Never Resist Temptation (26 page)

She slumped on top of him, drained and boneless but not too spent to appreciate the hard body beneath her, a much better resting place even than velvet brocade. His eyes were closed and he looked relaxed and happy. She realized that a core of tension, a kind of suppressed anger that he'd carried since she first encountered him, had vanished. In fact it had been absent all evening. Something had changed him, something between him and Kitty. He was at peace with himself. She didn't want to ask him about it now. There'd be time enough later.

She rolled off and felt her stomach. It was dry.

“When we did this before you made a mess,” she said, not knowing exactly how to put it.

He ran his hand over her ribs, then joined hers on the flat plane of her belly.

“I promised before I wouldn't get you pregnant. But since we'll be married in three days I didn't think it mattered anymore.”

She worked out the implications, and her mind played with the notion that she might be with child. “I'm glad,” she said. “I want to bear your children. And thank you for keeping your word before.”

Raising himself onto his elbow he looked down at her. “I did some things that were wrong, treated you dishonorably. I know now that I was suffering a kind of madness—not that it's any excuse. But I want you to know that I do keep my promises and I always will.”

Her heart turned over at his serious expression. Drawing his head down, she kissed his forehead like a benediction.

“I believe you,” she whispered.

 

“Anthony,” she suddenly asked, curled up in his secure embrace sometime later. “Why do you want to marry me?”

He opened his eyes and lifted his head to look at her. “Why did you finally say yes?”

She couldn't remember now why she'd resisted the idea since it was exactly what she wanted. She'd decided in the course of the day that saying no was just plain foolish. So what if he didn't love her? Was she such a poor creature that she couldn't meet the challenge of altering that fact? And anyway he was adorable and perfect. Not that she had any intention of telling him that.

“Jean-Luc told me I'd be a fool not to catch you, and I decided he was right.”

“I could tell he was a man of sense. Any other reason?”

Clearly he was on a fishing expedition and she was in the mood to indulge him.

“Because you're utterly adorable and quite perfect,” she said.

A girl could—and often did—change her mind.

His arms tightened about her and he kissed her deeply. Then he gazed down at her with a look in his eyes she'd never seen before, which took her breath away.

“I want to marry you because I love you and wouldn't want to live without you,” he said.

Quick work
, Jacobin thought in self-congratulation.

A
nthony loved her and they were to be married in two days. What more could she want from life? Though she knew, rationally, that her legal difficulties were far from over, she had every confidence that Anthony, who had left in the early morning for Hurst Park, would sort them out. She spent an enjoyable morning with her future sister-in-law trying on clothes and having Kitty's maid dress her hair in different styles. She'd never experienced much feminine company and found these sisterly activities thoroughly delightful. It was wonderful to think she'd soon be part of a family. James, she had no doubt, would make a charming brother-in-law, and even the imminent arrival of the formidable Aunt Margaret—she who disapproved of colored dresses for unmarried girls—couldn't dampen her exuberance.

“Do you think I should wear this when your aunt arrives?” she asked anxiously, though not-so-secretly thrilled at her appearance in the mirror in a dashing morning dress of burnt orange trimmed in forest green.
“It's gorgeous.” She sighed. “I can't believe you want to lend it to me. But I don't want to embarrass Anthony by appearing not
comme il faut
to his aunt.”

“Embarrassment is the last thing my brother will be feeling when he sees you in that costume,” Kitty asserted firmly. “As for Aunt Margaret, she's not a bad old thing, though inclined to be stuffy. She adores Anthony and is utterly loyal. The only thing that'll truly upset her is that you're being married in such a hurry, and by special license. She knows what people will say.”

“What's a special license?” Jacobin asked idly as she adjusted the feather on her bonnet.

“Normally it takes three weeks to be married because banns have to be called in the home parish of both bride and bridegroom. A special license allows you to be married anywhere and at any time.”

“I know nothing of English marriage customs. I've never even been to an English wedding. In France it always takes a long time—arranging the contract.”

“That's usually true here. I suppose Anthony will deal with the settlements afterward.”

“How do you get this license?” Jacobin hoped it wasn't so complicated that it would entail postponing the wedding, or even requiring her betrothed to be away for another day. She was already missing him. “Will Anthony have to fetch it himself?”

“From the Archbishop of Canterbury's office. He picked it up in London the day before yesterday. What's that for?” Jacobin had leaped up at these words and given Kitty an energetic hug.

“Just that I'm so happy and you're so kind to me,” Jacobin said.

