The Bachelor Trap (31 page)

Brand nodded absently. So this is what the women had quarreled about at Yew Cottage that night, the quarrel Marion had overheard but not understood.

He leaned toward Robert, his arm braced on his knees. “But you must have wondered what happened to her? You must have known that she hadn't eloped?”

Robert looked down at his hands. “At first, I suspected that she'd thrown herself into the river. It's the only thing I could think of. She was distraught when I left her. But as time went by, I heard murmurs that Hannah had many strings to her bow and I came to believe, or I hoped, that she'd turned to someone else when I failed her. It suited me, I suppose, to take the easy way out. That's the story of my life.”

Robert reached for something to drink and saw nothing but a cup of tepid coffee. He made a face and folded his arms across his chest.

Sighing, Brand got up, went to a small sideboard, and returned a moment later with a glass of pink liquid which he handed to Robert.

“Thank you,” said Robert. “What is it?”

Brand sat down. “A little wine mixed with water. Sip it, don't gulp it.”

Robert chuckled and looked at Brand with a smile that was warm and intimate. “You should have been the duke, Brand. Your father always regretted that you would never inherit his title. He said you were the best of the FitzAlans. That's why he made you the sole trustee of Andrew's affairs. He loved you, though you were very hard to love.”

This was another profound statement to which Brand had no ready answer. All the same, he was oddly affected. It was true; he had been very hard to love.

Robert's smile slipped and became edged with sadness. “Your father and I made a mull of our lives, and the family suffered. I think you and Andrew will do a much better job than we did.”

Andrew returned and, soon after, the sandwiches arrived with more coffee. Robert would take only the glass of wine mixed with water. When his eyes started to glaze over, they put him to bed. Brand and Andrew sat close to the fire, eating their sandwiches in companionable silence, glancing at the bed from time to time.

Brand did not consider himself a sentimental man, but he felt more of a FitzAlan in that moment than he'd ever felt before, and he realized that the people in that room were as dear to him as his own life. He would have given anything to have his father there, even if they only talked about cricket. And for once, when he talked to his father, he wouldn't be difficult or defiant. He wouldn't be hard to love.

Andrew's quietly spoken words cut across Brand's thoughts. “How did you know that Flora was Robert's child?”

Brand smiled faintly. “Have you seen her ride? She's a FitzAlan, all right. It's more than that, though. Robert's smile is different when his gaze comes to rest on the girl. It's warm, intimate, and very sweet.”

“But her coloring? Red hair? Green eyes?”

“I expect she got that from her mother's side of the family.”

Andrew was still puzzled. “I thought she lived with Theo's sister for half the year.”

“Evidently not. I suppose that explanation was to save Theodora's pride.”

A long silence followed, then Andrew said, “What happens now?”

Brand dragged his thoughts back to Andrew. “We have to let the magistrate know that Robert is here. His alibi is convincing. I think Sir Basil will accept it.”

“What about Hannah? What are you going to tell Sir Basil about her?”

“Nothing. I'm not going to do the magistrate's job for him. I've told him all that I'm going to tell him, at least for the moment.”

Andrew nodded and looked away. His voice was so low, Brand had to lean forward to catch his words. “Do you think Theo killed Hannah? She truly believed Robert had betrayed her.”

“The thought had occurred to me. But I can't see her murdering John Forrest.”

“Neither can I, unless John Forrest betrayed her in some way that we know nothing about. There's something about Theo that gives me the shudders.”

“She knows how to hate,” Brand said.

His mind shifted to Marion. Marion knew how to love.
I love you.
Emotion tightened his throat.

Andrew let out a sigh. “Now tell me about our father, Brand. Tell me about the night he died.”

Brand chose his words with care. He didn't want Andrew to despise their father. There was nothing to despise, but so much to regret. “Robert and I found him,” he said slowly. “We couldn't bring him round.”

“He was drunk?”

“He'd been drinking” was all Brand would allow. “He just slipped away from us.” He looked at Andrew. “You might say that his heart gave out.”

Brand left Andrew looking after their uncle, while he walked the short distance from his grandfather's house to the Priory. There were no constables or officers of the law that he could see, but he took precautions not to be seen. The key to the coal cellar was under a stone urn. He used it to gain access not only to the cellar but also to the door that gave onto the servants' staircase. Though there were no candles lit, he knew every nook and cranny in the Priory, and he reached Marion's room in less than a minute.

She'd left a candle burning on the stone hearth, and it was beginning to drown in its own wax. She was in bed, breathing softly in sleep, the coverlet thrown off and her white lawn nightgown open at the throat. He could see her pulse beating out a slow, comforting measure.

One hand was tucked under her cheek; the other rested on her pillow. Small, fragile, feminine hands that gave no hint of how ferocious they could become when she had to defend herself or those she loved. He was thinking of how she'd tried to wrest John Forrest's gun from him the night she was attacked.

He wasn't tempted to waken her. He hadn't come to her room to make love to her. He was in a contemplative frame of mind and was content to sit in the chair by the fire, watching her, feeling the same emotion he had experienced earlier with Andrew, when they'd sat quietly by the fire with their uncle sleeping close by.

