The Bachelor Trap (25 page)

She pressed a hand to her brow. “I don't see how—”

“No. Hear me out. You were seven years old when your father became free to marry your mother. You were seven years old when you came to visit your aunt Edwina. Longbury is as far away from the Lake District as it's possible to get in England. They could marry, very quietly, and no one would be the wiser.”

“You're forgetting one thing. My father didn't come to Longbury. He and my aunt didn't get along.”

“Perhaps he stayed in Brighton.” He threw up his hands when she started to protest. “All right. I may be far out on that point, but I still say they married. You were their only child. Your father had a title and an estate to pass on. He'd have wanted a son.”

She responded snappishly, “If that was the case, then it serves him right that he had two more daughters!”

Her hand flew to her mouth and she shook her head. “What a fine picture you must have of my parents! They were good people. They were well respected in Keswick. They didn't live lavishly and they always gave generously to anyone in trouble. We were a happy family. In spite of everything, we were a happy family.” Her voice cracked. “I have no right to judge them.”

He reached across the table and took her hand. “I know they were good people.”

“How can you know?”

“Because I know you and your sisters. You wouldn't be the people you are without good parents to guide you. And that's why I'm convinced that your parents made amends the first chance they got.”

“Then where are their marriage lines?”

“I don't know, but I know how I can trace them. Did you never apply to the various dioceses to see the Bishops' Transcripts?”

“What are those?”

“Parish records that clergy send to their bishops every year. You don't have to visit every church. All you have to know is the year the marriage took place and in which parish. A clerk can look up this information.”

She sat back. “Can it be that easy?”

He rubbed his chin. “I didn't say it was easy. We have to apply to the right bishop and know the year the marriage took place. It may take some time. I'll send out express riders first thing in the morning.”

It sounded like an impossible undertaking to her, but she concealed her disappointment because he was going to so much trouble on her behalf. She stirred herself to say, “What are you going to do about David Kerr?”

His smile was devilish. “Mr. Kerr is going to be hoisted by his own petard!”

“Hoisted by his own petard?”

“You know, blown up by his own keg of gunpowder.”

“I know what it means. But how?”

“You will be happy to know that you gave me the idea. No. I won't tell you what it is until I have set things in motion. But first things first. I have to pay for this so-called evidence.”

“I should warn you, it's genuine.”

“I was sure it would be, but it's not here. When Kerr retrieves it from his solicitor, I'll arrange to meet him to finalize terms. That gives me time to arrange a small surprise for Mr. Kerr.”

He topped up both their glasses, waited until she'd taken a sip, then went on, “Let's go back to something you mentioned earlier, those incidents where notes were left for you. Describe what happened at Vauxhall and at the theater.”

She told him in a few sentences what he wished to know, but the notes that were left in her reticule were what interested him most.

“And you assumed Kerr was responsible,” he said.

“Not personally, of course. He doesn't have the stomach to do his own dirty work. But he could have hired others to do it for him.”

“I'm not so sure. I'm thinking it was the man who attacked us in Yew Cottage.”

She stared at him, speechless for a long, long moment, then burst out, “That would mean that he followed me from London to Longbury, wouldn't it?”

“I don't know. It's just a thought. But of one thing I'm certain: David Kerr was not behind those attacks on you. He is a blackmailer, Marion, and blackmailers don't put their victims at risk. And if he hired others, then he would be putting himself at risk. They could turn around and blackmail him, or identify him if they were caught.”

“But the notes?”

“I'm thinking about the notes, and what they tell me is that someone is afraid that you may remember what happened the night Hannah disappeared. He was giving you a warning, showing you how vulnerable you were if he ever decided you'd become too much of a threat to him.”

“Why not kill me? Why spare me?”

He shook his head. “I have no idea. All the same, don't go off on your own to investigate. Let's play this out carefully.”

She gave a short laugh. “Investigate what? Hannah's disappearance? I don't know anything, I don't remember anything, and, quite frankly, my own troubles are all I can think about right now, not solving a decades-old mystery.”

He watched her as she got up and began to prowl. When she stopped with one hand on the mantelpiece and stared at the fire, he rose from the table and joined her on the hearth.

Turning her slowly to face him, he tipped up her chin and pressed a feather-light kiss to her lips. “Listen to me, Marion,” he said. “I've dealt with bigger rogues than David Kerr. Read my newspapers. I've investigated and toppled corrupt ministers of the crown. I've sent mercenary landlords into bankruptcy and shut down the mines of owners who made their wealth on the backs of child laborers. I didn't do it by playing fair. I played by their rules. And if I had to, I'd do it again.”

Since she seemed unconvinced, he cupped her shoulders and gave her a little shake. “David Kerr is a maggot, a parasite, and I'm going to crush him under my heel.”

She found her voice. “I wish you would! The only thing that has stopped me from going after him with a gun is that I don't know how to use one.”

