Читать книгу An Unexpected Pleasure - Candace Camp, Candace Camp - Страница 9

Theo barely heard the chatter of the twins as he stood in the doorway, looking after the retreating figure of Megan Henderson. Who the devil was she?

Con and Alex took off at their usual pace back up the stairs, and Theo turned and strolled through the hallway and out onto the terrace. He took the wide, shallow steps down onto the flagstone path that led to the arbor.

He stopped at the place where he had caught his first glimpse of Miss Henderson and stood, remembering the moment.

Recognition had jolted through him when he saw her, stopping him dead in his tracks. He could not believe it, and yet the fact of it was looking straight at him. Miss Henderson, the twins’ new teacher, was the woman who had come to him in his dream years ago. The woman who at the time had seemed so real to him, but whom he had come to realize must have been a figment of his imagination, a product of his fevered, delirious dreams.

However, now he knew that his assumptions were not true. The woman was very real indeed…and about to be living in his own house.

Theo shook his head in confusion and walked over to the arbor where his mother and the tutor had been sitting. He sat down in the chair Miss Henderson had occupied. The odor of the first blooming roses mingled with the subtler, faintly lavender scent of Megan’s perfume.

He had forgotten how beautiful the woman had been—no, not beautiful, exactly, in that sort of perfect, stunning way that his sister Kyria was beautiful. No, this woman was intriguing, enticing, with a soft, curvaceous body hidden and restrained by the plain dark clothes she wore, her hair warmly cinnamon in color and curling, seeming about to escape from its pins at any moment. And her smile…

Theo let out a groan, sinking his head onto his hands. He remembered that smile perfectly—the soft, wide mouth with its plump lower lip, slightly indented in the center, quirking a little to one side in an enchanting, eminently kissable way, her mahogany-colored eyes warm and inviting.

But she wasn’t real. She was a dream! So how had she turned up here in the Broughton House garden?

It had been ten years, and he had been terribly ill at the time, Theo reminded himself. The odds were he simply did not remember exactly what the woman in his dream looked like, and when he saw Miss Henderson, she had resembled the woman enough that his mind attached the teacher’s face to the image he had seen.

Even as he came up with the logical explanation for the odd occurrence, Theo knew that it was not so. That dream was as real, as vivid to him, as it had been ten years ago. He had only to close his eyes and he could remember the slab of stone hard beneath his body, and the sweat slicking his flesh and dampening his hair. He had been burning up with fever, his mouth constantly dry and parched no matter how much they poured that drink down his throat. The air had been stifling, heavy with the smoke from the incense burners on either end of the slab on which he lay. He remembered the low, rocky ceiling that arched over him, the rough walls, damp with the moisture of the cave.

He remembered, too, the dark, silent girl who had tended to him, wiping the sweat from his face and urging the drink on him, the metal of the goblet cool against his fevered lips. Her low voice had chanted in some foreign tongue. Dennis had been there, too, most of the time, talking to him, urging him to return from the netherworld in which he floated.

But neither Dennis nor the black-haired maiden had been there when the woman had come to him. His fever had been burning more hotly than ever, and he had been assaulted by hallucinations—visions of animals and birds and strange, monstrous people had danced around him. And he had sweated and shivered, aware deep inside that life was slipping from him.

Then she had appeared at the end of the slab, a wondrously normal, heartening sight in his confused world. A plain white gown had fallen straight from her shoulders, and her hair had tumbled down around her shoulders, soft and riotously curling, a warm reddish-brown, slightly darker in the flare of the torchlight than it had looked today in the sun of the rose garden. She had been young, her cheeks pink with the blush of youth.

He had gazed at her then, having never seen her before, yet somehow viscerally knowing her, with an awareness that went much deeper than mental understanding. They were connected in a deep, intense way that he could not have explained yet he understood with every fiber of his being.

“You must not die,” she had said to him, and walked around to stand beside his head.