She almost wept. Anthony had intended to marry her even before her arrest. It set the cap on her joy and made her bitterly regret that she hadn't reciprocated his declaration of love. A tiny, lingering nugget of distrust had prevented her from averring her own feelings. Not that he'd seemed to notice, judging by his attentions, which had lasted most of the night. Perhaps these things were less important to men. But she minded. She desperately wanted to tell how she felt. Now. She wanted to lavish him with affection and didn't know how she'd survive until he came home.

A commotion outside Kitty's bedchamber interrupted their sisterly embrace. The door opened, and a gentleman in a state of considerable agitation burst in.

“Kitty! What the devil do you mean by going off without a word?” he roared, leaving Jacobin in no doubt that she was in the presence of Kitty's erring husband. “I've been looking for you all over London. James told me you were here.”

“I'm amazed you even noticed,” Kitty responded coldly. “And I'm even more amazed that you could drag yourself away from Marabel.”

“Marabel?” A frown wrinkled Walter Thornley's pleasant face. “You couldn't think Marabel and—”

“What else was I to think?” Kitty demanded hotly. “You've hardly moved from her side since Francis died.”

“I was just trying to be helpful, and keep out of your way since you were obviously tired of my company.”

“It's you who were tired of me! I don't know about horses and dogs and hunting and all the things you're interested in, but
Marabel
does. At least we used to get on in the bedroom but lately we haven't even had that. You haven't come near me in weeks.”

Thornley strode over to his overwrought wife and took her masterfully into his arms. “How could you doubt me, Kitty? You know I adore you, and always have. But you're so clever and beautiful and know all about clothes and furnishings and fashionable life and I'm just a dull old country squire. Please come back to me. I don't care how often you redecorate the drawing room, or any other room in the house for that matter. Just don't leave me again.”

“Oh Walter!” Kitty burst into tears and returned his embrace with interest.

Jacobin tactfully removed herself from the room.

 

Anthony decided to ride the thirty odd miles to Hurst Park. It would be faster than driving, given the state of the roads, and he was consumed with impatience to find out about Edgar Candover's movements. As he turned out of the main gate of Storrington, waving to the gatekeeper, another rider joined him and kept pace alongside.

“My lord,” Tom Hawkins said, “you're leaving early. I will, if you don't mind, ride with you.”

“If you insist. As long as you're going where I'm going.”

“I don't much care,” said the runner, “but I'd prefer not to let you out of my sight.”

“I'm glad you can tear yourself away from the prosecution of Miss de Chastelux.”

Hawkins gave a mirthless chuckle. “That'll keep. This morning I'm more interested in your movements. I had an interesting conversation yesterday afternoon with Lord Candover's valet.” Then, a sarcastic afterthought, “My lord.”

Anthony didn't pretend not to know what he was talking about. At this point he might as well be honest with the man.

“I understand, Hawkins, that you have a job to do and that finding either my fiancée or me, or both of us, guilty of murder would complete that job. But—and I don't expect you to believe me at this moment—it would be wrong. For the simple reason that neither of us had anything to do with killing Candover. That being so, I am anxious to find out who did, as you should be. And Edgar Candover, who has just inherited both a title and an estate, seems to me the obvious candidate.” He looked down at Hawkins, whose hack was a couple of hands shorter than Anthony's highbred saddle horse. “I do trust you haven't been so negligent in your investigation that the thought didn't occur to you.”

“I thought of it,” Hawkins said. “But you can't arrest a man without evidence and I haven't found a
single witness who can place the new Lord Candover anywhere near the scene of either crime.”

“What would you say if I told you Miss de Chastelux saw Edgar Candover in Brighton the day before the attempted poisoning?”

Hawkins looked thoughtful. “I would be interested, my lord. Though I regret that her testimony might be imputed to self-interest.”

“Understandable,” said Anthony affably. He'd decided there was no capital to be made from antagonizing the man. “But I'd be happy—and I'd appreciate it—if you'd accompany me to Hurst Park, my present destination, to see what else I can discover there.”

Edgar wasn't at Hurst, neither did anyone know where he was. The staff there, who had been questioned by Hawkins before, were polite but reserved. They answered direct questions but didn't volunteer information, until Anthony recalled that Jacobin had lived among these servants and counted them her friends.

“Betrothed to Miss Jacobin?” said the elderly manservant who acted as butler in the absence of most of the household in London. “Why didn't you say so before? What splendid news! I'd be happy to tell you anything I can, my lord.”

