Moonlight on My Mind (21 page)

He looked down at her, and she could see a disarming resemblance to Patrick in the line of his jaw and the slope of his nose. “You are putting on a good show, I’ll give you that. Some of the guests are even making wagers on the outcome, though the discussion trends toward
when
the blessed event will occur, rather than
if
it will. But if we’re not bound to be toasting your good fortune in an indecently short amount of time, it seems clear you and my cousin have orchestrated this sham of a marriage simply to prevent your testimony.”

Julianne reared back, her composure dangerously close to shattered. “No.” However she’d expected this conversation to go, this went very far afield. Blythe was wrong. Patrick had never demanded her silence, though she’d been all too happy to offer it.
“No,”
she repeated again, her voice firmer now.

“Have you asked him?” came the man’s well-oiled reply.

“I don’t have to ask him, Mr. Blythe.” Her knees felt close to buckling. “You are tilting at windmills. My marriage is a happy one.”

Now the man’s smile turned positively feral, and it made the fine hairs on her arms prick to attention. “Then perhaps that makes you an idiot after all, Lady Haversham.”

P
atrick hated events like this. Stilted, polite conversation. Food he knew had been prepared to perfection, but which might as well have been made from sawdust for all that he was enjoying it. Julianne was seated next to him throughout the interminable course of the meal, a tempting distraction to the forced pleasantries. But her nearness and falsely bright smile could not remove the fact that the eyes of every soul at the table were focused squarely on him.

At least with Blythe and Willoughby, a man knew where he stood. But Mr. Farmington was holding his cards quite close to his chest tonight. Although he had been a good friend of Patrick’s father and had sat down for a dozen meals at this very table, the expression on the magistrate’s face was indecipherable.

It went little better after dinner, when the ladies had left for the drawing room and the men were poured a glass of port. Through the open door, he could hear the appealing pitch of Julianne’s laughter down the hallway. Patrick wanted to be there with her, the expectations of Society be damned. But this bit of masculine banality was expected by the guests, and he was forced by his new position to play host to the lot of them.

Willoughby, damn his imprudent tongue, tumbled into dangerous territory after only a half a glass of port. “How goes the inquest, Mr. Farmington?”

The room stilled, and all eyes turned toward the magistrate, who looked discomfited by the attention. “The coroner’s report will be returned, soon enough,” came the man’s uneasy answer.

“I am sure we can all speculate how it’s going, now that the only witness has cried off.” Blythe lifted his glass to his lips and swallowed before adding, “Awfully convenient, that. A rather brilliant means to get away with murder.”

Patrick’s fingers tightened around the cool edge of his crystal. “I did not murder my brother, Blythe.”

“You’ll forgive me if I retain some doubt. Everyone knows you hated your brother. You argued with him all the time.”

Patrick’s pulse jumped angrily beneath his skin. It seemed Blythe was looking for a confession tonight, but he would not find one here. “I did not hate Eric,” Patrick growled, though he could not deny their relationship had been tumultuous those last months. “Certainly not more than I hate
you
, and yet you are still standing before us.”

“Perhaps you ran out of bullets,” Blythe sneered. “Or perhaps you ran out of nerve.”

“Gentlemen,
enough
.” Farmington placed his own nearly full glass down on the table. “It is pointless to speculate, and ridiculous to argue. The only thing that matters in this moment is whether the coroner will determine there is enough evidence to commend Haversham to trial, and that is quite out of our hands now. We should speak of other things.”

Patrick seethed with anger. It was a bloody nightmare that would not end, and the port was loosening whatever bit of judiciousness he’d once possessed. “I did not kill my brother. But
someone
did. And you should be trying to find him, Farmington, instead of chasing me.”

A moment of awkward silence descended over the room. “You are changing your story now?” Farmington’s gray eyes flickered warily.

A steady hand settled on his shoulder. “You’ve already admitted the shot was yours, Haversham,” Lord Avery said quietly. “Have a care where you are going with this, son.”

Patrick could hear the echoing undercurrent of dissension spreading throughout the room. The urge to mention the second witness sat like a barbed hook on his tongue, but he was not so naïve—or inebriated—to think that would go well in this crowd, especially without the witness in hand. Damn his questionable judgment. He’d spoken out of turn, without consulting MacKenzie first. Had he just irrevocably altered his defense? Or planted a seed of truth that would encourage Mr. Farmington to look farther afield for his brother’s murderer?

“You provided a statement that your brother had also taken a shot that day,” Farmington pointed out.

