The Earl's Complete Surrender (11 page)

“Clearly, he did not deserve you,” James said, his fists clenching at the thought of Lady Newbury being subjected to such a thing.

“No, he did not, but there was nothing to be done about that. We were both stuck in a marriage that neither of us wanted any longer.”

“I believe that happens more often than not among our set.”

“You're probably right. Ironically, my parents encouraged me to marry for love instead of financial or political gain. I thought I'd achieved that. Instead, I acquired a husband who felt as though I was holding him hostage. He hated me for it and his anger increased, as did the violence.”

“He struck you on a regular basis?” James's stomach churned at the very idea of it.

Her eyes, somewhat vacant now, turned back toward the water. “More often than not, I would lock myself in my bedchamber to avoid his wrath, but it only seemed to make matters worse. That's why . . .” Her words trembled as she spoke. “That's why anger of any kind compels me to flee. It is the reason why I felt uncomfortable being alone with you in the salon when your mood turned dark.”

“I understand your reasoning completely,” he said. “From what I recall, it was Viscount Wrightley who killed him?”

“Yes.” She expelled a tortured breath. “Apparently Wrightley did not take kindly to another man pursuing his wife, but Newbury had decided that Lady Wrightley would be his. It did not matter that he already had a mistress or that Lady Wrightley showed no interest in him. On the contrary, her rejection seemed to fuel his determination. Eventually Wrightley had no choice but to call Newbury out.”

James placed his hand carefully against her shoulder. “It may not be very kind of me to say this, but I am happy that he's gone. For your sake.” Lord only knew what might have happened if an end had not been put to Newbury's tyranny.

A solemn nod was her only reply. “I have managed to move on, in a way, though I do not seem to laugh as much as I used to. But you . . .” Her eyes met his. “You never even smile. Why is that, Lord Woodford?”

Holding himself perfectly still, James forced himself to meet her gaze and to appear as though he was considering her question. “I find that there is little reason for it.”

“Are you really that unhappy?”

His heart thumped loudly against his chest. “I wouldn't say that I'm unhappy.”
Oh, liar!
“But I do have a great deal of responsibility resting on my shoulders as my father's only successor. Finances, the welfare of my tenants and the upkeep of my homes, are issues that often keep me awake at night.”

She nodded, appearing to see the sense in that. James's conscience gnawed, especially after she'd told him so much. But he would not confide the source of his own demons—­not when he had no choice but to deal with them on his own. So he offered her his arm and said, “Thank you for your confidence, Lady Newbury. Shall we walk back up to the house?”

Again, she nodded. “I'm sure my sisters will be having tea with our mother on the terrace. I think I should like to join them. You're welcome too, if you like.”

“Thank you,” he said. “Perhaps some other time?” He didn't elaborate any further, so she simply said, “Of course.”

 

Chapter 9

O
n his way back upstairs, following an encounter with Chadwick, which had led to a prolonged discourse on horses, James passed the music room where someone was happily destroying a piece by Bach. Pausing in the open doorway, James saw that it was Lady Duncaster herself, her fingers hitting one wrong key after the other. She appeared to be doing so with great pleasure too, for her smile was wide and her body swayed in disjointed time to the tune. Accompanying her with cheerful claps of encouragement was her friend, the Duchess of Pinehurst.

Fearing they might find him watching and ask him to join them, James strode off as quickly as possible in the direction of the stairs. Back in his room, he reached beneath the chest of drawers and retrieved his lock-­picking set. If Lady Duncaster was presently occupied downstairs, then perhaps he'd be able to get back into Lord Duncaster's bedchamber now without running into her. He just hoped that there wouldn't be any servants around either like last time. Thankfully, he soon discovered that there weren't. The hallway outside the doors leading into the Duncaster bedchambers was completely empty.

Steeling himself, James selected two picks and approached the room that he wanted to access. Crouching down in front of the lock, he then went to work, occasionally glancing up and constantly listening for the sound of approaching footsteps. It took less than a minute for the lock to click open. The moment it did, James was on his feet. He threw one last look over his shoulder, then turned the handle and opened the door. Swiftly, he slipped inside the room, closed the door behind him and suddenly realized that he wasn't alone.

“What on earth are you doing here?” he asked upon seeing Lady Newbury's startled expression. He'd caught her in mid stride as she'd been heading toward the door to Lady Duncaster's bedchamber.

“I could ask you the same question,” she said, eyeing him carefully.

“But you're supposed to be having tea with your sisters!” Christ, what a mess.