Six months ago, he'd thought his life was full. Now he saw how empty it had been. If he had only one hour to live, he wouldn't waste it on advancing his political career or selling more newspapers. He'd want to spend it with the people who meant most to him, the people who knew how to love.

He didn't stay long. He didn't kiss her good-bye, but put his fingers close to her lips without touching them, then brought the warmth from her breath to his own lips.

After locking the cellar door, he made to put the key back where he had found it, but a thought occurred to him and he slipped it into his pocket. From now on, the coalmen would have to get the key from the butler. And just to quell a nasty suspicion that kept running through his mind, he'd put Manley on to watching Theodora.

The next morning, Marion awakened feeling rested and refreshed. She smiled up at the bed canopy through half-lowered lashes, trying to remember her dream. The details were hazy, but she knew Brand was in it, and she felt steeped in happiness.

Her euphoria vanished as reality swept in. Yesterday, they'd found John Forrest's body. He'd been brutally murdered the night before. Lord Robert was the prime suspect. Even now, he was wanted for questioning. The dowager would be beside herself with grief, and Brand would be devastated. As for Theo—she would be grieving for John Forrest. Who knew what she would think of Robert?

Sighing, she pushed back the covers and got up. She had sisters who needed her, and Flora, too. Somebody had to be there for them to soothe their fears. But who was there for her? Brand, she knew, was at the Grange with Lord Robert, and would not leave his side until the magistrate had talked to him.

This place has a bad odor.
She could feel it seeping into her. If she didn't start moving, she would expire from an attack of nerves.

Her toilette took her no more than fifteen minutes, and a few minutes after that, she entered the breakfast room. The only occupants were Emily and Miss Cutter. They both looked as despondent as she felt, though Emily did manage a smile.

“We're the laggards,” said Emily. “Everyone else has breakfasted and gone about their business. The eggs are cold, but the tea is fresh and hot.”

“Where are the girls?”

“They've gone off with Clarice and Oswald to see the sea. It's only six miles from here, so I gave my permission. They'll have a lovely time there, Marion, and I thought they would be better off there than here.”

Marion nodded. A trip to the seaside was something that she'd promised Phoebe before they set off from the Lake District. How was it they'd never got around to it?

She looked at Miss Cutter. The poor dear was sunk in silence; this was not like her at all. This business with Lord Robert was taking its toll. As Marion remembered, Lord Robert was Miss Cutter's favorite.

Marion impulsively reached for Miss Cutter's hand and squeezed gently. “Brand is with Lord Robert,” she said. “He won't let any harm come to him.”

A spark kindled in those old, dull eyes, and Miss Cutter smiled. “You are so kind, my dear, but I'm not worried about Robert. Andrew was just here with a message from Brand. He says that Robert has a perfectly good explanation for his absence from the Priory. No. It's Her Grace that worries me. She has taken it so hard. I don't know how everything could have gone so wrong.”

She got up. “Sit yourself down, Marion, and I'll pour you a cup of tea.”

“I can manage—”

“No, no. It's no trouble.”

Marion sat, reached for a piece of toast, and began to munch on it. “Andrew was here?”

Emily nodded. “He is with his grandmother now, and as soon as Robert talks to the magistrate and clears himself of suspicion, they'll all come on here.”

“I see.” Marion would have felt better had the message arrived after the magistrate had talked to Robert. Until that happened, Andrew's message was nothing more than an empty reassurance, much like hers had been with Miss Cutter.

“Thank you,” she said when Miss Cutter set her teacup and saucer on the table.

Emily said, “There was a message from Brand to you, but it doesn't make sense.”

“What is it?”

“Read my mind?”

To cover her ridiculous smile, Marion reached for her cup of tea and swallowed a mouthful before she realized how hot it was. She coughed and gasped till tears started to her eyes. “I burned my tongue,” she rasped out.

Miss Cutter quickly tipped up the milk jug into the cup to cool Marion's tea. “Try that,” she said.

Marion took another long swallow. The tea was now tepid and not to her liking, but Miss Cutter looked so pleased with herself that she hadn't the heart to ask for a fresh cup.

“That's better,” she said, and took another sip. A thought occurred to her. “Does Theodora know that Robert has been found?”

Through thinned lips, Emily said, “She was here when Andrew arrived. Her only comment was that she wanted to look over the contents of John Forrest's desk, to make sure that everything was in order. She's there now with the constable and Mr. Manley.”

Miss Cutter clicked her tongue. A pall settled over the table. Marion sighed, reached for the dish of marmalade, and dropped a spoonful on her plate beside her slice of toast.

“I suppose Mr. Manley will advise her about her stables?” When no one answered, she tried again. “What are your plans for this morning, Emily?”

“I haven't any.” Emily swallowed and looked down at the uneaten slice of toast on her plate. “I feel awful. I still can't believe that this has happened. It's like a nightmare.”