Patrick gritted his teeth. “Aye. I remember.”

“The subsequent investigation showed your brother’s gun was never fired.” Farmington shook his head. “You can be sure the coroner’s report has already focused on those irregularities in your statement. I would discourage you from adding more. Such inconsistencies in your story will not help your cause, Haversham.”

While the aftermath of his brother’s shooting was a clipped series of images, hazy and panicked, those moments before his death remained as clear as glass in Patrick’s mind. “But . . . there
was
a second gunshot.” His voice felt charred, but his memory swam drunkenly. “Did you not think to question anyone else about what they may have heard?”

“Are you telling the magistrate how to do his job, Haversham?” Blythe snarled. “Christ, you are an arrogant sod. Always thinking you are smarter than the rest of us. I was there, if you remember. And I only heard one shot.”

“You were on the west bank of the lake that day, not the east, where Eric and I were hunting.” Patrick ignored his cousin, focusing instead on the magistrate’s reddening face. “I heard two shots, close in time but distinct. Julianne heard two shots as well,” he urged. “Ask her, Farmington. She will tell you.”

The lines of tension about Farmington’s eyes reminded Patrick that the events of eleven months ago had affected him too. He’d seemed as stunned as anyone over Eric’s death, but in the aftermath, he’d had the unenviable job of methodically sorting through the additional evidence.

Evidence that Patrick had not heretofore considered.

“Ah, but your new wife has recused herself from all involvement in this nasty business of testifying, hasn’t she?” Farmington shook his head sadly. “She cannot have it both ways, Haversham. And neither can you.”

Chapter 21

T
he weather in Yorkshire could be uncertain in October, but as if mocking Julianne’s own darkening mood, morning brought clear skies and an unseasonably mild temperature that invited a family excursion down to the lake.

Julianne sat on a blanket, her feet tucked up under her and the remnants of a picnic luncheon scattered about. A slight wind had picked up from the west, and it rattled the dying leaves in overhead branches and knocked against the worry brewing inside her. Patrick was bent over Eleanor’s head, patiently working his fingers over some knot in his sister’s fishing line, even as he explained the mechanics of tossing out a proper cast to Mary.

A muffled curse came from her right, and she turned her head to see George Willoughby tugging his line from an overhead branch. He smiled ruefully in her direction as he lowered his arms. “Never was one for fishing. Perhaps I should join you and stop mauling the poor trees?”

Julianne smiled and patted the blanket. “Come and sit then, Mr. Willoughby. Leave the fishing to the experts. Perhaps we can both learn something from watching Patrick and Eleanor.”

Willoughby settled beside her, stretching out his long, trouser-clad legs. “Surely by this point there is no need for such formality. I think given names are a must, now that you know how terrible I am at fishing.”

She could see nothing immediately improper in the suggestion. He was family, after all. “Not so bad as that, George.”

“I am a terrible marksman as well. They only invite me along with a goal of improving my aim. But all told, I believe any man would prefer the pleasure of your company to the hunt.” He shifted closer. “I think today I will count myself fortunate to be such a poor sportsman.”

“Er . . . thank you.” Once upon a time, this was precisely the sort of attention Julianne would have wanted, a gentleman focused on
her
instead of the usual country pursuits. But today, it felt wrong. He was so close she could smell his hair pomade, some sickening scent of cloves. For a moment she considered lengthening the inches that separated them into ten.

But then Patrick glanced over his shoulder, disapproval clear in the slant of his brow. Julianne dug her fingers into the blanket, meeting her husband’s gaze with the challenge in her own. Making Patrick jealous served no one’s best interests, least of all Willoughby’s. But George was harmless, and Patrick’s bristling animosity was the closest she’d come to attention from her husband since their encounter at dinner last evening.

“You seem unusually quiet today.” George leaned back on one elbow. “I remember following you about last November, listening to your banter. It was wicked good fun. Never knew what you might say.”

Julianne frowned, a bit nonplussed by the man’s admission. “I am just . . . preoccupied, I suppose. Mr. Blythe was bothersome last night.” Indeed, she could not stop thinking of their conversation, though it was foolhardy to give the man any credence. “I had hoped this outing to the lake would take my mind from it,” she admitted, “but instead I find myself with too much time for reflection.”

Willoughby clucked sympathetically. “I would have spared you if I had known. Did my cousin discuss his theories on Haversham’s guilt to you, as well? He was most vocal about it after dinner.”

