The Prisoner (30 page)

Genevieve could sense the anger surging through him, mingled with despair. It was as if he wanted to leap from the bed and do battle with someone, anyone, in the faint hope that he might somehow be able to rectify what had gone so horribly wrong. She laid her hand soothingly against his chest.

After a long silence, he began to speak again, his voice rough against the dark stillness. “For a long while, their secret was confined within the walls of their estate. I had stopped frequenting their parties and social affairs years earlier, so I had no idea that Vincent knew that I was Emmaline's father. But I started to hear stories that Vincent had grown increasingly engrossed in managing his investments, and that he and Cassandra were leading separate lives. There was never any mention of Emmaline whatsoever. This struck me as peculiar, because before then everyone had talked about how utterly devoted Vincent was to his daughter. I didn't ponder it overmuch, however. I was far too busy finding ways to run through my allowance before the end of each month, much to my brother's irritation.

“Then Cassandra suddenly died. There was talk of her having been pregnant and trying to abort the child, but the official explanation was simply an undetermined illness. I attended the funeral. I suppose I felt obligated to pay my respects because Cassandra and I had once been lovers, and while Vincent and I had never been what one might describe as friends, I had certainly been a guest in his home many times. Beyond that, I was curious to see how Emmaline was faring. I imagined that she must have mourned the loss of her mother, and I wanted to assure myself that she was going to be all right.

“The moment I laid eyes upon her, I knew that something was terribly wrong. She was a beautiful, slight little thing of eight, with pale-blonde hair and dark-blue eyes, just like her mother's. But while Cassandra had once been confident and sparkling with laughter, Emmaline was painfully nervous and quiet and awkward. Of course, her mother had just died, so I scarcely expected her to be brimming with mirth. But when Vincent snarled orders at her, telling her to sit in a corner and stay out of everyone's way, his monumental resentment of her was obvious to everyone. Worse, it was apparent that she was absolutely terrified of him. And that was when I realized that he knew. He knew, and he was punishing her for it. As if she had had any bloody choice in the matter.”

The thought of how Emmaline must have suffered pained Genevieve. “What did you do?”

He snorted in disgust. “I left the funeral and got blinding drunk for several weeks. I felt completely helpless, and drinking helped me to forget just how inadequate I was. I could hardly charge into Vincent's home and demand that he turn my daughter, whom I'd never sought out in eight years, over to me. Even if he had agreed, just what the hell did I have to offer her? Everyone would have known that she was my bastard, which would have sentenced her to a life of being an outcast. My income at the time seemed barely enough to sustain my prodigal lifestyle. I knew nothing whatsoever about caring for a child. And so Emmaline was trapped. She was Vincent's prisoner, for him to neglect or torment as he pleased, and I convinced myself that there wasn't a damn thing I could do about it.”

Genevieve said nothing.

Haydon interpreted her silence as condemnation. He knew that had she been in his position, she would have done something to rescue Emmaline.

“During my drunken sojourn, my brother died. Poor Edward, who had never been ill a day in his life that I can remember, spent his usual long day at his desk, then rose and dropped like a stone to the floor. He hadn't yet found the time to woo a woman and marry, therefore he had no heirs. And so I was suddenly thrust into the role of marquess of Redmond, with all of the trappings and responsibilities that I had so contentedly left in the capable hands of my brother over the years. I can tell you, it was an unpleasant shock to my relatives, who were convinced that I was going to squander everything that my father and Edward had worked so hard to build. I have several cousins who informed me at the time that they believed themselves to be far better candidates for marquess than I.

“Now that I had money and a title, and was considerably more sober, I decided I could not leave Emmaline at the mercy of Vincent any longer. I went to him and offered to take her and raise her myself. But Vincent flatly refused. He said he had no intention of giving up the daughter everyone believed to be his. To do so would be to make a public declaration that he had been cuckolded and was now giving his wife's bastard to her lover. He told me that he had despised me and Emmaline for years, and that I would now have to live with the knowledge that she belonged to him, to do with as he pleased.

“I argued with him long and hard. I even offered him money in exchange for her. Vincent just laughed. He didn't care about money. All he cared about was exacting his revenge. He wanted to punish me for bedding his wife and making a child that for five years he had believed to be his own. He wanted to make me suffer with the idea that my daughter had been sentenced to a life of misery beneath his roof and that there wasn't a damn thing I could do about it. Finally I realized that I was, indeed, helpless. I had wealth and the status of my new title. But I had no legal claim upon my own daughter. There was no way for me to prove that she was actually mine by blood. Deciding that I was only making things worse for her by provoking Vincent, I left.”