“And so I did, but it was a brief affair since they decided to have a game of croquet on the lawn.”

“Croquet? At this hour?”

“Indeed.”

James raked his fingers through his hair. How the devil was he going to explain his presence here? “Does Lady Duncaster know that you're in here?” he asked.

Guilt washed across her face. “No.”

“Then how did you get in?” He glanced toward the door she'd been heading toward and allowed himself an inward groan. “You came through there?”

“Lady Duncaster doesn't keep her bedchamber door locked, so I knocked and when nobody answered, I opened it and stepped inside. It was a simple matter really.”

“But why?”

She tilted her head. “You're asking an awful lot of questions, my lord. Especially when considering the fact that you're the one who picked the lock. If anyone asks, I can always claim that I was looking for her ladyship. The same can hardly be said of you.”

Once again, he cursed this stroke of bad luck he was having. “I'm looking for something, and since you've snuck your way in here as well, I suspect that you must be too. Will you tell me what it is?” When she hesitated, he said, “Perhaps I can help?”

Cautiously, she eyed the door before looking back at him, her uncertainty written all over her face. “How do I know that I can trust you?”

“You don't, but if you consider my character, I think you'll realize that I wouldn't betray you.”

“Swear it to me.”

James stared at her. “I swear it,” he said, a little surprised by her urgency.

Her shoulders relaxed and she nodded with another fleeting glance at the door. “I wasn't completely open with you when I told you about my husband. That is, I left something out. You see, Newbury was—­” She bit her lip. “You'll think me mad if I tell you this.”

His interest increased. “Tell me what?”

She hesitated, clearly torn between the wish to confide and the possible implications of doing so. James held silent, allowing her to gather her courage until she eventually said, “My husband was not a good man, Woodford.”

He expelled a breath that he hadn't even realized he'd been holding. “I am aware of that.”

“No,” she said with greater insistence than before, “I don't believe you are.”

For a long moment, he studied her, noting the haunted expression that especially marked her eyes. Unease snaked its way through him. “What exactly do you mean?” he whispered, sensing that once she told him the entire truth, it would alter everything between them.

There was a long pause—­so long that James began to think she'd changed her mind about confiding in him, but then she suddenly whispered, “He told me who killed my grandfather and Lord Duncaster.”

James gaped at her. “What?”

“The shipwreck in which they both died,” she went on, “it wasn't an accident.”

“You're sure of this?”

She nodded bleakly. “My husband confided a great deal to me when he was in his cups. So much so that I'm ashamed to confess that I may have encouraged him to drink on occasion so I could question him about the details. He never remembered any of it the following day.”

Newbury
. The name spun through James's mind. “You said that he told you who killed them?” He watched her closely, wondering how she'd respond and hoping that she would willingly tell him more.

She chewed on her lower lip. “Nobody knows about this. Mama and Papa would be devastated if they found out. I—­”

“I've already given you my word, as a gentleman, that I won't tell anyone.”

“So you have.” A nervous chuckle escaped her. She soon sobered, leaning forward with her moss-­green eyes intent upon his own. Silently, she studied him a moment, then said, “He never mentioned any names, just that the act was carried out by men of his acquaintance.”

She was lying. The evasive way in which she'd replied told him so. Clearly he would have to offer her some information as well if he was to gain her trust. “Lady Newbury,” he began, aware of the risk he was taking by bringing her into his confidence. “Have you ever heard of a group of men who call themselves The Electors?”

Paling, she drew back on a sharp intake of breath. “My lord,” she said with seeming difficulty. “I think it might be best if I return downstairs. In fact, I just remembered that Mama asked me to join her for a tour of the rose-­garden and—­”

“Stop fretting.” His voice cut her off with too much sharpness. Her eyes widened and he forced himself to relax. Tempering his tone, he said, “I'm on your side, Lady Newbury. The reason I'm here . . . the
real
reason . . . is so The Electors can be brought to justice. If you know anything that can help in that endeavor, please tell me what it is.”

Confusion marred her features for a second while she seemed to consider the information that he'd just given her. Eventually her expression turned to one of understanding. “Then you must also be searching for . . .” She paused, pressing her lips together as if to stop herself from saying more.

“I am looking for the
Political Journal
. Yes.”

“I've been looking for it myself. That's the reason why I'm in this room. But it's not here, not as far as I can tell.” Straightening her shoulders, she raised her chin, her confidence returning. “What's your interest in this group of ­people?” she asked, studying his face.

Blood rushed to his head as it always did when his mind was forced toward the past. Clenching his hands, he took deep steadying breaths, determined to ease the panic.