He had looked at her, unable to speak, too weak even to raise his head. She had smiled down at him then, a wonderful, inviting smile that brought out the hint of mischief in her sparkling brown eyes.

“I won’t let you,” she went on. “Do you understand? You cannot die yet. I am waiting for you.”

Then she had bent and softly kissed his lips. He could still recall the butterfly-soft flutter of her mouth.

Theo had spoken of his vision to no one, not even Dennis. It had been too real and at the same time too bizarre to share with anyone. He could not explain his certainty that he knew the woman even though he had never seen her before. Nor did he want to share the intense flash of hunger that had darted through him at the sight of her.

It was the same stirring of desire that had arisen in him today when he first saw Megan Henderson. There was something about her, something that went beyond all notions of beauty or desirability, to an attraction so deep and elemental that it seemed a part of him. He had not felt anything like it with any other woman.

He remembered what his brother Reed had told him about the first time Reed saw Anna, the woman who would eventually become his wife. It had been like a blow to the chest, Reed had said, and Theo had thought the description overly dramatic. Yet today what he had felt had been as strong as that, as intense, though it had been more of a jolt all through him rather than a blow to his heart.

He had to wonder what that meant about the twins’ new teacher. Not, he felt sure, that he was going to marry the woman. He had realized some time ago that he was apparently missing the romantic streak that seemed to run through the rest of his family. His parents, his brother, his sisters—even his twin—all had married for love. Theo, however, was sure that he had never felt the emotion. He had been attracted to many women over the years, had even indulged in affairs with those who were free and willing to engage in such relationships, both here in London and in some of the other places he had traveled.

There had been one woman—the clever, ambitious owner of a millinery store—with whom he had kept company happily every time he returned to London. That relationship had lasted almost three years, off and on, and had ended amicably when he’d returned from his trip to China to find that she had entered into a more permanent relationship with a man who stayed home. He had enjoyed her company, had found pleasure in her bed, yet he had never felt the sort of heart-thudding joy upon seeing her that he had witnessed on Kyria’s or Olivia’s faces when they saw their husbands.

He would have dismissed such happiness as a feminine trait had he not seen the same sort of besotted expression on his father’s face every time he’d looked upon his duchess during the last thirty-four years. The fact was, obviously, that the Morelands loved deeply and for a long time—except, apparently, for him.

So he felt sure that what he had experienced today was not love at first sight. No, it was more likely astonishment at seeing his long-ago dream suddenly come to life in his mother’s rose garden.

Still…whatever it was, he knew it was something that he had to explore. He had to know why this woman was here in his life ten years after his “vision” of her. He had to understand that strange, intense feeling that had gripped him.

Theo remembered his reluctance to leave London despite the restlessness that had plagued him, as well as the odd sense of waiting that he had experienced. Was Miss Henderson the reason he had been “waiting”? And how the devil had he known it?

Theo stood up, shaking his head slightly, and started back into the house. In the midst of all these speculations, there was one fact he knew for certain: there was no way he would be leaving London any time soon.

He trotted up the steps to the terrace, unaware that he was whistling a merry tune.

MEGAN WENT TO CALL on Andrew Barchester the following day, accompanied by her father and sister. She would have preferred to conduct the interview alone. Much as she loved her father, she was accustomed to doing her work by herself. Her father was all too likely to take control of the interview and send it shooting along some strange pathway. Nor did she really think that Deirdre was likely to be able to give them any pertinent information derived from the “feelings” Frank Mulcahey was sure Deirdre would receive on seeing this man, who was one of the last to see their brother alive. She would have liked to spare Deirdre the pain of hearing firsthand about Dennis’s death. Megan was accustomed to hearing and seeing gruesome things in the course of her work; Deirdre was not.

Her father, however, had been insistent on accompanying her. And Megan could not deny that it would appear more natural for him to be the one making inquiries of the man who had told him of his son’s death. Nor could she keep Deirdre from going along, as her sister seemed determined to do.

