Читать книгу Sins and Scandals Collection - Nicola Cornick - Страница 23

IT WAS THE MORNING OF the wedding, very early morning, dark and cold.

Merryn was sitting in her bedroom. Beside her on the bed the Fenner estate records lay scattered like snow. She had sought them out for comfort, hoping to find among the old documents something to anchor her to the past as she remembered it, to the happy days of her childhood, to the memories of that last summer. But it was too late. Something had changed. Everything had changed.

When she had fallen in love with Garrick she had wanted to exonerate him. She had wanted him to be a hero. But he was not. He really had killed Stephen and he had claimed that it had been because Stephen had tried to murder Kitty in an argument. Such a terrible slander, that Stephen had tried to kill the woman he had loved. It was surely impossible.

She did not believe it. She did not want to believe it. She could not believe it because it would mean that everything she had done to help Kitty and Stephen had been a terrible mistake, based on no more than a lie. And that she could not bear. She tried to close her mind to it. Except that she could see Joanna’s face and hear Joanna’s words.

I am not sure that Stephen did love Kitty. Certainly he never loved anyone as much as he loved himself …

A sob caught in her throat. Garrick had killed Stephen. She did not doubt it for one second now. She had wanted him to be innocent, to have taken the blame for Kitty, because that way he could have been guiltless and she could have absolved him. But once again she had been naive. And even if he had killed Stephen to protect Kitty—she allowed herself to think about it for one second and the crack in her heart gaped wide with pain and fear—there had been no duel, Garrick had lied for years and covered up the truth, he had run away rather than having the courage to face justice, so how could she ever respect him or trust him or love him again? Garrick had been right—he was not the man she wanted him to be.

Merryn’s agitated fingers scattered the papers on the bed, catching the edge of one of the estate books and sending it tumbling to the floor. She had read through all the papers and the books days ago, when she had been looking for evidence against Garrick. She had found nothing of note other than the rather odd reference to a meeting between her father, the Duke of Farne and Lord Scott in the days after Stephen’s death. Now she could see that something was poking out of a corner of the book, a document that had been half hidden beneath the cover, one she had not seen before.

It was her father’s will.

She had never read it and she wondered if Mr. Churchward had included it in the papers by accident. Lord Fenner had declared on his deathbed that none of his daughters should have sight of it and it had remained with Mr. Churchward ever since. Merryn had assumed that her father had been so ashamed of the poverty of the estate that he had not wanted to distress them with it. She read the dry legal language. There had been so little for Lord Fenner to leave because by now the estate had been bankrupt. It was why all Stephen’s possessions had been disposed of, why Merryn had not a single memento to remember him by.

“To my daughters …” A few sticks of furniture, the ugly little table that Joanna, for all her elegance and style, still kept in the hallway.

“To the servants …” A few shillings scraped together in return for a lifetime’s service.

“To Lord Scott of Shipham Hall in the County of Somerset, the miniature of my son Stephen …”

Merryn gave a little gasp of pure shock and pressed a hand to her mouth. Why would her father have left his daughters not one item to remember their brother by and yet give the precious miniature of Stephen to a man they barely knew? It was extraordinary. It made no sense at all.

She stared at the words until they danced before her eyes. Why had her father given away so cherished a keepsake as Stephen’s miniature? Lord Scott must surely have hated Stephen for ruining his daughter. What possible reason could there be to give him so precious a token? Merryn rubbed her temples where a headache pounded. She would never be able to ask her father that question now. He was dead and gone, as was the Duke of Farne. Only Lord Scott remained of those three men who had met after Stephen’s death for whatever mysterious purpose. Lord Scott …

He was the only man who could help her now.

Merryn moved quickly and quietly after that, gathering together a few items for her journey, filling one small portmanteau since, unlike her sisters, she did not need a baggage train when she traveled. The house was quiet. Tess and Joanna, no doubt worn-out with discussions about her trousseau, were asleep. Merryn tiptoed down the stairs, passed the dozing night porter, closed the main door very softly after her and went out.

The streets were cold at this time of the morning. A very pale gray dawn was barely starting to creep in from the east, turning the clouds soft as a pearl. Merryn reached the White Lion in Holborn with barely five minutes to spare before the Bath Flyer departed. The coach was not full. It was too late in the year and the roads too bad. No one wanted to travel on the roof.