The floodgates opened. In response to Hawkins's questions—Anthony decided it would be more effective to let the runner lead the investigation—it emerged that Edgar Candover frequently absented himself from the house.

“We assume his absences have always been on estate business but he doesn't keep us informed.”

“Where does he go?” asked the runner. “Is he riding around the estate or is he in the habit of being gone for longer periods?”

“It's hard to say,” the manservant admitted. “Mr. Edgar—Lord Candover I should say—isn't a demanding gentleman. He often dines away from home so there's no reason for the staff here to keep track of him, so to speak.”

“Was he here yesterday morning?”

“Let me see. He dined here the night before but I don't remember when he went out. He was here for dinner last night.”

“Would anyone else know when he left the house?”

“Not the house, but maybe the stables. You might ask Josh, the head groom.”

Josh was just as unhelpful. He'd taken one of the plow horses over to the blacksmith the day before, and when he returned, Mr. Edgar's horse wasn't in the stables. But whether it had been there early in the morning before he left for the farrier he couldn't say. They were short-staffed and he didn't even have a full-time stable boy. That youth shared duties in the kitchen and would have been making up the kitchen fire and blacking the boots first thing.

It was frustrating to find nothing definite, but Anthony could sense that the runner was intrigued. His features quivered like a terrier after a scent, and he made no pretense of being uninterested in the servants' answers.

“You're more knowledgeable about such things than I, my lord,” he said as they left the stables, “but it seems to me the estate isn't in very good heart. I don't know how it speaks to the new Lord Candover's motives, but I think it'd be wise to discover where things are financially. Money,” he added, touching a finger to the side of his nose, “is the most common motive for murder.”

B
y the middle of the afternoon Jacobin was bored and fretful. Kitty and Walter didn't reappear so she'd explored the house by herself, tried to interest herself in a novel, then retired upstairs to change into one of Kitty's gowns. She couldn't wait for Anthony to see her properly dressed, then to throw herself into his arms. She ran downstairs with unladylike haste to see if he'd returned.

Simpson was in the hall, and, not wishing to deal with his barely veiled hostility, she went first to the library, Anthony's favorite room. It was empty. Something caught her eye on the terrace outside: a white handkerchief tied to the handle of a certain garden urn.

He was back!

A hard, icy rain was coming down; it would have been sensible to put on something warmer than the light wool shawl that went with her gown. But, she thought with a shiver of something other than cold, Anthony would soon warm her up. She could hear the
roar of the millrace through the howling wind, but a faint welcoming light glowed from the ground-floor windows of the Queen's House. She tore open the door and slammed it behind her, ready to hurl herself at him.

A chill quiet contrasted with the tempest outside. She went through the door from the small vestibule into the main saloon, which was bitter cold and lit by only a pair of candles. As usual it was going to be up to her to light the fire.

“Anthony,” she called. “I'm so happy you're back. I have something to tell you.”

Silence. Was he teasing her? “Anthony,” she repeated.

She moved farther into the room, searching for him in the half light. Unease prickled the back of her neck, dousing her euphoria. She heard, or perhaps only sensed, the air stirring behind her, and a hand touched her shoulder.

“Jacobin.” The voice was close to her ear.

She stopped dead.

“Edgar.” She could hardly enunciate the syllables. Then slowly turned to face her cousin.

He must have been standing behind the door when she entered the room. He stood there, short, slight, and neat in his precisely tailored garments. And the expression on his face so reflected Edgar's habitual mild amiability that she found it impossible to credit that he was a murderer. It had to be wishful thinking on her part to consider him guilty. Edgar Candover just didn't seem dangerous.

Yet she couldn't think of an innocent reason for his presence at the Queen's House.

“What are you doing here?” she asked. “Did you know I'd be here?”

“Oh yes, cousin.” His soft, slightly high-pitched voice conveyed no emotion. “I knew about your signal to Storrington. His butler is a helpful man. He doesn't like you very much, you know.”

“Simpson? He knew?” Of course Simpson had found out. As she was well aware, servants always knew everything.

“I understand you're to be married, Jacobin.”

He sounded sincere, but it wouldn't hurt to get nearer the door. She fancied she could outrun Edgar if it became necessary.

“Yes, Edgar, is it not wonderful? You must wish me happy.” She forced her features into an expression of trust and edged sideways.

“I do. At least I would.” His voice dropped a notch and gained a mournful tone. “But, alas, the ceremony won't take place.”

“Not take place?” Indignation overcame the alarm she was beginning to feel. “Of course it will. Lord Storrington and I love each other.”