“I'll teach you.”

“That wouldn't be wise. They hang women for murder, too, then what would become of Emily and Phoebe?”

The lighthearted moment did not last. He gathered her close, and she was happy to stand there, absorbing his maleness, savoring his strength. She moved closer, burrowing into the warmth of his body. She had never felt so safe and cherished, but she knew it could not last. Even if he dealt with David, there would always be the fear that someone else would take David's place, someone who had known the one and only Lady Penrith. She would always be looking over her shoulder, wondering when the ax would fall. And it wouldn't fall only on her. Brand had far more to lose than she did.

He had worked hard to get where he was, overcoming so many obstacles. She didn't want to be another obstacle in his path.

She needed time to think things through.

He held her at arm's length. “What is it, Marion? Why do you look like that?”

“I'm tired. That's all.”

“No. It's more than that.” She tried to look away but his eyes held her fast. “I want to know what you're thinking, feeling.”

He gave her a little shake, and that loosened her tongue. “I was wondering where it would all end. I've spent the last three years wondering where it would end. It's not only David. If you can stop him, well and good. But someone else could take his place. I was thinking that it may be time to start over somewhere else, where no one knows us.”

He frowned at her. “Somewhere else?”

“Didn't you once suggest that I could sell Yew Cottage? No one will be surprised if I do, not after what happened there. We're all living at the Priory anyway. It's time we found another home. I shall have to explain things to Emily first, of course, but—”

“And what about us? You know my situation. If I'm elected to Parliament, I'll be spending half the year in London and the other half down here. Or did you take that into your calculations?”

That's what frightened her. She said quietly, “I have as much right to choose how I want to live as you do. I made you no promises and you made none to me.”

“Christ!” He gestured violently to the bed. “What happened in that bed, then? Wasn't that a promise on your part? A promise on my part? I spilled my seed into you! Do you think I do that with every woman I take to bed? What in blazes was going on in your mind? Do you think I'm like my father? Do you think I'd take the risk of bringing a bastard child into the world?”

He dragged a hand through his hair and stalked to the table. When he turned back to her, his eyes were vivid with temper. “Three years you've endured the burden of knowing you were a love child. You'll note, I've softened my language now that I remember I'm in the presence of a lady. Well, let me tell you, I've had to endure it all my life. You say that you can tell my life history in three or four sentences. Very true. And that's because I refuse to inflict my pain on my friends. I got over it. I didn't take the coward's way out and run away. Face up to David Kerr! Best him at his own game! And if the truth gets out, ignore it.”

As levelly as she could manage, she said, “What kind of life would I have if I married someone in the public eye? Not that you've bothered to ask me to marry you—”

“Consider yourself asked,” he retorted.

She bowed her head, unable to meet his eyes. “I'd be in the public eye, too. Your enemies would always be sniffing around, trying to ferret out every scandalous tidbit that could ruin your career. I would never have any peace of mind. How could I face it if I was responsible for ruining your career?”

“Are you asking me to give up politics?”

Her eyes flew to his. “Of course not. It's where you should be. It's your passion.”

“Oh, I know it. I wasn't sure that you did.”

“Well, I do.”

The silence drew out. He seemed baffled as he studied her. By degrees, the harsh lines around his mouth softened. “Don't tell me you're doing this for me?”

She did not return his smile. “I'm doing what I think is best for everyone.”

“I see. In that case, let's not make any hasty decisions. Let's stick to our plan until the by-election is over.”

“I won't do anything to hurt your chances.”

“Oh, I didn't think you would.”

He sounded cheerful. He walked to the door and paused. Turning to look at her, he said, “You won't do anything rash before consulting me first?”

“Of course not.”

He nodded and went out.

He was smiling hugely when he met Ash at the top of the stairs. Ash said, “I'm glad you're still up. You should have told me you won the nomination! Congratulations.”

“Thank you,” said Brand. “Let's go to my room and crack open a bottle. There's something I want you to do for me.”

“You know you only have to ask.”

“It's about David Kerr.”

As they walked down the corridor to Brand's room, Ash listened intently as Brand sketched out his plan of retribution for David Kerr.

They arrived at the Priory three days later to a warm summer sun and the scents of lavender, rosemary, and sweet marjoram wafting over from the herb garden. The family was on the terrace, lounging in wicker chairs while footmen dispensed tea and cake. There was no sign of Emily or Phoebe, and the only gentleman present was a stranger to Marion.

Clarice was the first to see them. She jumped to her feet and made straight for Marion. Linking arms, she began to lead Marion to the stranger, who rose at their approach.

“This,” said Clarice, beaming with satisfaction, “is my husband, Oswald. He arrived home yesterday.”