She would simply have to work around her family’s presence, she decided, and hope that Deirdre did not hear anything that would disturb her.

They climbed the steps to the front door, and Frank used the heavy brass knocker. Moments later a servant answered the door, and Frank requested to see Andrew Barchester, explaining who he was. The footman, looking rather dubious, replied that he would inquire if the master was home and started to climb the staircase at a majestic pace, leaving the three of them standing in the entryway.

“What a beautiful home,” Deirdre murmured, looking around her.

It was, indeed, quite lovely, and it was clear that no expense had been spared in creating the house. However, to Megan’s eyes, it did not compare in magnificence to the stately Broughton House. While expensively built, there was a certain overdone quality to Barchester’s house, and a newness that bespoke riches recently acquired. The elegant Queen Anne–style Broughton House, however, had a sort of lived-in air, a casual acceptance of its wealth that let one know that this house, this family, had been important long before any of its present occupants were born.

“Is Broughton House this elegant?” Deirdre asked.

Megan nodded. For some reason, which she had not herself examined, Megan had not told her father and sister much beyond the bare facts of her meeting with the duchess yesterday. She had not told them how engaging the twins had been, nor how easy it would be to like the Duchess of Broughton.

As for her meeting Theo Moreland, she had not even mentioned it. She knew that they would not understand the strange feeling that had assailed her when she’d met the man—indeed, she had not even understood it herself! Her father, she knew, would have lectured her about how dangerous it was to take a man like Moreland at face value. He would have pointed out that the man was deceptively charming, so she must keep her guard up at all times. She was fully aware of these arguments, as she had repeated them to herself all the way home. She did not want to have to listen to them from her father, as well.

She would deal with the unlikely tug of attraction she had felt for the man. She was certain that it had been a momentary aberration, a result of her surprise at meeting the man when she had not expected to, had not prepared herself for it. Tomorrow, when she returned to the house, she would have herself better in hand.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of footsteps on the stairs, and she turned to see the footman coming back to them.

“Mr. Barchester will receive you,” he said, looking faintly surprised, and led them up the stairs and into a spacious drawing room.

A man was standing by the windows, looking out, and he turned at their arrival and came toward them.

“Mr. Mulcahey,” he said, reaching out to shake Frank’s hand. “I am Andrew Barchester. I am so pleased to meet Dennis’s father.”

Mr. Barchester was a pleasant-looking man in his mid-thirties, with a high, wide forehead and even features. His eyes were a pale gray, and his hair was blond, and he was handsome in a nondescript sort of way.

“Mr. Barchester,” Megan’s father replied, and introduced Megan and Deirdre to him.

Barchester smiled at Megan and murmured a greeting, but when he turned to Deirdre, Megan noticed that his hand lingered on hers a trifle longer and his eyes took on an appreciative gleam. It seemed that Deirdre’s fragile beauty was once again having its usual effect.

“What brings you to London, Mr. Mulcahey?” Barchester asked, showing them to a blue sofa and chair, and taking his own seat across from them.

“We’re here to find out whatever we can about my son’s murder, Mr. Barchester,” Frank replied.

They had had much discussion the night before over exactly what they should tell Barchester. Frank, not one to trust any Englishman completely, had been concerned that the man might balk at their intent of bringing a fellow Englishman to justice, and it was always Megan’s policy in researching her stories to tell everyone as little as she had to in order to get them to talk. That way, she felt, there was less chance of their stories being influenced by her considerations. Deirdre, however, had been of the opinion that if Barchester did not realize the extent and gravity of their interest, he might very well smooth over details or even conceal some matters in order not to cause them distress. It was, she added with a significant look at her sister and father, something with which she had had a good deal of experience. Megan and her father had had to agree with the logic of Deirdre’s argument, and they had agreed to be candid with Barchester.

