A Bride by Moonlight (6 page)

“Was there another?” she asked mordantly. “Heavens, if we were so flush with them, perhaps Papa might have sold one and paid the bailiffs rather than take the grim alternative of shoving a pistol up his nose.”

Bodkins paled. “It is no jesting matter, Lisette, your father’s failings. And certainly not his death.”

She widened her eyes. “Indeed it is not,” she agreed, her voice suddenly husky. “Not to me. For I found him, and had to mop up the blood afterward, since Elinor couldn’t—she could never bear such things, you know—and the servants simply wouldn’t. They’d not been paid, you see. And with no hope of ever being paid, everyone save Nanna left us.”

“Oh.” Bodkins’s face fell. “Oh, I fear you are very bitter, my dear.”

“And you are very astute,” she replied, “though well intentioned, I’m sure.”

“But you
have
become cynical, Lisette. It breaks my heart.”

Bodkins held her gaze a moment and then, apparently persuaded no more was forthcoming, went on. “In any case, the manor passed down to you upon your grandmother’s death ten years ago, since your mother and sister predeceased you,” he said. “As I explained to your father’s sister, Mrs. Ashton, it was the one inheritance your maternal grandfather did not control because your grandmother’s marriage settlements provided—”

“Yes, thank you,” she interjected. “I comprehend marriage settlements. But you . . . you mean to say you wrote to America—to Aunt Ashton—of this inheritance?”

His confusion returned. “Why, I would have been remiss in my duties to your late mother’s family, Lisette, had I not,” he said. “Until this morning, I thought you knew.”

Elizabeth looked at him blankly. “And what did Aunt Ashton say?”

“That I should sell it,” he said acerbically, “and send the money to you—well, to Mr. Ashton, really—in Boston. But I flatly refused to do it until you’d reached your majority, and given me your personal instruction. I heard no more, and simply let the rents accumulate, pittance though they are.”

Elizabeth waved her hand as if it didn’t matter, but she was suddenly, and very deeply, grateful to Bodkins. “Thank you,” she said more gently. “Thank you for looking after me, Bodkins. You have been, I think, my only friend in England. Now tell me, where is the manor located?”

“Well, why, it is in Caithness.”

“Caithness?” Her eyebrows drew together. “And where is that?”

“Scotland, miss.”

“Ah, far from London, then,” she murmured. “Excellent.”

“The
North
of Scotland, my dear.” Bodkins was looking alarmed again. “Indeed, the very, very tip of the wretched place.”

“Come now!” Elizabeth forced a smile. “How wretched can it be?”

“My dear girl, they don’t even have roads that far!”

“Oh, Bodkins, do not be ridiculous! There are roads everywhere nowadays—trains, too, almost.”

“Lisette, my dear, I fear you’ve been too long in the colonies.”

“The United States, Bodkins,” she reminded him dryly. “I believe they’ve not been colonies for quite some decades. And no, they actually
don’t
have roads everywhere. Indeed, most of it is an uncivilized hell. But Scotland—why, that is still a part of Britain, unless some vast change has occurred since I left my little schoolroom in London.”

“Yes, yes, to be sure,” he said. “But you can practically see the Orkneys from Caithness, ma’am. And no, they
do not
have roads
.”

But Elizabeth was in deep thought now. The North of Scotland did indeed sound grim. But what was the alternative? Having put herself in this wretched position, she could expect no one save herself to drag her out of it. She had to get away from Lazonby’s ultimate vengeance—which she fully deserved—and Napier’s more immediate investigation.

Perhaps she deserved that, too. Perhaps she should just give herself up. Explain everything. But how to explain what one scarcely understood? What in God’s name had happened to her? Elizabeth turned her head, and fought the urge to burst into tears.

Damn it,
she did not cry.

And yet her heart felt like one of those hot-air balloons, once magnificently swelled with the fire of righteous indignation, now left limp and directionless. She had reached lofty, almost giddy heights in her search for revenge, her wings borne high by her hatred of Lord Lazonby. And now she had fallen to the earth, and to the crushing reality of her own mistakes.

Her own madness, perhaps.

Perhaps that was the awful cold she felt; insanity creeping into the crevices of her soul.

Oh, she had to escape it all! “How long will it take to get there, Bodkins?”

