The Marriage Trap (17 page)

He swallowed hard. “When I got to her dressing room the door was open. There was no sign of her dresser, and I supposed she had left early to be with friends or family. Louise was like that, you know. She was generous to a fault. Her servants adored her.”

He smiled faintly, then went on, “There was no candle lit, and the only light came from a lamp in the corridor, but I could see that something was wrong. She was at her dressing table, and it looked as though she'd fallen asleep, or that she'd taken ill. She'd put her head down, you see, on the tabletop. I called her name, but there was no response, and when I touched her, she toppled over. I only had time to register that her eyes were staring and my hands were sticky when I sensed something—a movement behind me. I turned quickly, but not quickly enough to save myself from the slash of a dagger. I don't know what happened next. There was a bit of a struggle and my assailant ran off. I don't know how long I lay there before I got to my feet and stumbled down the stairs. You can imagine Milton's shock when he saw the state I was in. I was barely coherent.”

He cleared his throat and said roughly, “He got me out of there and into a hackney. I didn't realize we were running away. The next day, Milton took me to a doctor to tend my wound.” He pressed a hand to his shoulder, just above his left breast. “When I was myself again, I was afraid the police would think I had murdered Louise and I was too afraid to give myself up.”

It was on the tip of Jack's tongue to say something biting, but Robbie's look of anguish halted the rush of words. Still, one question had to be asked.

“Robbie,” he said. When Robbie blinked and looked up, Jack said, “Can you tell me anything about the person who stabbed you?”

“No. The light was behind him.”

“So, it
was
a man?”

“I think so, but I can't be sure. I was kneeling on the floor, and he was looming over me. All I did was try to defend myself.”

Jack kept his voice gentle, unthreatening. “Let's go through this again from the beginning. There are still some points on which I am unclear. You left Milton in the courtyard. Go on from there.”

Robbie looked down at his clasped hands and started over.

Jack and Milton were in a quiet corner of the taproom, drinking ale. He had sent Robbie home to wait for him there because he didn't want him correcting his friend if their stories did not tally.

After he'd taken a swig of ale, he studied his companion. Unlike Robbie, Milton wasn't the least bit edgy. When asked what he thought of the whole sorry business, he looked Jack straight in the eye.

“I thought then and I still think,” he said, “that Robbie is innocent. Why would he kill Louise? He has no motive. He doesn't fly into jealous rages.”

Jack interjected sharply, “Was there a reason for him to be jealous?”

“Only people who don't know Robbie well would think so.”

“That's not an answer.”

Milton shrugged. “There was a rumor that she'd found a rich protector, but it's ludicrous to think that Robbie was jealous. She was old enough to be his mother, though you would never have known it just by watching her onstage.”

Jack almost smiled. No doubt young Milton thought that anyone over thirty had one foot in the grave. “Was she as old as I?”

“A year or two older, I would say.”

“Thank you. Now, shall we get back to what happened that night? You were in the courtyard waiting for Robbie. What happened next?”

Jack visualized each step as Milton related it. It was freezing cold that night and Milton had sheltered behind one of the arcade pillars to escape the breeze. He'd only been there a few minutes when Robbie ran out of the theater.

“Did you see anyone leave before that?” Jack asked sharply.

“No one I recognized. A couple of cleaners, maybe. I can't be sure. And there are other doors on the other side of the building. The murderer could have left by one of them.”

There was a long silence before he went on. “Robbie said Louise was dead. He was covered in blood. I couldn't leave him. Besides, I knew what the authorities would think, that there had been a lovers' quarrel and that Robbie had wrested the knife away from Louise after she'd struck the first blow. Then he'd stabbed her to death. I didn't believe it for one moment, so I got him out of there as fast as I could. No one gave us a second glance. To anyone watching, Robbie would look like a reveler who'd had too much to drink. I got him out of the courtyard, hired a hackney, and got him away. The next day I took him to a doctor.”

“What about the knife that killed Louise?”

Milton shook his head. “I wouldn't know about that.”

“I see.”

It amazed Jack that he could still sound reasonable when what he wanted to do was tear his hair out. He didn't see how he could edit the evidence to make these two ninnies appear as naive as he believed them to be. His attorney was going to have his work cut out for him.

One thing was certain. Milton would have to make a statement, too. He was a material witness and could corroborate Robbie's story up to a point.

He took a long swallow of ale, hoping to dull the incipient ache behind his eyes. He said, as the thought occurred to him, “What about you, Mr. Milton? Were you jealous?”