“My lord?” Lady Newbury asked. “Are you all right? If you need to sit down then—­”

“I am fine,” he managed. Reaching out, he steadied himself against the escritoire. “They're the ones who killed my parents.” He looked at her and saw that her eyes were wide with surprise.

“Are you sure?” she asked.

He nodded, drew another breath and tried to focus. “My father was investigating them in regards to the attempts made on the life of our former king. I suspect he came too close to discovering their identities. My mother just happened to be there at the time—­an unfortunate witness whom they couldn't let live.”

“And you?” Lady Newbury whispered.

The memories he'd boxed away for so long came popping out—­perfect images painted in the greatest detail. He saw his father, his clothes perfectly pressed as he sat behind his desk cleaning his pistol. On his little finger sat the gleaming gold band of his signet ring. He looked up, and James could still make out the creases at the corners of his eyes as he smiled. There were three. “Just think, this ring will be yours one day,” his father had said as he'd reached inside one of his drawers for a sweet. Tossing it to James, he'd said, “For now, however, I suggest you enjoy your childhood. Life goes by too quickly as it is.”

A knock had sounded at the door and James's mother had entered, her smile the gentle kind that invited laughter. “It's getting late,” she'd said as she'd stepped inside the room. “You should be getting to bed.”

“Who? Me?” James's father had joked, to which James had laughed. “Let the boy enjoy his sweet, Jane. I can bring him up when he's ready.”

The doorbell had rung at that moment and James had heard a muffled exchange of words coming from the foyer. It had been followed by a loud thud. James's father had gotten to his feet. “That's odd,” he'd said, rounding his desk and moving toward the door. “I'll just see what that was.”

James's mother had looked at her son. “Your math tutor says that you are making great progress,” she'd said. “I'm so proud of you.”

Coming from the hallway, James had been able to hear his father's voice. “Peters? What's—­”

The single shot of a pistol had cut him off. James had flinched. Startled by the sound, he'd swallowed his sweet whole. His mother had leapt to her feet, pulling him with her. “What happened?” he'd asked, even though he'd known. The truth, however, had been impossible to process. It still was.

“Get inside,” his mother had said, her voice trembling as she'd held open the door to a cupboard below the bookcase.

“I'll never fit,” he'd argued, peering inside the tight space.

“You must,” she'd insisted, shoving him toward it with all her might.

He'd done as she'd asked, contorting himself around a stack of books.

“I love you,” she'd said and he'd looked up to see the tears welling in her eyes as she'd closed the door.

A moment had passed, and then, “It's you,” she'd said, sounding very surprise. “You're an Elector. Don't move or I'll shoot.” She'd gathered up Papa's pistol, but it had been to no avail. Another shot had sounded and James had bitten into his knuckles in a desperate effort to remain silent.

“I was hiding,” he told Lady Newbury.

Her face practically crumpled with sympathy. “I'm so sorry.”

He nodded, but had no wish to allow melancholia to take hold of him, so he shrugged it off and said, “I'd like to have a quick look around in here myself, just in case you missed something. If I come up empty-­handed as well, then it must be somewhere else.” He pulled open another drawer in the escritoire. “How did you know to look for the journal here at Thorncliff?”

“I've been corresponding with an old acquaintance of my grandfather's,” she said. “His name is Mr. Lambert.”

James paused momentarily before resuming his search. “You're lucky to have him on your side, Lady Newbury.”

“Yes, he's proven surprisingly helpful for a professor in English literature.”

“You needn't pretend with me, Lady Newbury,” James said, deciding that it was time to be completely honest, whether he liked it or not. “I know that Lambert is more than that.”

It was as if her entire regard for him changed in that instance, her mind clearly working with swift alacrity in order to process all that she knew about the Earl of Woodford so far and adding it to what he'd just told her until . . . “You're not just an earl, are you, my lord?”

“No, I'm not,” he admitted as he yanked open the bottom drawer and searched that one next.

“Are you . . . ?” She waved one hand in his general direction.

“Am I what?”

Cautiously, she leaned forward and whispered, “A spy?”

The manner in which she said it, as if it were the most fascinating thing imaginable, filled him with a ridiculous amount of pleasure. He ought not to care about her opinion on the matter, but found that he couldn't quite help it. “I used to be, during the war. Now I prefer to think of myself as more of an investigator.”

“I see.” She nodded as if she now knew exactly what his job entailed.

Abandoning the escritoire, James inspected the bedside tables next. “The king hired me to find the book.”