Now Barchester stared at Frank Mulcahey for a long moment. “I will be happy to tell you everything I know, of course.” He paused. “But I’m not sure I know exactly what you mean—are you hoping to do something about it? I mean, um…”

“I’m not going to take vengeance myself, if that’s what ye mean,” Mulcahey assured him. “Sure, and I’d like nothing better, you understand. But I’ve promised the girls I’ll not harm the scoundrel. Still, we mean to bring Moreland to justice.”

“Mr. Mulcahey…believe me, if there were any possibility of that, we would have done it ten years ago, when Dennis was killed.” He frowned. “But it happened in the wilds. I’m not sure even what country we were in—Peru, perhaps. We had followed the Amazon River all the way up into the mountains. Where we were was uninhabited. And even when we returned to civilization, it was a foreign country, and we could not prove—I mean, we could not even speak the language, and it would have been just our word against his. Lord Raine’s family is very old and wealthy. His father is a duke. And they are related to scores of influential people in one way or another. The government would have put such pressure on the local police that I am sure they would have let him go. And what government could we have gone to, anyway? We went back down the Amazon into Brazil before we reached a city of any size.”

“Mr. Barchester, we are implying no wrong on your part, I assure you,” Megan put in quickly. “Pray do not think we feel anything but gratitude to you for letting us know what happened to my brother.”

“Aye. It’s no slight to you, lad,” Frank agreed. “It is just that we need to know. We need to do everything we possibly can for Dennis.”

Megan stiffened, afraid that her father would launch into the story of Deirdre’s visitation from Dennis. That, she was sure, would result in Barchester’s being certain that they were quite insane. However, her father said nothing further and she relaxed.

“Thank you,” Barchester said. “I am glad you feel that way. But it was not concern for myself that prompted me to speak. I was merely trying to explain how unlikely it is that you will receive any satisfaction out of this inquiry. We are in England. The crime did not even occur here. And it has been ten years since it happened. Besides, there is still the matter of lack of proof. It is one man’s word against another’s. And when one of those men is the eldest son of a duke…well, I can envision no way that you can receive satisfaction.”

“He doesn’t have to be tried in court,” Frank replied. “It’s impossible, I know. It will be enough for me if we can make people aware of what he has done.”

“Newspapers have a powerful impact, Mr. Barchester,” Megan told him. “I know. I work for one.”

Barchester’s jaw dropped. “You? You’re a—”

“I’m a reporter. I have written stories that revealed terrible working conditions in factories, political corruption, the plight of slum-dwellers. I didn’t have to go to court. Exposing their practices to the general public set demands for reform in motion.”

“I—I see.” Barchester still looked faintly shocked—more, Megan suspected, at the revelation of her job than at their plan to expose a member of the British aristocracy.

“I will dig into it, just as I do with any other story, and when I have found enough evidence, I can write a story. My newspaper will publish it, and I suspect there will be British papers that are eager to put out the story, as well. Nothing sells like scandal among the wealthy—I would imagine it is even truer when that person is not only wealthy but also titled.”

“No doubt you are right.” He hesitated for another moment, then said, “Well…um…let’s see…where shall I start?”

“Why don’t you begin by explaining to us how you and Mr. Moreland—I mean, Lord Raine—joined up with Dennis and his group?”

“Of course.” Barchester nodded. “I had not known Lord Raine before we went to Brazil together. Though we were of an age, we did not exactly move in the same circles. My grandfather made his money in trade, you see.”

Megan nodded. She had started out on the Society Desk, where she had learned enough to be aware that old money did not regard the nouveau riche with respect. She could well imagine that in England the lines were much more distinctly drawn, and that money, new or old, could not cast one into the rarified class of the aristocracy.

“I was in my early twenties at the time. I had gone to university, as my grandfather had insisted. He wanted very much for me to be a ‘gentleman.’ So I did not go into the family business, as my father had. I was, quite frankly, a trifle bored with my life, so when my grandfather suggested that I go on the Cavendish expedition, I was more than happy to oblige the old chap. It sounded like quite an adventure.” He shook his head. “Unfortunately, it turned out to be far more of one than I would have liked.”

