The Bachelor Trap (29 page)

She noted that he had put himself in the FitzAlan camp. “That's not true,” she said. “Look at Clarice. She's crazy about Oswald and doesn't care who knows it.”

“Clarice is a female,” he protested.

“Mmm.” She folded her arms across her chest and gazed into space.

He nudged her shoulder. “Let me hear those words again.”

With a hoot of laughter, she rolled on top of him. “I will if you will.” She put her index finger to her mouth. “Watch my lips. It's easier than you think.
I…love…you.
Now it's your turn.”

He rolled with her on the bed and came out on top. Eyes locked on hers, he said,
“Read…my…mind.”

When she glared up at him, he kissed the pout from her lips. “I need you so damn much,” he said, and it was enough to win her over.

They were both smiling when their lips touched, but when their breath quickened, their smiles slipped away. At the end, she gave him the only words he wanted to hear. He would never let her go now.

When he heard her get out of bed, he lifted his lashes a fraction and watched her don her night robe. He could not remember a time when he'd felt so replete, so satisfied, and so at peace with the world. He was no stranger to the carnal delights of a woman's body, but this was different.

I love you.

A smile tugged the corners of his mouth. She wouldn't have given him those words if she hadn't meant them. She could be devious when she wanted to be, but in the things that really mattered, Marion was as transparent as glass.

Smoky glass…

Glass misted over…

Through a glass darkly…

His replete smile became a huge grin. Perhaps he would never entirely grasp how her mind worked, but what seemed difficult became simple when he took her to bed.

“Are you smiling, Brand, or is that a death grin?”

He opened his eyes. She was standing over him with a box in her arms. With one hand, he snagged the back of her leg and tugged. She squealed and promptly fell on the bed, but she was careful not to dislodge the contents of the box.

“This is important!” she hissed, holding the box up.

“So is this.”

He took the box from her and dropped it on the floor, then he rose above her.

She shifted restlessly. “Why do you always stare at me with that intent look in your eyes?”

“I'm trying to read your mind.”

She dimpled up at him. “And?”

He shook his head. “It's beyond me. You'll have to give me the words.”

For a moment, she looked puzzled then her face softened and she touched a hand to his cheek. “I love you, Brand,” she said softly.

He gazed at her with a curious gravity. “Prove it,” he said.

“I'm waiting, in case you haven't noticed.”

“Read…my…mind.” He smiled into her eyes.

She made to get off the bed, but he pinned her with his weight and kissed her with an urgency that took her breath away. He brushed kisses over her face and lingered on her lips.

Their breathing became labored, their bodies flowed together. Frantic now, they raced for the edge and hurtled into that sweet oblivion.

It was some time before they got around to talking about the box. Brand had dressed to go back to his own room, and they were sitting at a small table in front of the curtained window.

“I don't know where the girls found it,” said Marion, “but it must be Hannah's box. I don't know what to make of it. These bits and pieces are worthless. Now, if the box contained love letters, it would make more sense.”

Brand examined the letters, especially those that were dated, and turned his attention to the small objects. Marion was right, they were worthless: a brass button, a monogrammed handkerchief that was yellowing with age, a penknife, and a pen.

He said reflectively, “Hannah was a magpie. It didn't matter what she collected, as long as it was connected to Robert.” He looked at Marion. “From the date of some of these notes and receipts, we can trace when her obsession began.”

“Her obsession,” said Marion faintly.

He shrugged. “Call it what you will. She was love-struck, that's all I meant. See here?” He pointed to a dated receipt for a gentleman's hat. “She was employed by Mrs. Love when she acquired this. That means she'd been collecting these items two years before she disappeared.”

“Yes, but where are Robert's letters to her?”

“There's only one, thanking her for her expressions of sympathy. My notes to my tailor are warmer than this. The other notes from Robert are to Miss Cutter and his valet.”

“There must be more than this.”

He sat back in his chair and shook his head. “I don't think there were other letters.”

“Then why did someone break into my house and try to steal them? They wouldn't have been desperate to steal this rubbish.”

He spread his hands. “I don't know.”

Her brows came down. “Yes, but you're thinking plenty.”