There was a silence, then Milton gave a disbelieving laugh. “‘Jealous'? Why should I be? Louise had legions of admirers. To her, it was amusing to favor one, then another. It was a game, that's all, a game.”

“Don't you think that the authorities would have worked that out? What you've done is muddy the waters. You've both acted suspiciously. Is it any wonder that Robbie is a suspect?”

Milton shot right back. “What would you have done in our place? We were foreigners in a strange country. I had no idea that Sir Charles Stuart was a friend of the family, and even if I had known, I doubt that that would have made a difference. The connection, at best, is distant. I thought our best bet was to get home to England as soon as Robbie was fit to make the trip.”

His voice lost some of its assurance. “Tell me, sir, does Robbie have to answer to a French court? I thought, hoped, that when we returned to England, that would be the end of it.”

“It's possible. But that's not the only problem.” A waiter was hovering, and Jack waved him away. He didn't want to order another round of drinks when Ellie would be anxiously waiting for his return, and he was almost done here. He went on, “Is Robbie to stay in England for the rest of his life? What happens in the future if he returns to France? He'll be a wanted man. And if it becomes known here that he is suspected of murder, he may find every door shut against him. No. Until he is cleared of this crime, his name will be blackened.”

There was a long silence, then Milton heaved a sigh. “Then we had better clear his name.” He leaned forward, with one hand on the flat of the table. “You didn't answer my question, sir. What would you have done in our place?”

Jack didn't have to think about his answer. “Probably what you did. But that doesn't make it right.”

When Milton smiled, his features softened and he looked almost handsome. All the fine lines he'd acquired while studying had disappeared. It was quite a change.

“And now that we've got that out of the way,” Jack said, “is there anything else I should know? It need not be evidence. Something odd you can't explain? A suspicion that someone or something was in the wrong place at the wrong time? Anything at all?”

Milton shook his head slowly. “No. Nothing. I've told you all I know.”

There was something critical he had meant to ask Milton but, for the moment, it had slipped his mind. It would come to him eventually.

Jack pushed back his chair and got up. “Where can I find you if I need you?”

“I'll be returning to Oxford tomorrow.”

“Good. I'll be in touch.”

They made the return trip to town in a hackney, the three of them squeezed together like peas in a pod. Jack did most of the talking, but it was small talk and sporadic, an attempt to lighten the gloom that gripped his companions.

Robbie appeared chastened, as well he should. When Ellie heard what had happened in Paris, she'd turned deathly pale and said hardly a word. Her dejection had worked on Robbie to better effect than a sisterly lecture.

Hence, there was no argument about taking up residence in Jack's town house in London, and no sullen looks when Jack assured Robbie that he would continue his studies in London with a new tutor.

He wondered how long Robbie's willingness to please would last.

As for himself, he had the oddest sensation that he'd stepped through a door into an alien land. He could hardly credit that he was sitting in a hired hackney, squeezed against the side to give Ellie more room, all his thoughts absorbed in how he could make life easier for two people who were practically strangers to him.

Two days later, they were married by Special License in St. James's Church on Piccadilly. It was a cold January morning, but everyone was dressed for the weather, including the bride. Ellie was wearing her finest winter ensemble, a long-sleeved, high-necked gown in gray crepe with a fitted pelisse to match. Her outfit was subdued, but so was everyone else's. This was not exactly the wedding of the year.

Outside of the immediate family, only Cardvale and Dorothea were present. In fact, the Cardvales had graciously offered to host the wedding breakfast in their own home. It was more than a gracious offer. Both Cardvale and his wife had insisted on it since, they said, they were the bride's nearest relatives and the privilege belonged to them.

As the meal progressed around Dorothea's beautifully appointed table, Ellie became more relaxed. Her fears were proving to be unfounded. The episode in Paris, when Dorothea had accused her of stealing her diamonds, might never have happened. Dorothea was all charm. Cardvale was less effusive but was obviously pleased with the way things had turned out, as was Jack's grandmother. Robbie seemed preoccupied, but that was to be expected. He, Milton, and Jack had an appointment with the attorney the following day. Caro was more sullen than preoccupied, and Ellie wondered if it was because she was disappointed in her brother's choice of a wife.

Maybe that's what the trouble was. There hadn't been a choice, not for Jack and not for herself. This wasn't the best way to start a marriage.

A light touch on her arm gave her a start. She turned her head to look up at Jack. His smile was grave, but humor lurked in his eyes.

He spoke in a soft undertone. “I'm glad you waited for me, as you promised you would, all those years ago.”