“The Cavendish expedition?” Megan inquired, jotting the name down in her notebook.

“Yes. Old Lord Cavendish was quite interested in the cultures of other times and places. He turned his ancestral home in London into a museum. It was a huge old place, built shortly after the Great Fire, and it was no longer in a fashionable area. The family had built a new home in Mayfair. So he decided to house his collection of artifacts there, as well as whatever other ones he could get his hands on. He was particularly avid about the ancient cultures of South and Central America—Incas, Aztecs and all that—so that was the specialty of the museum. It wasn’t much, really, just a wealthy old man’s hobby, but he wanted to make it into something known all over the country, if not the world. So he hired a curator, and he started sending out expeditions to the Americas to find and bring back information and artifacts for the museum.”

“I see. So Lord Cavendish financed your expedition?”

“Yes.” Barchester nodded. “The curator went along—well, frankly, he was the only employee of the museum at the time. His name was Julian Coffey. I knew him rather well. We had gone to school together and had been casual friends. My grandfather was also interested in artifacts, and he has corresponded and spoken with Lord Cavendish from time to time, and Grandfather had made one or two gifts to the museum, as well. Grandfather suggested to me that I might like to go. It sounded like an adventure, and as I knew Julian…”

“How was Theo Moreland involved?”

“Raine’s father, the Duke of Broughton, was a friend of old Cavendish’s, too. They were both collectors, you see—though the duke’s field was the ancient Greeks and Romans. But I guess he told Lord Raine about the expedition, and he wanted to join. He had caught the exploration fever a couple of years before that after he finished university. Wound up in the Levant, then Egypt, and finally trekked into the Sahara. He liked the adventure, I suppose. He’s been on a number of trips since, so I understand.”

“What was he like?” Megan asked.

Barchester shrugged. “Actually, quite a regular sort of chap. Julian and I were rather surprised when we met him. We had expected him to be a lightweight, full of himself and thinking everyone else ought to do for him. But he was always the first to pitch in, never asked for special treatment. We hadn’t been on the ship a day before we were calling him Theo. It was…well, we all thought it was going to be the trip of a lifetime.”

The man’s blandly handsome face saddened for a moment. “It was, I suppose…just not in the sense that we thought it would be.” He seemed to shake off his moment of reverie and went on more briskly. “The head of our expedition was a chap name Thurlew. Howard Thurlew. He’d done a good bit of exploring and had worked for Lord Cavendish before—dug up some Aztec ruins some place in Mexico, and it was he who had proposed this trip to the old fellow. He wanted to follow the Amazon deep into the interior and perhaps find some Inca ruins. That was what Lord Cavendish was interested in, of course. I think Thurlew was in it more for the exploration—and Theo, too. Julian was a naturalist, and he was eager to see the wildlife and draw it and so on.”

“How did you meet Dennis?” Frank asked.

“Well, Thurlew fell right after we reached Brazil. Poor chap broke his leg—quite badly. It was obvious that he could not travel for weeks, even months. Even once his leg was healed, he wouldn’t have been up to such rugged travel. So there we were, with our equipment, all set to go into the interior, and we had no guide. None of us could have dealt with the native guides and so on. We had no experience, didn’t know the language. But we hated to just give up and turn around and go home—nor could we wait for several months for Thurlew to be up to the journey, as it would have thrown us into the rainy season. Then, as luck would have it, we ran into your son, sir. He and his friend Eberhart, as it turned out, were all that was left of their party. The others had either gotten ill or simply become disenchanted with the idea. Captain Eberhart seemed a knowledgeable sort, and he had already hired some native guides. So we decided to throw our lot in with Dennis and Eberhart.”

“A doomed venture from the very start, wasn’t it?” Frank said, shaking his head.

“I suppose one could say that,” the other man conceded. “But it isn’t all that unusual for some members of any expedition to drop out along the way. Far too many people set out expecting some fantastic adventure, with no realization of the hardships involved, or the dangers. Diseases, accidents—and all miles from civilization, of course.”