From what Clarice had told her, Marion had already formed an impression of Oswald in her mind. Scholarly, she thought, because he had published a book on Hannibal; tall and handsome, because Clarice was tall and handsome; and as wise as Solomon, because his wife was always singing his praises. This funny little man with wiry dark hair, a big smile, and brown puppy eyes did not match her impression at all.

She couldn't help responding to that smile. She curtsied, he bowed, and the usual pleasantries were exchanged.

The dowager looked at Brand. “You're home early. We weren't expecting you until…well…the dinner hour.”

Brand shrugged. “Blame Marion. She couldn't wait to get home to her sisters.”

The dowager smiled at Marion. “Come and sit by me and tell me all about Brighton. What's the latest gossip?”

Marion was taken aback. Brand's family knew that he had gone to Brighton to seek the nomination. That's what the dowager should have asked her about. She looked at Brand.

He was lounging against the terrace wall. He refused the tea a footman offered, but accepted a slice of cake. “Where are the others?” he asked idly.

Was it her imagination, Marion wondered, or did everyone suddenly look guilty?

The dowager replied to Brand's question. “Phoebe and Flora are in the house, and Andrew went riding with Emily.”

“Are you sure of that?” asked Miss Cutter. A speaking look from the dowager put her in a flutter. “I only ask because I thought I saw them in the herbarium.” To Marion, she added, “You know young people—”

Theodora ruthlessly cut her off. “As for Robert, who can say? He comes and goes as he pleases.”

This observation cast a pall on the company, which Clarice's husband only partially succeeded in dispelling. “I saw him on horseback earlier,” he said easily, “not an hour ago. I think he was making for the downs, too.”

The awkward moment passed and people began to talk among themselves. Marion glanced at Brand to find him staring at her with a look that spoke volumes. The trouble was, she had no idea what that speaking look was supposed to tell her. She looked away and responded automatically to something the dowager said, but her mind was still on Brand.

In the last few days, they'd rarely been alone. After winning the nomination, he'd become the man of the hour, and they'd both been obliged to attend functions where the ladies entertained themselves while their menfolk hammered out their strategy in the event that they won enough seats to form the government. She had entered into everything, giving the performance of her life, determined not to do or say anything that could rob Brand of his dream.

She was beginning to think that Lord Hove was right. Brand had the momentum and would carry the day. One part of her dreaded the thought of what that might mean, but another part, the best part of her, was bursting with pride.

Miss Cutter was rambling on about the herb garden, bemoaning the fact that worms had got into her rose hips, but no one was listening. Clarice and Oswald were talking in whispers like two besotted lovebirds, and the dowager and Theodora looked as though they were having words.

If this were her family, thought Marion wrathfully, she would disown them. Her family was far from perfect, but at least they knew how to celebrate one another's triumphs. Everyone here knew that Brand had gone to Brighton seeking the nomination, yet not one of them had asked him how he had fared.

That, as her father used to say, was soon remedied.

She drank the last of her tea except for the dregs, then quite deliberately dropped her cup on the paved terrace, where it shattered into tiny pieces. It had the desired effect. Conversations were abruptly broken off and all eyes turned to look at her.

“I beg your pardon,” she said. “I'm not usually so careless.” Then, before anyone could interrupt, “Your Grace, you asked about the latest gossip from Brighton. I'm surprised it hasn't reached your ears. Brand has won his party's nomination and goes forward to the by-election. You should be very proud of him.”

A look of surprise crossed the dowager's face.

“Marion,” said Brand, “they—”

“And,” Marion went on, riding a wave of indignation, “he won it on his own merits, not because he is related to the FitzAlans.”

“Ah, but he
is
a FitzAlan,” replied the duchess, her eyes gleaming.

Miss Cutter added, “And FitzAlans stick together.” She was serious.

So was Marion. “It may interest you to know that Lord Hove has marked Brand out for a position in the cabinet.”

“Yes, dear,” replied the dowager with a twinkle that had become irrepressible, “but that can only be when the Whigs have the majority in Parliament, and that may take a few years.”

When Marion opened her mouth to reply, Brand cut her off. “Marion!” He lowered his voice. “They know I won the nomination. I don't know how they know, but they do.”

Clarice let out a rich laugh and got up. “I told you this was hopeless. The girls are going to be so disappointed.”

Marion looked at Brand but all she got from him was a helpless shrug. He didn't know any more than she did.

One by one, everyone got up. “Give me your arm, Marion,” said the dowager. “I'm a little unsteady on my feet.” Marion hastened to obey the command. “All will become clear to you when we enter the house.” To Brand, the dowager said, “Hot-blooded wench, is she?”

“Grandmother,” he remonstrated.

“No, no, I approve. She'll make a fine mother, but I don't see a wedding ring on her finger.”

Brand's response was terse. “That's because we're not married.”

“In my day, we didn't waste time” came the pert reply.