“Weeks!” he said stridently. “If you
can
get there from here. Which I do sincerely doubt. Moreover, the house itself has been uninhabited for years. Consider what it must look like. Consider the weather. Truly, my dear, it is out of the question.”

“But Bodkins—”

He cut her off. “And if my advice seems presumptuous,” he interjected, lifting one finger, “recall that I have served Lord Rowend’s old and noble family for nearly four decades, and your mother Lady Mary Rowend herself until she wed your father. Your welfare is a serious matter.”

Something inside Elizabeth snapped. “You are kind, Bodkins,” she said, her hand clenching again, “yet I cannot help but wonder where Lord Rowend’s concern was when I was orphaned at twelve, and actually needed it.”

The elderly gentleman drew back as if he’d been slapped. “I do beg your pardon.”

Elizabeth felt the hot press of tears again. “No, I beg yours, sir,” she said more gently. “I . . . I am not myself today. And I realize, of course, it was not your choice I be packed up and sold like a bale of wool. Or that my sister died in the middle of the Atlantic, to be tossed overboard as if she were no better than a piece of old baggage.”

“Lisette, my dear!” Bodkins drew back an inch. “Lady Mary’s family—they simply were not situated to take on two rambunctious granddaughters. And your father’s family, why, they seemed determined to have you in America. Indeed, they begged for you.”

“Is that what Lord Rowend told you?” She strolled toward the parlor door, as if to encourage the old man’s departure. “That he had not even the smallest nook in that great, grand mansion where his orphaned granddaughters might have lived? Well. I shall not challenge it.”

But Bodkins remained steadfast by the table, his jowls trembling a little. “I believe this Coldwater fellow has overset you,” he said bitterly. “Such a scandal he’s mired you in with this dreadful shooting business! And yes, it is true Lord Rowend disliked your father, and had no wish to be reminded of him, but—”

“And we were naught but reminders?” she interjected. “Elinor and I?”

The old man drew himself up indignantly. “It was a misjudgment, perhaps, to send you to your father’s family,” he admitted, “yet one could not but feel for your grandfather. Poor Lady Mary was seduced by Sir Arthur and her fortune run through like water. It left Lord Rowend so distraught he disavowed any relation to her husband.”

Elizabeth was too emotionally spent to debate the definition of
seduced
.

“Father was charming, ’tis true,” she said. “And they both enjoyed fine things. But he always spoke of Mother as if she’d been the great love of his life.”

But both her parents had lived far beyond their means, she knew. And as to the great love of Papa’s life—well, there had been others aplenty, both before and after. Perhaps even during. She prayed not, but Bodkins was right. Her older, wiser self had become jaded.

As to Lady Mary Colburne, she died so young she likely never realized the poverty into which her children were being plunged. Elizabeth had only a child’s memory of her, but Elinor, her elder sister, had always painted their parents’ marriage a grand romance.

Elinor, on the other hand, had been much like Papa. Vivacious and captivating. Eternally optimistic—often to the point of naïveté. And oh, yes—
beautiful
.

“Bodkins,” she said in a surprisingly clear voice, “did you not realize my grandfather had
paid
Aunt and Uncle Ashton to take us?”

Bodkins looked suddenly guilty. “A choice I like to think Lord Rowend came to regret,” he answered. “After all, he has left you a small trust; enough to lease this cottage and enjoy a decent life and lovely things. Does that account for nothing?”

The old man sounded truly wounded now.

Elizabeth sighed. Was any of this Bodkins’s fault, really?

“Oh, do try to understand, sir,” she said more plaintively. “I just cannot stay here any longer. I simply cannot!”

He cut her a knowing look. “That devilish Coldwater fellow!” he said grimly. “Had I known of that cad’s mere existence, I should have counseled you strongly to cast him off. After all, you cannot really account him family.”

“No,” said Elizabeth, unable to hold his gaze, “perhaps not.”

“Indeed not!” said Bodkins. “And now you’re to be driven from your home by this scandal of
his
making. I know, my dear, that is why you are so intent on leaving.”

Her home.

Yes,
hers
. Though she’d come here alone and still grief-stricken, Elizabeth had nonetheless found a measure of peace in this house. A place of
belonging
—the first since her father’s death. Despite all the years she’d spent beneath Aunt Ashton’s roof, she’d never felt it her home.