“Where did you go?” Megan asked.

“We set out up the Amazon, as we had originally intended. It was a fantastic journey—utterly amazing.” Barchester’s eyes glowed as he remembered the trip. “The things we saw—the parrots, the vines, the trees, even the snakes were just…Well, it is impossible to adequately describe it. One has to see it, feel it, to really understand what it was like. Not pleasant a great deal of the time, of course. The heat was abysmal, and the humidity was almost unbearable. And, of course, there was danger. Anacondas. Jaguars. There was always the possibility that we might come upon unfriendly natives. Even a cut could become horribly infected, and we were miles from a doctor. But it was thrilling, nevertheless. We traveled upriver as far as we could go, and then we took out across land. Then Captain Eberhart died.”

Deirdre let out a soft sound of distress, and Barchester turned toward her. His face softened. “I apologize, Miss Mulcahey. This is not a proper subject to be discussing in front of you.”

“No, please, go on. I want to hear it—that is, I need to hear it. We must find out everything we can so that we can expose Dennis’s killer.”

She looked at him with her large, soft eyes, and Megan could practically see the man melting right in front of them.

“Miss Mulcahey,” he said, his voice full of emotion. “I assure you that I will do everything I can to help you.”

“It is very kind of you,” Deirdre murmured.

Megan cleared her throat and pulled the conversation back to the subject. “What happened to Captain Eberhart?”

“It was one of those tropical fevers that felled him. As we traveled on, he became more and more ill. We stopped and made a semipermanent camp, then stayed there for a few days, hoping he would recover. But he did not. When he died, we were in something of a quandary, not sure whether we should turn back or go on, but finally we decided to continue. It seemed such a waste to turn back, as far as we had gone, and by that time, we had gotten to where we could communicate to some extent with the native workers. So we pressed on. Some of the natives abandoned us. They were a superstitious lot, and they viewed Eberhart’s death as a sign that we should not go farther. We couldn’t understand everything they said, but there was a lot of talk about Inca treasure and the ancient gods’ displeasure and that sort of thing.”

“Inca treasure?” Frank Mulcahey cast a significant look at his daughters.

“Yes. Oh, yes. We had heard tales of Inca treasure from Thurlew even before we left England.” He shrugged. “Just legends, you know.”

“What sort of legends?” Megan asked.

Barchester shrugged. “Oh, the usual sort of thing. I don’t know how much you know about the Incas, but they had an enormous empire, centered in Peru but stretching throughout much of the Andes and up to Central America.”

“They were very sophisticated, weren’t they?” Megan asked, trying to remember some of the things her brother had told her. Dennis had been fascinated by the history of South and Central America. “Had a system of roads…”

“Administratively, they were quite advanced. But not able to withstand European weaponry. Pizarro and his lot came in and took the Inca emperor captive. Demanded a huge ransom from all his subjects. Of course, they killed him anyway, but gold and gems and all sorts of tribute poured in from all the outlying areas. Naturally, there are legends about the treasures—that there were Incas who hid the gold or part of the gold on their way to free their king. The natives said that the ancient gods were angry about what amounted to looting their temples. Much of their gold work, you see, was in the temples—statues of the gods and vessels for the priests and so on. So, of course, there are legends that the treasure is protected by the ancient gods, and that whoever finds it will be subjected to punishment by the gods. That sort of thing.”

“Did you find any treasure?” Frank asked.

Barchester let out a short laugh. “No. Of course not. Julian found a few things—an ancient cup, a small statue, but no treasure trove, believe me. But the natives were scared—always talking about the land being protected by the old gods and all that. Just fear, really, I think, of going any deeper into unknown territory. But some of the natives stayed—we offered them more money. And we still had provisions. We wanted to see as much as we could. It was such an opportunity—an untouched land. But then…” He looked at them uncomfortably. “Then Lord Raine and Dennis…”

“What happened, Mr. Barchester?” Megan asked. “Exactly.”