A smile flashed. “I'm speculating, that's all.”

Her chin lifted. “I thought we were in this together?”

“I'm thinking of our conversation with Mrs. Love. Hannah, you may remember, wrote letters to some young man—”

“Mr. Robson,” she supplied.

He nodded. “—who took her at her word and got nothing but grief for his trouble. If anyone wrote letters, I think it was Hannah.” He gazed into space. “She had a taste for melodrama, and I think she got more drama than she bargained for.”

They fell silent as they became absorbed in their own speculations. A moment or two later, Brand said, “Ask the girls where they found the box. That may help us.”

“I will,” she replied, “and I'll ask them if this was all that was in it when they found it. Are you going to talk to Robert about it?”

He looked surprised. “There's not nearly enough to go on. Besides, maybe Robert fell out of favor. Maybe someone else had taken Hannah's fancy.”

She said quietly, “What about your father?”

“My father?” He was astonished. “Apart from the fact that he was practically twice Hannah's age, he would never have thought of eloping. His estates are here. Besides, my father is dead. This mystery is ongoing. Someone attacked you in Vauxhall Gardens and pushed you down the stairs at the theater. And let's not forget the thief we interrupted at your cottage.”

She shivered. “I feel as though I've been cast adrift on the open sea without a compass.”

He leaned across the table and kissed her quickly. “I'm your compass,” he said. “Hang on to me and I'll bring you about.”

He took the box with him when he left, promising to return it in the morning, and went through everything again before he went to bed. Odd thoughts came and went, but he made no effort to connect them, not yet.

He remembered Edwina's letter and how he'd thought the task of discovering who was involved with Hannah was monumental. He'd cast his net of suspicion wide to include Longbury and Brighton. Now, with Hannah's keepsakes coming to light, it seemed that he should have looked no farther than the Priory and its environs. There was nothing in that box to show that Hannah had wandered far from home.

A witness told Edwina that Marion was out the night Hannah disappeared. Who was the witness? What did Marion see? She'd adored Hannah. If she'd seen anyone hurt her, she would have run screaming to her mother for help.

He was more convinced than ever that Hannah had written letters to his uncle. The coldness of Robert's note was telling. He could hardly confront his uncle with his suspicions. So he'd received letters. Robert was a man of the world. He would know how to depress the attentions of a love-struck young woman.

Unless he'd fallen in love with her and was not so easily got rid of as Mr. Robson. Stranger things had happened.

Then there were the attacks on Marion in London and the notes she'd attributed to David Kerr. Who was behind them? Who was away from the Priory at the crucial time?

At last he had something to go on.

When confronted with Hannah's box, the girls turned into watering pots. Flora had found it under a squeaky floorboard in the linen closet in Edwina's cottage when they were playing hide-and-seek. They swore they hadn't removed anything. They had tried to put it back where Flora found it, but they were always turned back by Mr. Manley or by groundsmen. So they'd made up their minds to hand it over to Marion, but she'd found it before they'd had the chance.

They couldn't see the urgency. If the box had been full of gold coins, that would have been different.

Having settled them to writing her an abject letter of apology for their misdemeanor, Marion went in search of Brand to tell him the little she had discovered.

The ritual of taking tea on the terrace was in progress, and Brand almost dropped his cup when he absently took the first sip. “Coffee?” he asked the footman. It was his favorite brew, but in his grandmother's house coffee was viewed on a par with medicinal brandy.

“Lady Marion said that you would prefer it” came the stilted reply. “If you prefer tea, sir, I shall get you a fresh cup.”

To break with tradition at the Priory was frowned on by both the FitzAlans and their servants. “Thank you, but I prefer coffee,” said Brand.

Marion was watching him. He lifted his porcelain cup in silent tribute. She nodded and smiled.

She was trying to win him over, he supposed, but to what purpose he had no idea. He had offered her marriage, and she refused to give him a yes or a no. This business about David Kerr and the damage he could do was beginning to wear thin. He didn't want her to come to him after he'd removed every obstacle. She said she loved him. If that were the case, she should come to him without counting the cost.