It took her a moment to make the connection. He was teasing, of course, trying to put her at her ease. She replied tartly, “Don't let it go to your head. I waited for all of two weeks, and when you didn't return, I promptly fell in love with the baker's boy.”

His bark of laughter had all heads turning in their direction.

“Do share the joke,” said Dorothea, and the refrain was taken up by the others.

Jack shrugged. “We were reminiscing about the past, when Ellie's father tutored me in Greek and Latin.” He flashed Ellie a smile. “Even then, she made quite an impression on me.”

“Childhood sweethearts?” intoned Dorothea with a stiff smile.

Ellie swallowed her response when Jack reached for her hand, hidden by the tablecloth, and gave it a hard squeeze.

“We couldn't agree on a single thing,” he replied easily, “so I suppose it must have been true love even then.”

Laughter erupted around the table, then the conversation moved on to other things—Ellie's bridal clothes (or, more precisely, her lack of them); the honeymoon that had to be postponed because this was Lady Caro's first season and, naturally, the family had to be there to support her; whether or not Ellie would be refurbishing the house in Park Street; Robbie's plans for the future, and so on and so on. Dorothea's curiosity was insatiable.

In the coach going home, which Jack and Ellie had to themselves, Ellie's mind was still on the reception. Jack had answered most of Dorothea's questions, which was just as well, because Ellie wouldn't have known what to say. She hadn't discussed any of these things with Jack.

“I think,” said Jack, “that went off rather well, don't you?”

Ellie shook her head. “Dorothea loves to know everybody's business. She can't help herself. I think she was born a gossip. Before the week is over, she will have broadcast everything she has learned about us to all her friends.”

“Like what, for instance?”

She didn't want to mention her lack of bridal clothes or the delayed honeymoon, in case he thought she wanted them, which she certainly did not, so she said instead, “Well, that story you concocted about us being childhood sweethearts. Soon everyone will have heard it and everyone will be gossiping about us.”

“And that bothers you?”

“Doesn't it bother you?”

He shrugged. “Hardly. I've been the object of so much gossip in my time, I've become used to it. However”—he gave her the smile calculated to melt a lady's heart—“it will be a change to have people think well of me. The world admires a constant lover.”

She blew out a derisory breath. “No one will believe it.”

“Why not?”

Because he was a matrimonial prize and she was an old maid who had been withering for years on the shelf—or so the world thought. “Because,” she said, “I was only thirteen to your seventeen when we first met.”

“Juliet was only thirteen when she met Romeo.”

He had removed his gloves and his bare thumb brushed her cheek. Ellie, who was never at a loss for a quick retort, couldn't find a thing to say. His expression became serious, searching. She knew where this was leading.

And she felt completely out of her depth.

Dragging her eyes from his, she said lightly, “Let's not get carried away, Jack. I'm not Juliet and you're not Romeo. We're both too long in the tooth to play these parts convincingly.”

He linked his fingers through hers. “You're too modest. When you make the most of yourself, you're ravishing. Don't forget, I've seen you as Aurora.”

The compliment left something to be desired. She spoke in a bantering tone. “If you're trying to win me over, you're not succeeding.”

“‘Win you over'?”
He unlinked his fingers from hers. “I wouldn't dream of it.”

She could see from his expression that she'd given offense. But so had he. She was searching in her mind for a way to make amends, when the carriage pulled up outside their front door.

As soon as they alighted, he snagged her wrist and led the way inside the house. She had to move quickly to keep up with him. The servants who were about wished them happy, but Jack's only acknowledgment was a grim smile.

Up the stairs he led her, to her new chamber, the one that was reserved for the master's wife. A maid came out of Ellie's dressing room, shaking out Ellie's garments. She took one look at Jack's face, bobbed a curtsy, and quickly left them.

“This,” said Jack, walking to a door opposite her dressing room, “is the door to my chamber.”

There was a key in the lock. He turned it, locking the door, then slapped the key into Ellie's open palm. Her fingers curled around it automatically.

In the same harsh tone, he went on, “I won't come through that door unless I'm invited. Oh, and be careful Aurora doesn't get hold of that key. She doesn't have to be won over.”

Stupefied, she watched him walk to her bedchamber door. On the threshold, he turned to face her. The grimness had gone and he seemed to be quietly amused.

“I almost forgot,” he said. “There's something I want to show you. Dress warmly and wear boots. I'll meet you downstairs in, oh, say half an hour? We're driving to Kensington.”

And on that annoyingly cryptic note, he left her.