“They quarreled. And Raine…” His eyes flickered uneasily over to Deirdre again. “Well, Raine killed him.”

“How?”

The man looked startled by Megan’s blunt question. “What do you mean?”

“How did Lord Raine kill Dennis? Did he shoot him or—”

“He stabbed him.”

A hush fell on the room. Megan had heard many sad and wrenching stories in her line of work, but she was unprepared for the stab of pain that went through her at Barchester’s words.

“I’m sorry,” Barchester said, looking wretched. “I should not have said that so bluntly.”

Megan shook her head, shoving down her sorrow. “’Tis not your fault, I assure you.” She paused, struggling to put herself back into her reporter’s role. “You said they quarreled. About what?”

“I don’t know. I wasn’t—” He paused, again with an anxious glance at Deirdre. “I didn’t hear it.”

“Could it have been over something Dennis had found?” Megan asked.

Barchester frowned. “Found? I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Well, you said that Mr. Coffey came upon some artifacts. Had Dennis found anything? I don’t know—some sort of object? An artifact? Even a jewel or something like that.”

“Oh, well, yes, I suppose he could have. But if he did, I never knew of it.” He paused, frowning. “But you know…now that I think of it, there was something in Raine’s possession that he was rather secretive about.”

The Mulcaheys glanced at each other, then back at Barchester, their interest clearly aroused. “Something?” Frank repeated.

“Yes. A pendant of some sort, I believe. I didn’t really get a good look at it. As I said, Lord Raine was secretive about it. But as we were traveling back, I noticed that he was wearing something around his neck. It lay beneath his shirt, and I saw him pull it out once or twice to look at it. I never saw it up close. He didn’t offer to show it to me, and I did not ask. I—we—well, obviously things were quite strained between us at that point. We did not speak much beyond what was necessary.”

“Didn’t you talk to him about the murder?” Megan asked in disbelief. “Didn’t you ask him why? Didn’t you put him in restraints or anything?”

“Of course we talked to him!” Mr. Barchester looked shocked. “Theo claimed it was an accident. And I, well, at first I believed him. I mean, I had never seen anything to indicate that he would do something like that. I thought surely it must have been an accident. It was only later that I began to realize the story didn’t quite add up. Raine was evasive in his answers, and I could see that he was not telling me the truth. He was clearly uneasy, and he wouldn’t meet my eyes. His story didn’t really make sense.”

Again sorrow tinged Barchester’s features. “It was very hard for me, for both Julian and me, to accept that Lord Raine had murdered Dennis. We had grown to like him so, to think that he wasn’t like other aristocrats we had met. But, finally, I could not deny any longer that he was lying. Julian and I talked about it. We didn’t know what to do. As I said, we were miles from civilization, not even sure where we were. It was a matter of our word against his, and the Morelands are quite powerful. I—there was nothing to do but return.”

His gaze went from Frank to Megan, then lingered on Deirdre’s face. “I pray you will not think too badly of me. If I had had any idea what would happen, if I could have done something to stop it…”

“It wasn’t your fault, Mr. Barchester,” Deirdre assured him in her usual kind manner.

Megan was not quite as forgiving as her sister, however.. It seemed to her that Barchester had given up all too easily in the face of Moreland’s denial. However, she could scarcely afford to take him to task over it. His account of the events was the only proof they had against Theo Moreland at the moment, and she did not want to antagonize him. Besides, she reminded herself, it would have doubtless been unwise for Barchester to confront Moreland with his knowledge, given that he had already killed a man. Moreland could have done in the other two men also, and returned to civilization with no one the wiser.

“This other man who was with you—Julian Coffey? I’d like to talk to him. See if there is anything he can add.”

“Oh, yes, I am sure that he could give you more details,” Mr. Barchester agreed. “Capital fellow, Coffey.”

“Is he still the curator at the Cavendish Museum?”