Then remembering her last meeting with Edgar, she softened her voice. “I'm sorry I couldn't accept your offer, Edgar. I hope you're not upset.” If she could keep him talking she might be able to reach the door. At least he'd made no move to restrain her.

“No, I'm not upset,” he said, his dull eyes glowing
with some unidentifiable emotion. “But I'm afraid it's going to be very sad for Storrington when you are found dead.”

 

During the ride to Guildford to find Candover's solicitor, Anthony considered what he already knew of Candover's finances. A large portion of the Hurst Park estate was mortgaged. Yet for some reason there were substantial lands that remained unencumbered. None of the land was well maintained, for every penny of Candover's income had gone to his pleasure with nothing being put back into improvements. And Candover had sold off a great deal of movable property: jewelry, paintings, and a valuable collection of rare books, including several Caxtons.

It occurred to Anthony that some of the land might, in fact, belong to Jacobin. Lord Hugo had mentioned that Auguste de Chastelux had required a large dowry to accept Jacobin's mother, and it made sense that part of that settlement would remain in English property. Given Candover's charming personality, it wasn't much of a stretch to believe he'd withheld Felicity's fortune from his despised niece.

Jacobin would be pleased to discover she wasn't penniless, he thought with a smile. Not that he cared, but given his future bride's fierce independence, he knew she'd appreciate not entering marriage empty-handed. His mind lingered pleasurably over the previous night's lovemaking. What a good thing it was they had to marry at once. His stomach tightened with anxiety
about what the solicitor might reveal, and whether it would help clear them both of suspicion.

“Lord Candover's will is quite straightforward,” the solicitor said. “Everything goes to his cousin Edgar, the new baron. With the exception, of course, of the portion set aside for Felicity Candover and her issue through the terms of her marriage settlement.”

He was right, Anthony thought. And Jacobin would be thrilled.

“Does Miss de Chastelux inherit a good sum from her uncle's death?” Hawkins asked eagerly. Anthony could see the direction the man's mind was taking.

“But presumably Edgar Candover gets more,” he said quickly to restore Hawkins's attention to more fruitful fields. “He must have inherited a substantial estate.”

The solicitor hemmed and looked at them over his spectacles. “It's a little complicated. In recent years Lord Candover has been what I can only call improvident. But his sister was guaranteed a half share of the income from the property at Avonhill in Wiltshire during her brother's lifetime and the lands in their entirety after his death. And since his late Lordship wasn't able to mortgage them, they represent the only productive part of the estate. The new Lord Candover's inheritance isn't particularly enviable. It will require quite an infusion of money to restore it to prosperity.”

So, thought Anthony angrily, Candover has been living off Jacobin's inheritance from her mother for all these years. The man had deserved killing.

“Jacobin de Chastelux stands to benefit considerably
from her uncle's death,” said Hawkins. “More so than the male heir.”

“Is the property hers outright,” Anthony asked, “or does she hold only a life interest in it?”

“If Miss de Chastelux marries, her property will go to her husband, and to her children if she has any. If she were to die unwed, it reverts to the estate.”

Anthony saw what that meant, even as the damn runner continued to look triumphant at finding a cast-iron motive for Jacobin to murder her uncle.

“Don't you understand, you dolt, that Edgar Candover had a perfect motive for killing Candover and making sure his cousin was blamed? That way he'd get the whole lot, including the valuable part of the estate.”

“It seems convoluted,” Hawkins objected. “I prefer the more straightforward motive. Criminals are rarely subtle.”

Anthony wanted to shake him. “To hell with what you prefer. It's in Edgar Candover's interest to see his cousin dead before she marries. And she's supposed to be marrying me in two days' time.”

 

“You intend to kill me?” Jacobin still could scarcely credit it. “You killed Candover,” she said, “though I don't understand why. And I certainly don't see why you have to kill me.”

“I don't want to,” Edgar said earnestly. “But it's the only way. If you're alive I'll never get the Avonhill estate. My cousin squandered and gambled away most of his
fortune except that one property. For eight years I've held things together getting no thanks and very little respect. But I didn't mind because I knew that eventually I'd get the title and Avonhill. It's the only thing he never mortgaged, and I made sure enough money went back into the land to keep it profitable. It's a snug little place and will suit me. I'm a very modest man. He never told me the estate was your mother's and was to go to you. When I discovered the truth a few months ago I knew he had to die before he spent everything.”

Jacobin considered this latest evidence of her uncle's perfidy. “I don't want it,” she said, trying to placate Edgar. “You can have it. Storrington has plenty of money.”