Julianne sighed. George Willoughby was not the man she should be discussing this with, and she already regretted traipsing down this path with him. But the facts contributing to her poor mood lay like a black pool of oil on the surface of the day, and they wanted expunging. “No. He questioned the reasons behind my marriage.”

Willoughby’s hand came up to pat her own. “You should pay my cousin no heed,” he advised. “He has never been one to properly guard his words.”

“I am less concerned about what Mr. Blythe is saying than others. He implied there was talk among the guests.” She swallowed, knowing that if nothing else, George Willoughby was someone who would at least speak truthfully of these matters. “Wagers, as to my . . .
condition
. Are others truly saying such things?”

He hesitated a fraction too long. “Some are. I have defended you against such vile talk, of course, and encouraged those who might repeat it to leave.” He glanced toward Patrick and his expression darkened. “And regardless, they should not blame
you
for any of it, Julianne.”

She tugged her fingers out of the young man’s grasp. “I did not
have
to marry my husband, George. I am enormously fond of him. That is all that should be said about any of it.” And it was true, however hollow the sentiment sounded. Somewhere along the way, affection had indeed found her. Bound her tight. But now it was shaking her with great, bared teeth as it laughed at her predicament.

Willoughby tugged at his waistcoat, which had ridden up to reveal the beginnings of what Julianne had not previously realized was a middle that would soon lean toward a decided paunch. He flashed her a hopeful smile. “Still, if there is any truth to it, I hope you would tell me. I believe those wagers must be laid before the end of the month.”

For the first time in all of her twenty years, Julianne found herself utterly without words. Good heavens. He not only believed the rumors, he wanted to
profit
from them?

An awkward silence descended, punctuated only by the rustle of leaves and the smooth encouragement Patrick was offering his sisters. Willoughby closed his eyes and soon began to snore, thank goodness. But though the sun was warm on her face, Julianne found herself too keyed up to do anything so restful. Another time, another day, she might have enjoyed the experience of watching Patrick with his sisters, the sunlight glinting off the sandy slope of his hair. But it hurt, watching Patrick engage in such a personal, tactile interaction with people he loved. Because she couldn’t help but think that perhaps she didn’t receive such public attentions because she didn’t merit them. Not that he was a man inclined to public tomfoolery, but once upon a time, he had kissed her, nearly in public, there in Summersby’s foyer.

Why the change, now that he was legally entitled to do so?

All morning—and arguably, since dinner last night—he’d been aloof, as though that moment when her world had ground to a stop and he had stood before her in the drawing room, spit-polished and shining like a new penny, had never happened.

She cataloged the myriad touches she had accumulated over the course of two and a half weeks of marriage. More than she could count on her fingers. Nary a one where anyone but she could see. Was it any wonder Mr. Blythe and George Willoughby were questioning the purpose behind their marriage? To the world, theirs must seem a cold sort of showing.

Julianne fought her mind’s insistence on drifting back to the conversation with Blythe. She watched Patrick toss the delicate silk thread out onto the water and pull it back in cunning, short strokes, and could not shake the sharp new thought that perhaps her husband had done nearly the same thing to her. Because if Mr. Blythe had been right about the matter of the guests’ speculation, what else might he have had correct?

Had Patrick really married her to ensure her silence?

It was a stinging idea, but it was persistent. She had refused to believe Mr. Blythe’s vile claims last night, and she didn’t want to believe them now. But had she reacted so strongly to Blythe’s taunts out of loyalty to her husband, or cowardice? She’d always prided herself on being able to read people, to understand their motives. She’d never truly believed Patrick’s explanation for marrying her was to save her reputation.

But she’d thought she understood his reasons for marrying her. She had presumed that, like her, Patrick felt this same driving, needy force that seemed to consume her every time she saw him. Every time he kissed her. She’d been pushed—almost blindly—by an emotion she could now see came grievously close to love. She felt blind still, groping her way through a darkness she’d not seen coming.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Her stomach jumped in time with the smooth, unerring flick of Patrick’s wrist, spooling into a tangle of confusion. She might arguably be called a fool, but she had never before considered herself a coward. But she was beginning to wonder if true cowardice was refusing to see what was looming before her. She was rather afraid she did not want to dissect Jonathon Blythe’s accusations or George Willoughby’s explanations because of what she might find.

It took forever for the girls to admit they were not going to catch a fish that afternoon. Longer still to gather up the blanket and their picnic remains and set back toward the manor. As they began the long trek home, Eleanor and Mary chattered on like small sparrows, pulling George Willoughby by the hand as they skipped ahead on the path.