The guard was checking his watch. With profuse apologies Merryn wedged herself into a gap between a buxom lady and a stick thin girl and then they were away.

GARRICK HAD NOT SLEPT and when Pointer knocked softly on the door he was lying fully clothed on his bed staring up at the ceiling. He knew before the butler spoke exactly what he was going to say. Pointer’s long, thin face looked even more lugubrious than ever, his nose twitching with sympathy.

“Lord and Lady Grant are here to see you, your grace.” His nose twitched again, this time in disapproval, as he took in the frowsty room and Garrick’s unkempt appearance.

“Would you like to shave before you meet them, your grace?” Pointer’s voice implied that only the ill-bred would decline such an offer to make them look halfway presentable for company.

“No, thank you, Pointer,” Garrick said. He grabbed his jacket and shrugged himself into it. It was barely light. Lady Grant was known for keeping late hours, which was one of the reasons that the wedding had been set for the afternoon. Only the direst of emergencies could have impelled her from her bed at dawn.

Garrick knew exactly what that emergency must be.

He ran a hand over his hair to smooth it down and went out onto the landing. Farne House looked even more like a barracks at this time of day with the gloomy light barely wreathing the high ceilings and failing to reach the dark corners. Over the past week Pointer had employed a veritable army of servants to clean and scrub and polish in anticipation of the arrival of the new Duchess of Farne. The result had been to make a neglected Gothic horror of a house look like a shining Gothic horror of a house. Garrick felt a pang for the servants and for all their hard work. There would be no new Duchess to approve their industry now.

Alex and Joanna Grant were waiting for him in the library. Pointer had lit two branches of candles—Garrick doubted that his father had ever been so extravagant as to require more than one—but the effect was to give the huge barnlike room a quality of even greater gloom, the bookcases looming over the space in oppressive shadow, the speckled mirror only serving to make the room look twice as large and twice as lonely.

Joanna Grant, neat as a pin in a striped gown and matching spencer, was perched on the edge of vast armchair but she jumped up as soon as he entered the room. Her face was white and strained.

“Your grace—” she said, and her voice broke.

“It’s all right,” Garrick said. “I know. Merryn does not wish to wed me.”

His record was deteriorating, he thought. At least his first wife had waited a month before leaving him. This one had not even made it to the altar.

“I’m sorry, Farne,” Alex Grant said. He sounded, Garrick thought in vague surprise, as though he genuinely meant it. “It’s worse than that, though,” Alex added, as his wife shot him an anxious look. “Merryn has run away. She left no note. We do not know where she is.”

Garrick thought of Merryn alone in the dark on the streets of London and felt the fear grab his throat. This was his fault, he knew. He had callously rejected her love. He had told her the truth about her brother’s perfidy and she had been unable to accept it. It was little wonder that she had run rather than wed him.

“Oh, if only we had not forced her to marry!” Joanna said. One hand was pressed against her lips, the other held in Alex’s strong clasp.

“We did not,” Alex said. He gave his wife’s hand a squeeze. “Joanna, you told Merryn you would love and support her whatever she chose to do. You could not have done more.” He turned back to Garrick. “I do not think,” he said slowly, “that Merryn has run away to escape the wedding, Farne.”

Garrick looked up sharply.

“I am not saying that she wanted to marry you,” Alex continued, crushing the flare of hope that Garrick had felt for one brief moment, “merely that there is something else behind this.”

Joanna was staring at her husband, her eyes a bright vivid blue with both distress and surprise. “You did not say this to me earlier,” she accused.

“Yes, I did,” Alex said dryly. “You were not in a state to listen to me.”

Garrick could imagine how it might have been in Tavistock Square with both Joanna and Tess Darent in hysterics over their sister’s disappearance. He gave Alex a brief sympathetic grimace. Alex actually smiled.

“Well!” Joanna said. “If Merryn is not running away to escape an intolerable match—” she looked at Garrick “—I beg your pardon, your grace, but this is no time to beat about the bush—then what is she doing?”

“I think I might know,” Garrick said slowly.

They both looked at him.

“Before we were trapped together in the beer flood,” Garrick said, “Lady Merryn warned me that she was working to ruin me.”