Marion dragged herself from her own doldrums. “All the more reason,” she said, “to find something to get your mind off these horrendous events. You should have gone to the seaside with Clarice and Oswald. Since you didn't, I suggest you get Andrew to take you to your friend Ginny's. Go shopping with her, or go calling on other friends. Do whatever young girls your age are supposed to do.”

Emily brightened a little. “Why don't you come with me?”

Marion shook her head. She had her own plans for this morning. “I don't have the energy,” she said. “I thought I'd read a book and keep Miss Cutter company.” She looked at Miss Cutter.

Miss Cutter nodded. “Or go for a walk? I'd like to show you my herb garden.”

“Why not?” said Marion.

Miss Cutter beamed. “Just give me a moment and I'll let Her Grace know where I shall be.”

When she hurried away, Emily said, “I think you have made her day.”

“Yes, she is too much alone. The dowager isn't much company for her, is she?” Marion took another sip of tea and screwed up her face. “If there's anything I hate it's tepid tea.”

When Miss Cutter returned, the offensive tea had been removed by a servant and Marion was sipping from a fresh cup.

Miss Cutter was all in a flutter. If she'd been strangely quiet before, now her tongue rattled on like a galloping horse. It was such an honor. Young people nowadays had no time for older people. They didn't go walking just for the pleasure of it, but to go shopping or visiting. They were always in carriages. And so it went on.

Marion made what she hoped were suitable responses, but her mind was focused on the path they were on. This was the way Clarice would have come the night she bolted after seeing the monk's ghost.

They had just passed the conservatory on their right, where the refectory had stood in a bygone era. The shed where Forrest's body was found was there, too, though hidden by a thicket of shrubbery. The sun was hot and high overhead. The swallows were performing their dives like acrobats, and on the flowering plants, bees and butterflies danced around each other in perfect harmony.

It was hard to believe that in this little paradise lurked so much evil.

A few steps down the path, everything changed. Dense trees filtered the rays of the sun, dappling the shrubbery in shadow. There were no swallows, no bees or butterflies. Spiders spun their webs to entrap their unwary victims. Foxes lurked in the shadows. Feral wild cats swished their tails, their muscles bunching before they pounced to make a kill.

Marion gave a shaken laugh. This was how she and Clarice had struck terror into each other. What horrid children they must have been.

When they came to a fork in the path, Miss Cutter balked. “This is the way to the herb garden,” she said.

The way she pointed to was well laid out with paving stones. The way to Yew Cottage was overgrown with thistles and nettles.

Marion said, “I thought we'd take in the refectory pulpit. It's only a short walk away. And it's where Clarice and I used to play as children.”

“I'm not sure that I can manage the steep slope.” Miss Cutter's face brightened. “Why don't I go along to my herbarium and get things ready. When you've looked around, you can join me. It shouldn't take you long. There's not much to see.”

Marion wasn't sure they should separate.

As though reading her mind, Miss Cutter said, “If I shout, you'll hear me. And there are gardeners close by. Now, don't be long.”

On that confident note, she took the path to the herb garden.

The refectory pulpit was beside the ruins of what had once been the abbot's house and the dormitories for visiting guests. The latter building had vanished without a trace under the encroaching brush and the depredations of succeeding generations of villagers who had carried off the stone walls for their own use. It was only when the Priory passed into FitzAlan hands that trespassers were warned off and the depredations ceased.

The pulpit was largely untouched. Marion guessed that the locals had regarded this relic as too holy to demolish, that and the sculpture of the abbot that marked the spot where his former residence had once stood. The trees did not encroach here, and Marion had a clear view of the pulpit as she entered the clearing.

The pulpit was much bigger than she remembered, and to a child it must have seemed like a tower. She mounted the stone steps and counted twelve—probably a sacred number, each step representing one of the apostles. From this vantage point, the lector would have looked down on the heads of the silent monks as they took their meals. Anyone who suffered from vertigo must have hung on to the stone ledge, as she was doing now.

When she and Clarice lay in wait for their ghost, everything would have been cloaked in darkness, so that they hadn't the sense to realize how far they would fall if they missed a step. Or maybe she was bolder back then. Maybe she'd climbed the steps during the daylight hours and vertigo had held no fears for her. She could not remember. That was the trouble. No shattering revelation came to her so that she could cry
“Eureka!”

She'd come here to reenact the scene, and though she thought that the exercise would be futile, at least it was worth a try. Breathing deeply, she closed her eyes and cast her mind back to the night she'd waited in Yew Cottage for the quarrel to be over so that she could slip away to be with Clarice.

So Hannah left the house. The next thing Marion remembered was climbing the path to the pulpit. She knew that she was late and wondered if Clarice would have waited for her. On the way, she passed the sculpture of the first abbot and made the sign of the cross. Not that she was Catholic. It was a ritual, a mark of reverence that she and Clarice had devised in this make-believe world they inhabited from time to time.

How could she have forgotten that?

It was a great relief when she saw the light in the pulpit, swinging from side to side. Clarice had waited for her. She counted the steps as she mounted them. Whispered greetings, then Clarice blew out the lantern and they hunched down to await events.