Only when the trio had disappeared around a bend up ahead did she feel Patrick’s hand reach out and brush her own. When he pulled her down a side path, she didn’t resist, not even when briars pulled at her skirts and her shoes became hopelessly smudged with mud. Just a few hours ago, she would have welcomed the opportunity for a stolen kiss. Heavens, just a few hours ago, she might have suggested the excursion herself.

But now, his quest for privacy niggled at her, like a key in the wrong lock.

He pulled her behind the trunk of a large oak tree and brought his lips down to hers. She sorted through the taste of her husband as he kissed her, sunshine and laughter and the turnovers they had eaten during the picnic, tart and sweet and faintly spiced. She wanted him to kiss her forever. But forever was a tricky beast, when there were questions burning her tongue as fiercely as his kiss.

He seemed to sense her hesitation and pulled back. “Is something amiss, wife?”

Julianne looked away, down the path they had just come down. She could hear the concern in his voice, sounding every bit as real as the faint shouts of the girls. It should have warmed her heart to hear such regard in Patrick’s voice, and his ready use of the word “wife.” But she, of all people, knew that concern could be conjured, words chosen with care to bend someone to your will.

“Why did you marry me?” she asked. It felt as though her soul was being split open to ask it, but she resolutely pushed her shoulders back. “Was it only to ensure my silence?”

His lips tipped downward. “Did George Willoughby tell you that, when he sidled up to you on the blanket?”

Oh, for heaven’s sake.
“This isn’t about your cousin, Patrick. Why did you marry me?” she repeated. Louder now. A question and a demand.

But his eyes were unreadable, his jaw set to stone. “Why are you asking me this now, Julianne, instead of then, when it mattered?”

“I assure you, it matters now.” Her chest felt muffled, as though her heart was wrapped in wet wool. “Was our marriage nothing more than a ruse to prevent me from testifying against you?” She waited. For an answer, for a reaction. Perhaps, if he didn’t—couldn’t—say those words, there was hope yet for them, a glimmer of something salvageable from what was fast becoming the wreck of her heart. But instead of handing her the answer she wanted—the answer she still foolishly believed and prayed he might give—he gave her the answer she feared.

“Aye,” he ground out.

That single word cut with the surety of a saber. For a moment, she only blinked, sure she had misheard him. But one did not mistake an admission like that.

Blythe was right.
It was a refrain chanting in her ears, deafening in its simplicity. And she realized she should have guessed it, from the start. After all, one did not marry someone he scarcely knew unless he had a very, very good reason for it.

“So it is true,” she gasped, stepping away from the man she had married for no other reason than foolish, girlish fancy. She had once considered Patrick little more than a pawn in her grand game, though that sentiment had ended nearly as soon as it had started. It was disconcerting to realize she was now the one so used. She wrapped her arms around herself, her mind too numb to sort through all the implications of his admission.

Was the day warm, after all? She felt so cold.

“In my defense,” he said slowly, his expression still too blank for comfort, “I have regretted the lie, nearly every day since.”

In his defense.
She wanted to cover her ears with her hands, block out the sound of those words. What did that mean, exactly? She only heard that he regretted it. He regretted
her
. And she felt cleaved in two by her naïveté.

“Why?” she whispered. “Why did you not simply tell me, from the start?”

He exhaled loudly, and one hand came up to scrape against his already unruly hair. “I should have. I should have been more honest. But at the time, my choice seemed . . . fair.”

Understanding nudged aside her mind’s quest for denial.
Oh God.
He had married her for what, exactly? Expediency? Convenience?

Revenge?

And he’d done it brilliantly too. He’d never once insisted she withhold her testimony. But he’d certainly asked it of her, hadn’t he? Gauging the perfect moment of weakness, no less, that night in Leeds when she’d been knotted with tears and desperate to make things right between them. And ever since, he’d implied she held the noose in her hands, reminding her—with subtle, frequent encouragement—of the vital need for silence.

She took another step back, wondering how far she would have to run to reclaim her pride. A mile? A thousand miles?

She waited for him to go on. To further explain his decision, to apologize. The sounds of the day intruded into the aborted conversation. Leaves rustled. The distant sound of girlish laughter hovered, somewhere up the path. But louder than all of it was the pressing clamor of Patrick’s silence. She, of all people, knew what that hard quiet meant. He was guilty.

Or at least, he believed himself to be.

Her throat closed over the silence. And then she was stumbling away, choking back her tears, scrambling to follow the blurry path back to the manor.

“Julianne!” Patrick called out from somewhere behind her. “Wait!”