Joanna’s face puckered. “She wants to ruin you? Oh, this is much, much worse than I had thought!”

“Joanna, darling,” Alex said gently, “wait until we understand everything before you have the vapors.” He looked at Garrick, his dark eyes narrowing. “Was this because of her brother’s death, Farne?”

“Yes,” Garrick said. He looked at Joanna. She did not have any of Merryn’s blind obstinacy or her quest for truth and justice, he thought, but she did, unexpectedly, have some of her sister’s strength of character. She was not having the vapors after all.

“I am sorry, Lady Grant,” he said gently. “The facts of the case are well-known. I killed your brother and I have never tried to pretend otherwise.”

“No,” Joanna said. Her blue eyes, so like Merryn’s, swept his face with surprising perception. “And yet you have never spoken of what happened.” She paused. “Did Merryn ask you about it?”

“Yes,” Garrick said. “She asked me several times.”

Joanna pressed her hands to her cheeks. “You refused,” she whispered.

“I could not tell her the whole truth,” Garrick said. “I should have realized that she would never settle for half measures.” He rubbed a hand over his face. He could see that so clearly now, now that it was far, far too late.

“Merryn will not wed you without knowing everything,” Joanna said. She gave a little exasperated sigh. “Oh, that is so like her! She has probably gone on some wild-goose chase to try to unravel the past. She is too stubborn and too principled. She can never see that sometimes it is better to let matters lie.”

“But Merryn cannot live like that,” Garrick said. “I have to find her. The only problem is that I have no notion where she might have gone.”

“Perhaps Bradshaw might know,” Alex suggested, leaning forward. “She might have shared her plans with him when they worked together. He seems to be a man quick to capitalize on anything that might work to his advantage.”

Garrick looked at him. “I had not thought of that,” he admitted. “And there is only one way to find out.”

Alex pulled a face. “If he has a vested interest, he may not tell us.”

“We could try to persuade him,” Garrick said.

Alex laughed. “I like your thinking, Farne, but Bradshaw is a tough nut to crack.”

“We could send Tess,” Joanna said. “He is terrified of her.”

Alex looked at Garrick, raised his brows. “Worth a try,” he murmured.

Garrick was thinking fast. “We’ll all go,” he said. “Lady Darent can try first. If Mr. Bradshaw proves obstinate …” He shrugged and saw Alex smile.

“Will you come back with us to Tavistock Street to fetch Tess?” Joanna asked. She sighed. “It may take a little while for her to be ready, I’m afraid.” She smiled at Garrick, a limpid smile that for some reason made him feel very, very wary. “And while we wait for her,” Joanna said, “you can explain to me what it is you refused to tell Merryn about Stephen’s death.” She paused. “I never hero-worshipped my brother,” she said, very precisely. “I know he was an unmitigated scoundrel, if that makes it any the easier for you.”

Garrick hesitated. “Lady Grant,” he said, “I cannot. I am under oath not to tell—”

He fell silent at the steely look in Joanna’s eyes. “Then you will explain to me as much as you can,” she said.

Alex laughed. “Best admit defeat, Farne,” he said. He gave Garrick a consoling slap on the shoulder. “You thought it was just Merryn, but it is not,” he said. “All the Fenner women are as stubborn as mules. Since you are to be a member of the family—” he smiled “—it is best you understand that from the start.”

HARRIET KNIGHT WAS IN A bad mood and had been for a whole week, since the news of Garrick Farne’s precipitous engagement and imminent marriage to Lady Merryn Fenner had reached her ears. It had fired her temper and Tom had reaped the benefits of that in several ways but now, as he sat in his office chair in a state of great disarray with a partially naked Harriet squirming on his lap, he reflected that this must be the last time. He had extracted every last ounce of useful information from Harriet and some delightful sexual favors as well, but now he had urgent business to deal with. His bags were packed, sitting in the corner of the office, and he was traveling to Somerset later that day. His departure, he thought, would give him the perfect excuse to break matters off with Harriet.

“Thomas …” Harriet had been kissing his neck, her hands roving over his bare chest but now she slapped his face to regain his attention, and none too playfully, either. What a shrew. The sooner he was rid of her the better.

“You are not paying attention to me,” Harriet scolded. “You are thinking about your work.”