Blinking rapidly, she looked around the large, well-furnished parlor with its broad, age-blackened beams, the pale yellow wallpaper sprinkled with roses, and the delicate pianoforte she’d so enjoyed—on those rare occasions when she’d let her mind relax enough to stray from the mission she’d set for herself.

The ruination of Rance Welham, Lord Lazonby.

The man who had selfishly set in motion everything that had destroyed her family.

Except . . .
he hadn’t.

Dear God. Lazonby hadn’t ruined her life. He hadn’t stabbed poor Percy, Elinor’s rich fiancé—the man who was to have dragged them all from the brink of bankruptcy. He had not driven her father to suicide. Or caused Elinor to die of grief and fever. He had not, in all likelihood, even cheated at cards.

Elizabeth had returned to London in relentless pursuit of retribution—
from the wrong man.

The cold horror of it ran through her again, and the urge to flee rose up in her breast like a panic, threatening to steal her breath.

Dear heaven, she could not stay here and simply wait for Lazonby to take his revenge.

For better than a year she’d put him through hell, smearing his name in the newspapers and skulking behind him, pillar to post. She’d spied on his friends, bribed his servants, and apparently driven Lady Anisha into asking dangerous questions, in some desperate attempt to prove her lover innocent.

Elizabeth had even gone through Lazonby’s rubbish bins in an effort to find something—
anything
—that might send him back to prison.

It was all she’d known
to
do; hate and bitterness had been her only comforts during those long, lonely years in Boston. The burning need to avenge the family she’d lost, and make Lazonby pay for all that he had taken from her. Papa. Elinor. Percy. Her entire existence, really.

And now, suddenly, it was over.

Her entire
raison d’être
had caved in atop her head.

No, Lazonby wasn’t apt to let any of this stand—not once he’d had time to think, and had his good name restored. And even if he did, that hawk-nosed, black-eyed police commissioner assuredly would not. Lazonby might be a laughing, devil-may-care scapegrace, but Napier was something else altogether.

Napier was ruthless; it oozed from his pores. And he meant to see that someone, eventually, paid for Sir Wilfred’s death . . .

Suddenly, it was as if the parlor floor shimmied a little beneath her feet.

“Lisette?” Bodkins moved as if to catch her arm.

She regained herself, and drew away. “I . . . I am fine, thank you.”

He let the hand drop. “Well, do reconsider leaving,” he said gently. “I’m sure the scandal will blow over. You must, of course, avoid Lady Leeton. But another school will be glad for your volunteer work.”

Elizabeth forced a smile. “I thank you, Bodkins, but you quite waste your worry on me. I’ve a notion to quit Hackney at once. Mrs. Fenwick will remain behind to shut up the house.”

Bodkins sighed. “I see you will not be dissuaded,” he said. “But I beg you, not Scotland. Consider . . . Paris, perhaps?”

Elizabeth hesitated. “It doesn’t seem all that far away,” she said, thinking of Napier’s black eyes and long reach.

Bodkins smiled. “The South of France, then, or the Italian coast?” he suggested. “A little house along the
Camin deis Anglés
, perhaps, with a view of the sea?”

“But not another lease,” she warned him. “I am done with travel, Mr. Bodkins. I want . . . I want a home. One that is
mine
. One I cannot be turned out of—or sent away from—on anyone else’s whim.”

The old man sighed. “Give me a few days, Lisette,” he said, “and I shall see what can be done.”

A
t the end of an afternoon wedged with too many appointments and fraught with inner conflict, Royden Napier arrived home in Eaton Square to a blessedly silent front hall and the scent of roasting poultry wafting up from his kitchens. The efficient Mrs. Bourne, of course, for this was the first Thursday of the month, which meant guinea fowl basted with bacon fat and a buttery three-root mash.

The scent was heartening, even absent an appetite.

Indeed, under the gentle hand of Mrs. Bourne, his entire house ran like clockwork. Some might have called it a life of dull predictability, but in his line of work one too often waded through life’s chaos and the tragic aftermath. In his private life, he strove for order and unruffled calm, a goal by and large achieved, save for the occasional entrance of a woman into his life.

Lady Anisha Stafford had been just such a woman—or could have been. Napier had met her months ago, and had been immediately struck by her warmth. When she’d eventually asked to see Lazonby’s old case file, he had agreed, perhaps foolishly. Yes, he had been attracted to her—and she had not been indifferent to him. That, however, had quickly come to naught, perhaps for the best. She was far above his station.