Barchester nodded. “Yes. Julian makes regular trips to South and Central America to acquire new pieces for the museum. He has built up quite a collection over the years. Lord Cavendish died a few years back, but he endowed the place amply in his will, and his widow still supports it, as well. In fact, Lady Cavendish is holding a ball to benefit the museum in just a couple of weeks, I believe. I could talk to him, if you’d like,” he added helpfully. “Set up something for you.”

“Thank you, but that won’t be necessary,” Megan assured him quickly. She preferred to talk to the man without his being influenced beforehand by Barchester. “I should set up an appointment myself. I’m not sure exactly when I will be able to see him. In the meantime, I would appreciate it if you didn’t mention any of this to Mr. Coffey.”

He looked surprised. “Naturally, if that is what you wish.”

“I find I get better results if I have the first thoughts out of one’s head,” Megan said by way of explanation. “You know, without their thinking it over a great deal. It’s no longer fresh then.”

“Of course,” Barchester agreed politely, though he still looked faintly confused.

And well he might, Megan thought, since her glib response was not precisely the truth. She had found that the more witnesses to an event discussed it, the more alike their accounts of the event tended to become, but she had also found that telling people that fact often insulted them. In the same way, she also suspected that Mr. Barchester’s story had probably been somewhat different than it would have been if Deirdre had not been present. The man had been clearly smitten by her sister. Megan wasn’t sure how his story might have differed, of course; no doubt it was subtle. But she had also found that men were not inclined to be entirely honest when they were speaking in front of a woman they admired. She intended to arrange her visit with Coffey so that her father and sister were not present.

They stayed for a little longer after that, making polite chitchat with Mr. Barchester. He offered them tea and inquired about their trip across the Atlantic and their lodgings here, offering to help them in any way possible. He seemed a nice enough man, Megan thought, though a trifle bland. Her sister, however, seemed not to notice this defect, for she smiled and even, Megan realized, flirted with him a little.

For her part, Megan was barely able to sit still and be polite. She wanted only to go back to the house they had rented and talk over the tantalizing possibility of “treasure” that Mr. Barchester had raised. She could see, glancing at her father, that he was fairly twitching to discuss it, too.

Indeed, they had barely bade Mr. Barchester goodbye and walked a few feet from his front door before Frank burst out, “I knew it! Did I not I tell you? That murderin’ English bastard stole that pendant from Dennis. That’s what Den wants back, I’ll warrant.”

“Now, Da, we don’t know that,” Megan pointed out fairly.

“It’s as plain as the nose on your face, girl,” he retorted. “After Dennis was dead, that titled scoundrel was wearing this thing around his neck and being terribly secretive about it. How else did it suddenly appear? And why else would he have been hiding it?”

“It makes sense,” Megan agreed. “But we don’t know that Moreland took it from Dennis, or that he killed him over it. The truth is, we don’t even know what ‘it’ is!”

“A pendant,” Deirdre offered. “That’s what Mr. Barchester said.”

“Yes, but what sort of thing was hanging from it? A jewel or a golden medallion or what? And what was it hanging from? A golden chain or a simple string? It could even have been a little pouch hung on a bit of twine. His description was very vague.”

“Aye, that’s true. It might not have been a necklace,” Frank mused. “It could have been something small that he just carried close to him like that for safekeeping.”

“But clearly it was something ‘precious,’” Megan went on, emphasizing the word Deirdre had used in describing her brother’s loss.

“And clearly Moreland did not want anyone to know about it.”

“Well, at least it narrows down my search,” Megan said. “I know that it’s something small I’m looking for, probably a necklace of some sort.”

Excitement rose in her, as it always did when she was chasing down a story. But this time, there would be a far greater reward if she tracked down the truth. All the little doubts that had been teasing at the back of her mind—the liking she had felt for the duchess and the twins, and her reluctance at deceiving them, the strange feeling that had gripped her when she first saw Theo Moreland—all vanished now. Such minor things scarcely mattered.

Tomorrow she would start stalking her brother’s killer.