Clarice added mischievously, “The bishop will be here for dinner. You should talk to him, Brand.”

Marion shot her friend a withering glare. She understood the reference to the bishop. Only he could issue a special license so that couples could marry quickly, without the banns being called in church. She wished she could glare at them all. She felt like a governess trying to keep order on a tribe of unruly children.

There was a step down into the house which the dowager carefully navigated, and only a few steps to the Great Hall.

“Well,” said the dowager, “did we do right by the boy or did we not?”

Marion could only stare. The banisters in the gallery were festooned with ribbons of every color. An army of footmen were moving furniture and plants under the direction of Emily and Andrew. Housemaids were scrubbing and polishing every available surface. When the dowager pointed her in another direction, she turned her head. A banner was stretched across the other end of the gallery. The lettering was hardly skillful, but the message was legible and brought an odd constriction to Marion's throat.

WE VOTE FOR BRAND AND MARION

The dowager said, “We had planned a small family dinner, but Emily and Andrew took over and this is the result. There is to be a reception tonight to which everyone is invited.”

Clarice elaborated with a laugh. “You took us all by surprise when you arrived early. No one knew where to look or what to say.”

She stopped when Phoebe and Flora came tearing into the hall, their arms full of fragrant red roses. They stopped when they saw Marion. Phoebe's face fell. “You're not supposed to be here,” she wailed. “This was supposed to be a surprise!”

Marion exchanged a quick glance with Brand. He's touched, she thought. He's really touched. She had to look away because that constriction in her throat was beginning to burn and her eyes were beginning to sting.

What that man needed, she thought fiercely, was some serious spoiling. In Brighton, he'd been fêted by his colleagues, but that wasn't the same. As she'd told his grandmother, what he'd gained he'd won by his own merits. Spoiling was like love. Merit didn't come into it.

She stopped right there. Thoughts like these would turn her into a watering pot.

The girls were right in front of her now. Flora squinted up at her. “Are you sad, Lady Marion?”

Marion's tears instantly evaporated. “No,” she said. “I am not.”

Phoebe said, “She always cries when she's happy.”

“I don't feel sad,” said the dowager. “I feel like dancing a jig.” Her eyes roamed the Great Hall and she nodded her approval. “What this house needs is more parties, more laughter, and more children,
many
more children. I've been living in a tomb these last years, only I didn't know it.”

Marion laughed along with the others, but her eyes strayed involuntarily to Theodora. The older woman's smile was tight, her eyes were blank, but she held her head proudly.

Marion quickly averted her eyes, and when she looked again, there was no sign of Theodora.

Brand was feeling very mellow as he mingled with their guests. He'd always thought of the Priory as a monument to a bygone age. A tomb, his grandmother had called it. The only receptions held here that he could recall were all rooted in some stuffy tradition. Tonight, four young people—Emily, Phoebe, Flora, and Andrew—had stood tradition on its head, and the result was charming. It made him wonder what changes Marion would effect in his grandfather's house.

He was very sure of her now. Some might say that he was overconfident, but they didn't know Marion as he did. In fact, he knew her better than she knew herself. She thought she still had a choice, but he knew better. On the terrace earlier, when she had rushed to his defense like a troop of cavalry coming to the rescue, she had given herself away.

It was a new experience for him. He'd always fought his own battles, and still had the scars to prove it. Now he had a champion; he, Brand Hamilton, a warrior in gentleman's clothing, had a warrior in petticoats looking out for him.

She was also her sisters' champion, and therein lay the rub. She would never do anything to hurt her sisters, and he wouldn't ask her to. Ash was already in London taking care of one problem; he would speak to the bishop tonight and, with luck, take care of the other.

His eyes sought her out in the crush. She was with Emily, and they appeared to be having an earnest conversation. Emily was lovely, but it was Marion who held his gaze. Quality, that's what people saw when they looked at Marion. When he looked at her he saw lacy white stays that nipped in her waist, frilly drawers, and white silk stockings. In his mind's eye, he began to undress her. He was just about to remove one silk stocking when she turned her head and their eyes collided.

She gazed at him for one uncomprehending moment, then her hand fluttered to her throat and color crept into her cheeks. He lifted a glass of champagne from the tray of a passing footman and raised it in a silent tribute. When she gulped and turned her head away, he smiled.

They must be made for each other if she could read his mind with no words spoken. The message was clear. For the last two nights in Brighton, he'd been kept up to all hours on party business. On the long drive to Longbury in the carriage, the maid's presence had had a sobering effect. There was nothing to keep him from her tonight.

Except Marion, and he wasn't giving her a choice. He knew how to get around Marion.

The orchestra, a quartet of local musicians, tuned up for the first dance of the evening, a waltz. As the guests of honor, he and Marion had been asked by Andrew to take the opening turn around the floor. He deposited his glass on the nearest table and went to get her.