“Did Emmaline know that you had been there?”

“As I stormed out of Vincent's study, I caught a glimpse of her staring at me through the banister, crouched upon the stairs.” His expression became tormented. “I'll never forget how small and lost she looked. She seemed so fragile, like a frightened little bird. And I realized that she had heard. She knew that I was her father, but that Vincent owned her. And that I was abandoning her. I wanted to tell her that everything was going to be all right, even though I had little confidence that it would be. But before I could say anything, Vincent came after me, waving his arms like a madman and ordering me out of his home. Emmaline raced up the stairs and disappeared, terrified that Vincent might have seen her. And I felt hopelessly, utterly helpless. I convinced myself that anything I might have said or done at that moment would only cause Emmaline more suffering. So I left.”

He fell silent.

Genevieve continued to lie against him, saying nothing.

“The next day she killed herself,” he finally whispered hoarsely. “She rose at dawn, rowed herself in a little boat to the center of the magnificent pond Vincent had put in years earlier, and leaped in. One of the gardeners who was just arriving for work saw her as she jumped from the boat. He raced across the lawn, dove into the pond and tried to bring her out, but the water was dark and he couldn't find her.” He swallowed thickly. “It was hours before they finally were able to bring her body up. She was dressed in her nightrail, over which she had put on one of Vincent's coats. She needed a coat with deep pockets, you see, because she had gone to the trouble of filling them with heavy stones.” His voice was hollow as he finished, “To help drag her down, in case she tried to fight the water as it closed over her.”

His suffering was so tearing, Genevieve could no longer bear it. She sat up and grasped his jaw, forcing him to look at her. “It wasn't your fault, Haydon,” she told him firmly. “There was nothing you could have done.”

“You don't believe that, and neither do I.” His tone was harsh. “I shouldn't have left her there. I should have grabbed her and taken her to my carriage and escaped with her. I should have told Vincent to go to bloody hell, and said he would have to kill me to get her back. I should have wrapped her in my arms and held her close and told her that no one was ever going to hurt her again. I should have done something,
anything,
except leave her there. But instead I climbed into my carriage and left her all alone, not understanding how fragile and desperate she was. And because of my stupidity and selfishness and goddamn ineptitude, my little girl jumped into a freezing black pond and drowned.” His eyes were filled with raw torment as he finished, “I could have saved her, Genevieve. I could have taken her home and kept her safe. But I made the choice to leave her there, and because of that, she died.”

“You didn't know,” Genevieve insisted. “And even if you had taken her, Haydon, do you really think Vincent would have merely stood by and let you keep her? He would have either gone after her himself and dragged Emmaline back to his home, or he would have contacted the authorities and had the police forcibly retrieve her, either of which would have been extremely traumatic for a young girl of eight. It was an impossible situation. You had no legal right to her. By leaving her with Vincent, you believed you were doing the only thing you could.”

“You had no legal right to Jamie, or Annabelle or Simon or any of the children,” Haydon retorted. “Yet you managed to save each of them from a life of misery and destitution—because you were willing to fight for them.”

“I did have a legal right to Jamie,” Genevieve argued, “because he was my half brother—”

“You couldn't prove that.”

“Perhaps not, but everyone accepted it as the truth.”

“You had no right to any of the other children.”

“It was different, Haydon.”

“Tell me how it was goddamn different!” he raged.

“It was different because no one else wanted them.” Her voice was low and gentle, a whisper of reason against his helpless fury. “Don't you see, Haydon? You couldn't have Emmaline because Vincent was unwilling to give her up. Maybe if you had had more time, you might have found a way to convince him, or to find some way to blackmail him into giving her to you, or to make him see reason and be more compassionate in his care for her. But there was no time.”

He turned away and stared bleakly at the wall.

“How could you possibly have known how desperate she was?” she continued quietly. “You had never even spoken with her. But if you had known, Haydon, if you had had any inkling of the depths of her distress, I know you would have done everything within your power to take her away from Vincent and keep her safe.”

He closed his eyes, trying to shut out her words of assurance. He didn't deserve them.

“The first time I saw you, you had been beaten nearly senseless after trying to save Jack from that vicious warder. You were in no condition to fight, yet you tore him off Jack and made him attack you instead. Jack wasn't your responsibility. He wasn't even your friend. He was just a filthy little thief whom nobody cared about. But you refused to stand by and watch him be brutalized, even though you knew you would be beaten and possibly even killed in the process.