“I wish I could accept your offer, but Storrington would never let me have it. Once you're married he'll have control over it. You should have accepted my offer while you had the chance.”

“You won't get away with it, Edgar. Storrington will hunt you to the ends of the earth, and if he doesn't kill you, you'll hang.”

“Oh no. You will be blamed for killing Candover. Your note confessing to the crime will be found near your body. You are going to commit suicide in a moment of remorse.”

She looked for a weapon. Edgar wasn't much bigger than she was, and she was strong. A large and ornate vase stood on a side table. Sèvres, she thought irrelevantly, and ugly. She wanted to weep when she remembered the last time she'd smashed Sèvres porcelain in
this house. She looked forward to breaking it over Edgar's head.

Though her glance was discreet, he noticed the object of her attention. “Don't even think about it, Jacobin, or I'll shoot you.” He was pointing a gun at her, a twin of the pistol that had killed Candover.

“You've been planning it for months, haven't you? My God! You probably even meant for me to be blamed for the poisoning. Did you see me in Brighton that night?”

“I
knew
you were in Brighton. No one ever thinks I'm clever.” His voice shook with resentment. “Without me your uncle would have been under the hatches years ago, but I got no thanks for my work. But when you ran off with Jean-Luc, I knew he wasn't any use to you. Cousin Candover didn't know that, all he cared about was Jean-Luc's cooking. He believed you'd truly eloped with him. I traced the two of you to London and found out he'd got you a position in the prince's household at Carlton House. Then I just had to wait my opportunity, wait until Candover was invited to dine. It was convenient that it was in Brighton rather than London. There was always food to be purchased after Brighton dinners.”

“So all those words of affection you said to me at the Argyll Rooms were nonsense.”

“Oh no, Jacobin. I would have married you then. I used to envy Jean-Luc. For eight years he had all your smiles, all your attention, and you hardly noticed my existence.”

Though she'd rather have spat at his declaration, flattery might buy her some time. “I wish you'd told me then, Edgar. I was always fond of you but I had no idea. And now I see how very intelligent you are.”

His pale eyes warmed a little and he smiled. “That's good of you to say so, Jacobin.” He moved closer to her, and for a moment she thought he was going to kiss her. Vile as such a prospect was, it might give her a chance to snatch away the gun.

Instead he pressed the barrel of the pistol into her ribs. “It's time for your suicide, my dear.”

“I'll never write a note,” she retorted. “You'll have to shoot me.”

“No need. The note's all ready and sitting on that pretty little desk over there. I've had plenty of time to practice imitating your handwriting.”

“Anthony will know I didn't write it. There's no paper in that escritoire.”

“No matter,” Edgar said, unimpressed. “I fancy Lord Storrington will be too stricken with grief to recall such an unimportant detail. Now, lead the way out, please. And don't forget, I won't hesitate to shoot you here if you give me any trouble.”

“Out? Why?” Jacobin had an insane notion that Edgar was worried about blood on the carpet.

“You're going to drown yourself in the millrace, just as Storrington's mother did.”

“How do you know she killed herself?” Jacobin had learned that fact from Kitty earlier in the day, but it certainly wasn't general knowledge.

“Candover told me in one of his drunken fits. Said he'd driven her to it, boasted of it because he'd fancied her himself and she turned him down. We Candovers don't like to have our wills thwarted,” he concluded with a touch of manic and pathetic pride.

She couldn't let him do it to Anthony. Even if she had to die, at least it wouldn't be in sinister imitation of his mother's demise. She'd fight Edgar just to spare Anthony that grief.

 

Anthony's horse was spent by the time he slid from its back and abandoned it at the front door to rush into the hall. Hawkins, whose lesser-bred nag was slower but had more stamina, was at his heels.

“Simpson,” Anthony yelled. “Where is Miss de Chastelux?”

“I haven't seen her this afternoon,” the butler replied stiffly.

Kitty emerged from a drawing room. “Anthony,” she said in a worried voice. “Jacobin has disappeared. She's not in her room, and we can't find her anywhere downstairs.”

Barely registering that Walter Thornley stood beside her, holding her hand, Anthony grasped Kitty by the shoulders. “When did you last see her?”

“Several hours ago.” Kitty's tone was sheepish. “Perhaps she went out for a walk.” She sounded doubtful, as well she might, given that the rain was coming down in sheets, assisted by a growing gale.

He tore into the library and looked out of the window.
There was one hope. In the half light he could make out something white clinging damply to the urn.

Thank God.