Tom silently admitted that he had been. He, too, had been in a permanently bad mood since Merryn had had the stupidity to be trapped in the beer flood with Garrick Farne and had ended up betrothed to him. His manipulation of her had been working so well. She had found out much useful information. Then everything had gone wrong. His attempt to blackmail her family had misfired spectacularly and he had ended up having to do his own dirty work after all.

Tom frowned, trying to think past the sensual barrage that was Harriet’s determined seduction. He knew that he had only one option left now. He had to go to Somerset and finish this job himself. Harriet started to lick and nibble at his chest, her tongue scampering over his skin and distracting his attention again. It was arousing, as was the fact that he was very close now to bringing down the Farne Dukedom. He had wanted that for a long time.

Harriet slapped him again, a little harder this time, punishing him for his lack of attention. Little witch. He caught her wrist and held it tightly. She kicked him, her bare foot catching his shin so that he winced. There would be a bruise there tomorrow. He tried to kiss her but she wrenched her head away and bit him on the lip. Hard. Her eyes were bright with malice and excitement. Tom tasted blood. He gave a roar, tumbled her off his knee and onto the rug. She dragged him down with her, and they rolled over, Harriet’s hair flying as she struggled like a wild thing in his arms, scratching and pummeling him. He held her arms above her head to prevent her from hurting him and she laughed up at him, eyes blazing with lust now and he pulled down his pantaloons and plunged into her and she screamed with excitement.

The door opened. Tom, buried deep inside Harriet, froze. His mind was utterly incapable of coherent thought. His body, so much more unsophisticated—so much more predictable—wanted to shaft Harriet until he was thoroughly satisfied. He wished he had locked the door. He wished his unwelcome visitor would take the hint and go away.

Then he noticed the beautiful silver slippers in his line of sight and the embroidered hem of the matching silver silk gown.

“Dear me,” Tess Darent said. Her voice was mild and sweet. “I see you are very busy, Mr. Bradshaw. Perhaps I should call back later?”

Tom felt himself start to wither. He did not dare look up. He had a very bad feeling now, replacing the transcendent bliss of a few moments before. He could sense his plans diminishing with the same rapidity as his erection.

Harriet was screaming now. Tom wanted to cover his ears because it was so piercing.

Then matters got considerably worse. The door opened again and Tom saw the very shiny top boots beside Tess Darent’s slippers. Two pairs. A masculine voice said, “For pity’s sake, Bradshaw …”

Someone hauled him to his feet. Tess was helping Harriet to stand and tidy her clothing. Tom turned. On one side of him was a man he did not recognize. He did not like the look on his face. On the other side was Garrick Farne. Tom liked Farne’s expression even less. And when Farne spoke, the smooth courtesy of his tone did not in any way cloak the iron beneath.

“Good morning, Bradshaw,” Farne said. “Do I take it that you will be making a formal offer of marriage to my late father’s ward?”

“Certainly not,” Tom said.

Harriet threw the sherry decanter at him. Then she started to cry. “I don’t want to marry him,” she sniffed. “I want a rich old Duke.”

“I’ll find one for you, Lady Harriet,” Tess said, patting her hand comfortingly. “I’m very good at that sort of thing.”

Farne glanced toward the traveling bags, sitting guiltily in the corner of the office. “Were you planning on leaving town, Bradshaw?” he inquired silkily.

Tom, normally a fluent liar, found that his imagination appeared to have failed him under Tess Darent’s clear blue gaze.

“We are looking for my sister,” she said very sweetly. “Once before you had information on her whereabouts, Mr. Bradshaw, so I wondered if you might help us now?”

Tom started to sweat. “I have no notion—” he began feebly.

“I expect Lady Merryn has gone to Somerset to find out about your by-blow, Garrick,” Harriet said maliciously to Farne. “I told Mr. Bradshaw all about the baby—”

It seemed to Tom that Farne moved so quickly then that one moment he was standing and the next Farne had him pinned in his seat with one hand at his throat. Tom tried to squirm and almost choked.

“My illegitimate child,” Farne said. His eyes were very intent. “Tell me what you know about that …”

Sherry dripping down his face, a bitter taste in his mouth, Tom knew that it was going to be a very bad morning indeed.