constable’s florid complexion. Even from her invalid chair, Lady Fiona managed to make one feel as though she towered over them. She was kindhearted, but strong-willed. And she was reticent, in truth, but with more of an air of melancholy than one of bitterness. Chloe tried to remember the first time she’d met Lady Fiona and smiled, because she couldn’t recall. Like a long-reigning monarch, it seemed she had always been there. In better times, Lady Fiona had, in fact, been somewhat affectionately known as the queen of Glen Abbey.

They reached the canopy and Chloe settled Fiona’s chair beneath the cascading rose vines so that she was free of the sun. She cast a glance in
the direction of the house to be sure Edward had not followed and said, “I wanted to tell you while we were in the drawing room that my lord is awake.”

It was an old house.

Taking care to avoid a confrontation before he was ready for it, Merrick wandered the halls, taking in the deteriorated state of the manor. At one time it must have been grand—nothing like the opulence of Meridian’s palace, but noble, nonetheless.

It was evident no one cared for it now.

And yet, though the walls were dingy and the draperies were brittle and yellowed, each room he passed was immaculate.

Had they no funds for the upkeep of this house?

He’d encountered few servants along the way, but the ones in residence obviously gave their mistress their blood and sweat. Did they do so out of love?

Or did she bleed them like a leech?

Was his flesh-and-blood mother so heartless that she could abandon her own babe?

He stopped to examine a portrait that hung at the head of the stairwell. If he didn’t know better, he would swear he was looking at himself. But it was Lindale, dressed in a deep blue waistcoat and a white, elaborately fashioned cravat—a bit dan
dyish for Merrick’s taste. The tailcoat, however, was black—aside from the bright waistcoat, it could have been Merrick down to the last fine detail.

It was quite obvious that he and Ian were twins.

He’d already concluded that much, but what he didn’t know was how it came to be that he was foisted upon his father’s wife. It would certainly explain the emotional detachment she’d kept toward him…though what would she have had to gain by her silence? Had his father threatened her? Bribed her? Then again, she’d never born his father any issue. Perhaps raising a bastard hadn’t been a concern for her since she hadn’t had a son of her own who might inherit.

Merrick stared at the smirking portrait, trying to read the uncanny blue eyes. They were the same odd shade as his own. It had never struck him until this moment just how startling they were. A lover had once told him that they were his most disquieting trait, because they always seemed to
know.

How much did Ian know?

He’d certainly recovered his surprise quickly enough to steal his carriage, clothes and life. Unfortunately, Merrick no longer even had the letter that was addressed to Fiona; it had been in his vest pocket. For better or worse, his twin was in possession of it now and Merrick had only his face as proof.

An incredible surge of anger clouded his brain.

Why had his father not accepted both his sons? More importantly, why had his mother agreed to leave one behind?

Or had she any choice in the matter?

Perhaps she hadn’t, and that would be the obvious source of his father’s unremitting guilt. But what, precisely, did he regret?

It seemed the more Merrick uncovered, the more questions arose.

He wiped a finger across the framework, found it free of dust and continued down the hall toward Ian’s room. There would be plenty of time yet to face his
mother.
He hadn’t formed in his brain what he would say to her.

What did one say to the woman who’d abandoned you?

Chloe knocked first at Lord Lindale’s bedroom door.

He, not Hawk, was the reason for Glen Abbey’s declination. God help her, if she hadn’t been in such dire straits after her father’s death, she would never have agreed to suffer his employ. She could scarce look him in the face.

How could he dare face her after robbing her of her life? Moreover, how could he throw stones at Hawk when he was far worse than Hawk could
ever be? Hawk stole to help others; Lindale stole out of greed.

What the old earl had given in friendship, the present earl had snatched away without regret. And what was most unforgivable was that he’d done so at the blackest hour in Chloe’s life—whilst she’d buried her father. That afternoon, thieves had overturned their cottage and had stolen every document her father had locked away—including the deed to their land and house—a gift from the old earl to her father for his years of loyal service. The thieves had left everything else of value behind, which told Chloe that there had been only one thing they were after.

Chloe had come to Glen Abbey Manor hoping to find proof. As yet, she’d found nothing more than a meddlesome steward who never seemed to sleep. What Chloe couldn’t determine was whether the steward was merely watchful of his mistress or whether he was a minion of Lord Lindale’s. In either case, the two seemed eternally at daggers drawn.

She knocked again, calling out to Lindale impatiently. When there was no answer, she opened the door to find the room empty. The disheveled state of it startled her. The bedsheets were strewn across the floor, as though they’d been wrenched in a hurry from the bed. The entire room was in shambles, with clothes strewn everywhere and the
wardrobe open wide…as though they’d been searched. It brought back horrible memories of that terrible afternoon. It set her teeth on edge.

But why would Lord Lindale feel the need to search through his own belongings? If there was one thing she knew about him, it was that he was meticulous. Like a miser guarding his hoard, he knew where everything was at every moment.

Preoccupied with those thoughts, she turned to leave and her heart leaped a little to find him standing behind her, watching. She hadn’t even heard him enter. Her hand flew to her breast. “What are you doing here?”

He glowered at her and said pointedly, “This
is
my room, is it not?”

Why did the quip seem more an inquiry than his usual sarcasm? Chloe furrowed her brow. “Of course,” she answered a little uncertainly. “I was… I mean to say, I didn’t see you when I came in.”

“I was out.”

Something about his gaze was far darker, far more menacing, than she recalled. In fact, his demeanor seemed entirely different. He’d donned familiar garments, but somehow he seemed to be wearing them differently this morning—more elegantly and less vainly.

“Where is my mother?” he asked, his tone not at all doting.

“In the garden,” Chloe replied. “Is something wrong?”

Merrick clenched his jaw.

Everything was wrong.

A fury of emotions warred within him.
This
might not be his life he was faced with, but neither was the one he’d left behind. As he’d watched her survey the disheveled room, it had occurred to him that his entire life had been a bloody lie.

She was watching him warily, as though she sensed the difference in him. Well, he
was
different. It would behoove him to let her think the bump on his head had caused him a lapse in memory. He still hadn’t the first notion what his little shrew’s name was, much less her relation to him. One thing was certain: judging by the way she’d explored his body whilst he’d slept, she wasn’t his bloody sister. That conclusion filled him with a strange sense of relief.

She was, in truth, the most appealing woman he’d ever met. He didn’t know whether it was the natural bloom in those high cheeks that intrigued him, or those eyes that seemed to veil deep, earthy secrets, but she was nothing like the coy debutantes he’d encountered in London. In fact, she was nothing like anyone he’d ever met. She had color in her face like a commoner who was unafraid of the sun’s sweet kiss, but she was genteel and carried herself as regally as a queen.