He didn't want to keep on telling her all this. That would only defeat his purpose. If she didn't come to him freely, without conditions, something precious would be lost. He could live with it, but it would be a compromise. The cynic in him expected no less. It was Marion, herself, who had shown him a different way, but she did not practice what she preached.

Meantime, he was playing hard to get, up to a point. He did not go to her room at night. If she wanted him, she had to come to his. He had thrown down the gauntlet, but so far she had not picked it up.

Theodora arrived, but without Robert, and that started him on a new train of thought. He'd been doing a little sleuthing, trying to find out who, with easy access to the Priory, had been away when Marion was attacked in London. Small help there! The Priory had been practically deserted at the crucial time. Lord Robert was still the only person who came close to being a suspect. He had the opportunity and he had the motive, though the motive hung by a thread. Was he in love with Hannah? Had he killed her in a violent rage when she played the same trick on him as she had played on Robson? Had he written love letters to Hannah and broken into the cottage to look for them the day of the fête?

Oswald got to his feet. He was looking over the terrace wall. “Isn't that Andrew and Lady Emily?” he said.

Brand turned to look. Hand in hand, Andrew and Emily came racing across the turf from the direction of the conservatory. Those on the terrace could see at once that something was far wrong.

Brand did not wait for Andrew and Emily to come on, but put down his cup and went to meet them. Oswald was right behind him.

They were all on their feet now, Her Grace, Marion, Miss Cutter, Clarice, and Theodora, all watching the men on the turf. Andrew was pointing to the conservatory, but Emily came on. When she came up the stairs, she half crouched over, trying to get her breath.

When she straightened, she choked out, “There's been a terrible accident. In the conservatory. John Forrest. I'm afraid he's dead.”

There was a shocked silence, then Theodora let out a keening cry and would have gone after the men had the dowager not prevented her.

“Let Brand and Oswald take care of John. If you go up there, they will be taking care of you. Is that what you want?”

Theodora stared at the dowager as though she disliked her intensely, then she shook
off Her Grace's restraining hand and walked into the house.

A gardener directed Brand and Oswald to the body. Forrest wasn't in the conservatory itself, but in a shed for tools and other gardening supplies that was screened from view by thick shrubbery. The door was open and they could see Forrest lying facedown on the earthen floor.

The gardener had found the body and had run back to the conservatory to Andrew and Emily, whom he'd last seen admiring the flowers with a party of friends. The friends had gone home, but Emily and Andrew were still there.

“I felt for his pulse,” said Andrew, “but I knew I wouldn't find one. The back of his head has been crushed. Besides, he was cold. I knew he was dead.”

There wasn't much light in that small shed. Brand sent the gardener to fetch a lantern, then crouched down and examined one of Forrest's hands. “It's warm in here,” he said, “so that makes it difficult to say how long Forrest has been dead.” Forrest's hand was cold and stiff. “At least ten hours, I would say.”

Andrew said, “Where did you learn about such things?”

“As a reporter, covering murder trials and coroner's inquests.”

The gardener returned with the lantern. Brand held it high and examined the body. The wound to the head had obviously taken some force. Blood and brain matter coated Forrest's graying hair. Brand looked around for a weapon.

“Well, what do we have here?” Brand reached for an iron bar that was half hidden by the door. There was blood on one end.

“We use that to lift paving stones,” said the gardener.

“My God!” Andrew breathed out. “Who would want to murder Forrest?”

“That,” said Brand, “is for the authorities to find out.”

Brand sent Andrew to fetch the magistrate and doctor and left Oswald guarding the body, with instructions not to touch anything, while he had a look outside. Around the shed itself, there was nothing, no footprints and no scuff marks to show that Forrest's body had been dragged to the shed, no sign of a fight or a struggle. Forrest had walked into that shed all unsuspecting.

When Brand stepped out of the shrubbery surrounding the shed, he had an excellent view of the Priory and its grounds. On his left was the conservatory and, beyond that, across the turf, the Priory itself. In front of him, down the incline to Yew Cottage, was the great refectory pulpit, and to the right of that, the herb garden. The stable block, where one would expect to find Forrest, was on the other side of the Priory. To get to the shed, he would have had to pass in front of the Priory in full view of anyone who might be watching.

Unless he came at night.