“Then when Charlotte was sentenced to prison, you went to Governor Thomson and demanded that he release her. You understood that anyone at the prison might have recognized you, if not your face, then perhaps your voice or some small mannerism. Had you been discovered, you would have been imprisoned and hanged. But the threat of being executed wasn't enough to deter you. You would have died, Haydon, for a girl you had known only a couple of weeks.”

“I care for Charlotte,” he told her in a rough voice.

“I know you do.” She reached out and laid her hand against the hard round of his shoulder. “Enough that you were willing to sacrifice yourself for her, because you felt she wasn't strong enough to survive the harshness of prison. And I know you cared for Emmaline as well. Had you been given more time, you would have found a way to help her. You feel guilty for abandoning her all those years, but until you saw her at Cassandra's funeral, you had believed that she was well and happy. And once you realized that she wasn't, you tried to help her. You didn't succeed in rescuing her from Vincent that day, Haydon, but had you been able, you would have. You just needed more time.”

He stared at the wall in silence, contemplating her words. Was it possible, he wondered desperately, that there might be a grain of truth to what she was saying? He wasn't sure. All he knew was that he had laid out the blackest recesses of his soul to her, fully expecting her to recoil from him.

Instead, she was lying against him, caressing his shoulder with her slender fingers as she argued passionately on his behalf.

He turned suddenly and pulled her on top of him. He didn't want to think about any of it anymore. Not Emmaline, or Cassandra, or any of the other spectacular failures of his wasted life. He was a convicted murderer and a fugitive. It was only a matter of days or hours before the authorities realized that he had been in Glasgow that night and began to close in on him. His time with Genevieve was running out, and the realization was so excruciating he didn't think he could bear it. Cradling her face in his hands, he gazed into her eyes.

“Whatever happens to me, Genevieve, there is something you must know.”

Her eyes widened slightly as she studied him.

He hesitated. Over the years he had used countless sentimental phrases on the women he had bedded. But none of them could begin to convey the feelings he was experiencing toward her. The day after tomorrow he would leave her. After that he might be caught, or spend the rest of his life trying to stay ahead of the law. He did not know if he would ever see her again. Feeling as if his heart were being torn apart, he gently swept a lock of hair back from her temple.

“There is nothing I would not have done for you, had there been more time for us. Do you understand? Nothing.”

She looked at him, feeling as if she were looking into his very heart and soul.

And then she crushed her mouth to his and kissed him deeply, holding him fast as her tears began to fall against the dark roughness of his cheeks.

Chapter Twelve

I
'
VE PACKED A WEE LUNCH FOR YE
.”
EUNICE
handed Haydon a colossal bundle wrapped in a blazing red cloth. “I know ye canna go for long without a wee bite.”

Haydon stared in disbelief at the bulky package, which looked as if it could have fed the entire household for a week. “Thank you, Eunice.” He had no idea how he was going to pack it.

“Surely ye're nae thinkin' of leavin' behind this fine evening coat and trousers,” objected Oliver, running his gnarled hand over the woolen fabric of the garments still hanging in the wardrobe. “They're scarcely worn.”

“You may have them, Oliver.” Haydon pulled a shirt and waistcoat out of his bag in a vain attempt to make room for Eunice's food. “I doubt I shall be attending any evening affairs for a while.”

Oliver chuckled. “An' just where would I be wearin' such a fancy set?”

“Wear it around the house,” Haydon suggested. “You'll be the best-dressed butler in Inveraray.”

“It's a wee bit big,” Oliver observed doubtfully.

“I can fix that, Ollie,” Doreen assured him. “A nip here and a tuck there, and ye'll be as bonnie as a prince.”

“Ye think so?” The idea intrigued him. He slipped the jacket off its wooden hanger and pulled it over his wizened frame, then looked in amazement at how far the sleeves flapped below his fingers. “I'm thinkin' it'll have to be more than a wee nip and tuck.”

“Are ye sure ye have to go now, laddie?” fretted Eunice. “I dinna think Miss Genevieve understood that ye intended to take yer leave while she was out. She's certain to be upset that she missed saying good-bye to ye.”

Haydon kept his expression neutral. “It's better this way.”

He and Genevieve had returned from Glasgow late the previous evening and had spent the night passionately entwined in her bed. Haydon had risen well before dawn and retired to his own chamber. That morning they had greeted the children and elders in the dining room and regaled them over breakfast with tales of Glasgow and the dazzling success of Genevieve's premier exhibition. It had been a moment filled with happiness and warmth, tempered only by the knowledge that Haydon would soon leave.