She had barely removed her coat and bonnet when someone knocked at her door. It was Wigan, the butler, come to offer her his best wishes for her future happiness, and to enquire if it was convenient for her ladyship to meet some of the senior staff.

She'd got off on the wrong foot with her new husband. She wasn't going to make the same mistake with the servants.

They were waiting for her in the hall: Mrs. Leach, the housekeeper, who was as gaunt as one of the winter trees in the park; Mrs. Rice, the cook, whose ample proportions seemed to suit her profession; and Webster, whom Ellie had already met.

Wigan was the most senior, not only because of his position, but also in years. Ellie judged him to be fiftyish. He wasn't reserved so much as punctilious in his manner, not unlike Milton. She warmed to him at once.

It was otherwise with the housekeeper. Mrs. Leach was stiff and unsmiling and her manner was chilly to the point of being uncivil. Ellie's heart sank. Did everyone have to be won over in this household?

Mrs. Rice's kind eyes met Ellie's as she bobbed a curtsy.
At last, a friendly face,
thought Ellie. The same could be said for Webster, who, Ellie learned, was the head housemaid.

Things could be worse.

They soon were. The introductions were hardly over when Wigan, Cook, and Webster melted away, leaving Ellie to the tender mercies of Mrs. Leach.

“This way, my lady,” said Mrs. Leach. “You'll want to inspect the domestic quarters.”

And like a little lamb, Ellie followed her captor into the bowels of the house.

The domestic quarters were impressive. Servants' Hall, three separate kitchens, laundry rooms, drying rooms, and rooms she couldn't name, all were as neat as a new pin. Ellie was effusive in her praise, but she might as well have spoken to a block of wood. Mrs. Leach was doing her duty, nothing more.

At the end of the tour, Ellie said, “Thank you, Mrs. Leach. I'm sure we're going to get along famously. If you have any problems, my door is always open.”

The housekeeper's thin eyebrows arched. “Thank you, my lady,” she said, “but Lady Frances is mistress here. I take my orders from her.”

“Of course,” Ellie replied at once. She felt as though someone had punched her in the stomach. Lady Frances was Cedric's widow. Naturally she'd had oversight of the servants. And, Ellie told herself fiercely, she wouldn't have it any other way, though by rights this was her house now.

But it was galling to have been snubbed by a servant. She whisked herself around and made her escape.

Ellie dragged herself from her gloomy reflections when Jack told her why they were in the coach and on their way to Kensington.

“That's where Cloverdale Stables are,” he said. “We're going to buy a mount for you.”

After her humiliation at the hands of his housekeeper, she was more than willing to salvage what was turning out to be a sorry wedding day. “I always wanted a horse,” she said.

“All the females in my family ride, and I remember you were a fair rider yourself at one time.”

“Middling to fair,” she replied modestly. His memory was faulty. She'd ridden pillion with him once and had been terrified out of her wits. Since then, she'd learned to ride, but only at a snail's pace.

“I'm out of practice,” she elaborated, answering the question in his eyes.

“We shall soon fix that.”

Her hackles began to quiver. “Is there anything else about me you'd like to fix?”

“Since you ask,” he said pleasantly, “your wardrobe. Don't get that look in your eyes, Ellie. I'm not finding fault. I'm sure your garments were more than adequate for your position as a lady's companion. But you have a new position now. And you'll be escorting my sister to various functions. This is her first season. Like it or not, you'll both be on display. If I'm not ungenerous with my sister, I most certainly will not be ungenerous with my wife.”

That made sense. She never shriked a duty, and just because she would enjoy the experience of dressing up didn't make it a sin.

“I'll try not to bankrupt you,” she said lightly.

“Oh, I'll make sure of that.”

He smiled. She smiled. Harmony reigned.

It was a pleasant drive to Kensington and, before long, their coach drew to a halt inside Cloverdale's gates. It was an impressive establishment. Two long rows of stables faced each other across a cobbled yard. There were grooms coming and going, some with harnesses or saddles, others mounted and walking their mounts to a circular exercise track outside the paddock gates. There were others, like themselves, who had come to look over the stock with a view to buying.

The owner, Jack said, was Augustus Rider, and his family had bred horses for generations. Many of the thoroughbreds at Newmarket came from Rider's stud. The old man was a bit of an eccentric. He looked over his buyers as carefully as they looked over his stock, and if he didn't like what he saw, he wouldn't sell to them.

A groom in his mid-fifties, small and whiplash lean, with blue eyes made all the bluer by his weatherbeaten face, tipped his cap as he came up to them.

“Mr. Rider is in his office, your lordship,” he said, and he moved off to speak to another gentleman.