Fear mingled with frustration made him curse. Nothing was simple. He hadn't a clue to what was going on. Why would anyone want to kill John Forrest?

Hannah, Edwina, Marion, and now Forrest. His instincts told him that they were all connected. What was truly alarming was the thought that there was a murderer at large. Where would he strike next?

He gazed across the sward to the stable block and John Forrest's cottage. Maybe he would find some answers there.

When he arrived at the cottage, he wasn't surprised to find that the door was locked. Forrest was more than Theodora's groom. He was her man of business. There would be accounts and ledgers and receipts to protect. There might even be bank drafts. A cautious man would want to protect his business from prying eyes and sticky fingers.

Forrest wouldn't complain about prying eyes now, or the lack of a key to gain entry to his cottage. Brand put his shoulder down and charged the door.

It took him only a few minutes to familiarize himself with the layout. There was a living room, a large office, and a small bedroom not much bigger than a closet. Any cooking would be done in the recessed fireplace, but the fireplace was so spotless that Brand doubted Theodora's groom had done more than boil water for tea. Either Cook sent his meals out to him or he ate at the house.

The whole place smelled of horses, much like his own place, Brand thought. The smell of horses and leather always reminded him of his grandfather. With his father, it was the smell of brandy and snuff. He shook his head, thinking that those two had been worlds apart in the way they lived their lives.

He wondered about John Forrest and how he'd lived his life. He knew that Theodora had brought him with her when she married his uncle, more than twenty years ago. The groom must be close to sixty, so he ruled out any romantic involvement. But they were close, far closer than employee and mistress. Father and daughter? he hazarded.

The cottage was as spotless as the fireplace. Brand made a brief search of the desk, but decided not to force the locks. Theodora might take exception to that. He was far more interested in the clothes in John Forrest's clothes press.

He almost missed it, the button that had been recently resewn onto one of Forrest's shabby jackets. It had left a tear when it was pulled off in the struggle with Marion. The tear had been neatly mended and the button reattached. Only one thing was different. Though the button matched the others, it was a shade smaller.

Brand removed the loose change from his pocket and combed through it. The button he held to the groom's jacket was an exact match.

His hand closed around the button as though he was squeezing the life out of John Forrest.
He
was the man who had attacked Marion and shot at him. He was the man who had attacked her in London. He'd had the opportunity. He was there with Theodora to look over stock for her stables. And Lord Robert was with them.

Could Forrest have been the great love of Hannah's life? Twenty years ago, he would have been forty. Everything added up except for one thing: Hannah had kept mementoes of Robert, not Forrest.

More complications to befuddle his mind.

He heard a step in the next room and quickly pocketed the button, then relaxed when he heard Theodora's voice.

“Brand, are you there?”

He put the jacket back where he'd found it and went to join her.

The tears in her eyes dried when she saw him. “Oswald told me you were here. I saw him at the conservatory, but he wouldn't let me see John or tell me anything.” Her voice changed. “Bloody little upstart! Did he think I'd faint or become hysterical? I have a right to know!”

Anger only heightened her beauty, the sculpted bones, the huge eyes in her pale face, the determined set to her mouth. She would not be an easy woman to live with.

“Sit down,” he said, “and I'll tell you what I know.”

“Thank you.”

He told her as much as he wanted her to know, but nothing of the button or his suspicions. “I came on here,” he finally said, “because I thought whoever killed Mr. Forrest might have burglary in mind.”

She squinted up at him. “Do you think whoever attacked you and Marion did this?”

He told her no lies. “At this point, I don't know what to think.”

When she stared at her clasped hands, lost in thought, he said gently, “Theo, where is Robert?”

Her head jerked up. “Robert? You don't think he did this?” She shook her head. “Robert will be where he usually is, with some woman or other who has taken his fancy for a night or two. His favorite haunt is the Three Crows on Broad Street, but he's well known at all the watering holes in and around Longbury.”

Something registered in her eyes and she suddenly got up. “You think Robert was jealous of John?” She gave a disbelieving laugh. “I could have twenty lovers and Robert wouldn't feel a twinge of jealousy. Besides, John was like a father to me. Robert knows that.”