After breakfast Genevieve had gone to meet with Mr. Humphries at the bank, to work out the details of the first payment she was going to make from the sale of her paintings. She had asked Haydon to accompany her but he had declined, explaining vaguely that he had some other matters to attend to. She had regarded him uncertainly, no doubt fearing that he was going to depart in her absence.

He had smiled and told her not to be gone too long, as if he meant to see her upon her return.

It had pained him to mislead her like that. But he had already watched her suffer deeply over the past three nights, and he had no desire to put her through any more torment than what she had already endured. It was better this way, he told himself. It would be hard enough to say good-bye to the children and Oliver, Eunice and Doreen, without having Genevieve there as well. Once he had bid them farewell, he would go down and board the coach for Edinburgh. He had instructed Genevieve to tell people that her husband was on his way to France by way of Edinburgh and London. He would book his fare and travel to Edinburgh first, so that there would be evidence that Maxwell Blake had indeed gone there.

Once in Edinburgh he would shed the identity that had become so comfortable for him and head back north to Inverness.

His only hope of reclaiming his previous life and not spending the rest of his days as a fugitive was to find out who had hired those men to kill him on that fateful night. Once he had done so, he would have to prove to the authorities that he had been the victim of a failed murder plot. He had already been working out a list of who might have reason to want him dead.

The possibilities were frustratingly numerous.

He had bedded scores of women during his life, many of whom were married at the time, so there was a bevy of disgruntled husbands out there who might well prefer to see him nailed into a coffin. Victor, of course, was one of them, but he had already had his revenge on Haydon by destroying Emmaline, so Haydon did not consider him a likely candidate. Add to the husbands the ladies themselves, some of whom had been less than pleased when their affair with Haydon came to an end, and the possibilities became overwhelming. Then there was a parade of his cousins, aunts, uncles, and other vaguely attached relatives, all of whom had shuddered with fear when he had inherited the title of marquess of Redmond. They had quite rightly worried that he would quickly lose the Redmond holdings to drink, gambling, and his complete lack of interest in business matters. In fact, he had spent much of the last two years after Emmaline's death in a drunken haze, burning his way through as much of his fortune as possible. Surely that had to infuriate his cousin Godfrey, a pompous little arse who was all polished and ready to inherit the title should anything happen to Haydon. He doubted Godfrey was capable of murder himself, but buying the services of someone else to carry out the task seemed eminently plausible.

When he returned to Inverness, he would begin by focusing his investigation on him.

“Here now, ye're squashin' my buns,” complained Eunice, watching as Haydon tried without success to cram the victuals into his bag. “Why don't ye just put yer food in another case?”

“I may have to move quickly, and I can't be burdened with two pieces of luggage.” Haydon withdrew yet another shirt and a pair of trousers from his valise, then squeezed Eunice's precious lunch in and buckled the straining case closed. “There.”

Doreen regarded him glumly. “All set, then?”

He nodded.

“Come on, then, laddie.” Oliver shrugged out of Haydon's evening coat and carefully hung it back inside the wardrobe. “I'll leave this coat here for ye, in case ye ever find yerself back this way an' needin' it again. Can't say I fancy black much anyway—makes me look like a corpse.” He closed the wardrobe door and leaned against it a moment, as if he were trying to coax the errant door to stay shut. “Ye will try to come back to her, won't ye, lad?” he demanded quietly.

“Once I succeed in clearing my name, Oliver, nothing will keep me away,” Haydon vowed.

Oliver absorbed this a moment, then nodded. “I'll try to fix this door for ye while yer gone.” He gave the door a final push, then turned away as it stubbornly crept back open. “Now, let's go down and have ye say yer good-byes to the children afore I drive ye to yer coach.”

 

T
HE CHILDREN WERE SEATED ROUND A LITTLE FIRE IN
the drawing room, watching in fascination as Jack showed them pictures of ships from the book that Genevieve had given him.

“…and this one is a Spanish galleon,” he said, pointing to a painting of a splendid ship with its sun-bleached sails puffed and taut as they harnessed a powerful wind. “They were used by the Spanish for war and exploring. They needed lots of room in the belly of the ship, so they could cram it with gold and silver and jewels to take back to Spain.”

Jamie frowned. “Wouldn't all that gold and silver make the ship sink?”

“Not a ship like this,” Jack assured him. “The only thing that could sink her would be if she ran aground during a storm, or if pirates blasted a hole in her hull while trying to rob her of her riches.”

“How could they steal her riches if they sank her to the bottom of the ocean?” wondered Grace.

Jack shrugged. “I guess they would try to move them onto their own ship before she sank.”

“That doesn't seem like a very sound plan,” objected Simon. “It would take a long time to move chests of gold from one ship to another. They might find themselves sinking into the ocean with her.”

Jack furrowed his brow in frustration. Why were they all so obsessed with the cargo? Weren't they impressed by how beautiful the ship itself was? “I suppose most of the time the pirates got the riches off before they sank the ship,” he theorized, trying to be patient. “Now, if you look over here—”

“And then they would bury it on some remote, deserted island where no one could ever find it,” Annabelle exclaimed. “Then the evil pirate captain would take his sword and skewer everyone who knew where it was buried, so that the secret would die with him.” She grabbed the poker from the hearth and lunged at Simon, pretending to run him through. “Die, you black-hearted knave!”

“That's completely daft,” objected Grace. “What good were all those riches if they were stuck in the ground?”

“They could always go back for it later, if they really needed it,” Jamie decided. “You know, if they were having trouble with the bank.”

“But suppose the pirate captain forgot where he had put it?” wondered Charlotte. “Or what if he died before he could go back and dig it up?”

“They always made a treasure map,” Annabelle informed her. “And it would be found years later by a brave, handsome captain who would take the treasure home to his beautiful, sick wife, thinking now that they were rich he could buy her the medicine she needed to save her life.” She tossed the poker to Simon, then raised the back of her hand to her forehead and swooned theatrically against the cushions. “Except it's too late,” she continued, her voice breathy and fragile. “He returns home to find her dying, and all he can do is give her a final kiss before she closes her eyes and fades away, leaving him alone to mourn her forever with a chest of riches and a broken heart.” She sighed and closed her eyes, her hands prettily clasped over her chest. “I think that would be a wonderful part for me to play—don't you?” she demanded, bolting upright again.

“'Tis a fairy yarn if ever I heard one,” sniffed Doreen, shaking her head as she entered the room. “More like the rogue would be off the next day wastin' his fortune on gambling, fancy drink, and low women.”

“Hush now, Doreen, ye mustn't fill the duckies' wee heads with such twaddle,” chided Eunice. “Here, sweetlings, have a biscuit.”

Jack eyed Haydon suspiciously as the children flocked around Eunice. He had seen him drop his leather valise near the front door. “Are you goin' somewhere?”

“Yes.”

“Where?” chirped Jamie, excited by the prospect.

Haydon hesitated. He did not want to lie to them. But there was risk to revealing the truth. If Constable Drummond grew suspicious of his absence before Genevieve declared her husband dead, he might decide to pay a visit and question the children about the whereabouts of their supposed stepfather. One of them might accidentally divulge that Haydon had planned to return to Inverness.

“I am taking the coach to Edinburgh.” That part was true, at least. “I have some matters to attend to there.”

Jack arched a skeptical brow. “When will you return?”

“I'm not certain.”

“You mean you're not returning.” His tone was flat.

Simon regarded Haydon in shock. “You're leaving us?” He sounded wounded.

“Don't you like it here?” demanded Jamie, his mouth rimmed with sugary crumbs.

A helpless feeling began to seep over Haydon. He didn't want to leave. But he had no choice. How could he possibly make them understand?

“There was a problem in Glasgow. Someone there recognized me. It is too dangerous for me to stay here any longer.”

“But Glasgow is so far away,” protested Charlotte, her small face pale. Haydon sensed that of all the children, she was the one who would suffer his absence the most. “No one from Glasgow ever comes here.”

“Charlotte is right,” said Annabelle. “I don't think you need to worry about that.”

“I'm afraid it isn't that simple,” Haydon replied.

He seated himself beside Charlotte and wrapped his arm around her, holding her close as he tried to make the children understand. “The person who recognized me is certain to tell other people about it, and he will mention the fact that I was with Genevieve at the time. The authorities will come here to question her. If they find me here, living under the guise of being Genevieve's husband and your stepfather, they may arrest her as well.”

A glint of fear crept across their faces. He cursed himself. He did not want to frighten them. But he wanted them to understand that he wasn't leaving because he wanted to, but because he had no choice.

“From the moment I arrived here, that has always been a risk. For a while it was a risk we were willing to take, because I had to regain my strength and be well enough to travel. Now that I have healed, it is a risk I can no longer justify. It is time for me to go.”

The children regarded him in dejected silence. It was obvious that they were well versed in abandonment. They had each suffered many betrayals during the course of their short lives. First by the parents who created them, then by the families who were unable or unwilling to care for them, and finally by a social system that viewed them as little more than refuse that should be locked away in prison and reformatory schools so that the rest of society could be spared the sight of their misery.