On a Wild Night (40 page)

Martin stirred. Amanda could feel his suppressed rage vibrating through him; he was tense as a coiled spring. But his voice remained even when he asked, “Did she say anything, drop any hint over who it was?”

Mrs. Crockett shook her head. “
Never
. You may be sure I'd have remembered if she had.” After a moment, she continued, staring at the fire, “I still remember how she gathered her courage and faced her father when it had to be done. She tried to make him see reason, but him?” She snorted. “Locked her in her room, he did, then the beatings and the preachings began.”

Amanda broke the ensuing silence. “Did he truly force her to take her life?”

“He
took
her life—he might not have tied the knot, but he made damned sure she did! He left her no choice—none.” Mrs. Crockett hugged herself, and rocked back and forth, back and forth. “If only she'd kept a diary . . . but she never did.”

They left the old woman rocking in her chair, and stepped back into the present, into the sunshine and light.

 

Amanda held her tongue on the ride back to the house. Allie took one look at Martin's face, then instructed them to ready themselves for luncheon; she served them in the parlor, now spick and span. Her eyes met Amanda's frequently, but she forbore to voice her questions.

She did, however, inform them that Reggie had eaten earlier and was now napping in his room. “Looks a lot improved, and no sign of any fever.”

Relieved on that score, at the end of the meal, Amanda pushed back her chair. “Come, my lord earl, and conduct me around your family portraits.” Rising, he raised a cynical brow at her; she opened her eyes wide. “Isn't that what gentleman do to impress potential brides?”

He studied her as he neared. “You're as transparent as glass.”

She smiled and linked her arm in his. “Humor me.”

The portraits hung all around the gallery at the top of the main stairs; as they went up, she glanced at his face. “Am I right in thinking that on your return to England, you didn't pursue the matter of who had committed the crime because you thought it was Luc?”

He didn't immediately reply. Reaching the landing, he
stopped, then turned left. “I didn't know what to think—not to begin with, not later. Luc and I . . . until that time, we'd been closer than brothers. We grew up together, our mothers were sisters, we went to Eton, then on the town together . . .” He shrugged. “I honestly never came to any conclusion—it was possible, and that's as far as my thinking ever got.”

“But you don't suspect Luc now?”

“No—triply no. Conlan's eyesight's too good, and as for using force . . .” His lips twisted; he glanced at her. “You know Luc—when it comes to women, the only force he's ever employed is to hold them off.”

Amanda humphed. “Indeed. So it's not him. Who else could it be?” They stepped into the gallery.

“The answer is not what you think—but you'll see.” Martin led her to the portraits.

Allie had been busy; the curtains had been drawn back and secured with their cords. Light flooded in, reflecting off dust motes still swirling in the air, washing over the portaits hanging in regimented rows along the walls.

“We may as well start with old Henry, the very first earl.” Martin led her to a portrait of a crusty-looking gentleman, posed with a bevy of spaniels gazing adoringly up at him. “The story goes he was more fond of his dogs than he was of his countess. That's her.”

Amanda looked at the neighboring portrait—a severe-looking woman with pinched features and iron-grey hair. “Hmm.”

They progressed along the portraits until they came to one a little more recent. “My grandfather, the third earl.”

A study done in the subject's prime; Amanda studied it, glanced frowningly at Martin, then at the picture. “He doesn't look much like you.”

“I don't look much like him.” Martin met her gaze. “In features, I take after my mother.”

He nodded ahead and they continued, strolling past various Fulbridges, every portrait, especially those of the males, confirming his words. The Fulbridges had a different shaped head, a heavier brow, a less clear-cut jaw. An altogether different cast of features, and even more important, a heavier,
more sloping-shouldered frame. They bred true, from the first earl all the way to the last, Martin's father.

Amanda stopped before that portrait, not needing to be told, aware of the quietness that stole over Martin, the hooding of his eyes. She studied the man who had banished his own son—as it now seemed, without cause. The portrait showed a stern face and, yes, a righteous stance, but there was no hint of cruelty, no sign of distemper.

Frowning, she looked ahead—the next painting captured her attention. Focused it dramatically. “Your mother?” She stopped directly in front, gaze shifting avidly from one to the other of the three faces shown.

“And her sister.”

“Luc's mother—I know. She looks so much younger here.”

“They were in their twenties at the time.”

He'd said he took after his mother, and to some extent that was true; the resemblance was clear, but muted by the difference between feminine and masculine forms. But Amanda could now see what he'd actually meant by the comment. She pointed to the man standing between the two sisters, behind the table at which they sat, one on either side. “Who's he?”

“My uncle, their older brother.”

The man was, if not the exact image of Martin, then a very close replica. Such a good match that it took no imagination at all to see how one could be mistaken for the other, even at relatively close quarters.

Amanda stared at the painting, drank in all it told her, all Martin had wanted her to see with her own eyes. Then she turned and met his agatey gaze. “The murderer's a relative of yours, but not a Fulbridge. Someone from your mother's family.”

When he said nothing, she continued, “And that someone is still alive, and doesn't want you looking into the old murder, because if you do . . .”

After a moment, Martin spoke, his eyes on hers. “That someone was hoping, because I'd let the matter rest for so
long, when I returned to London and made no move to immediately proclaim my innocence and search for the real murderer, that the matter was closed and they were safe. Now, however, my interest in you has become public, and the murderer has learned I've formally offered for you, and no one who knew the Cynsters would imagine I could have gained the family's approval without giving an undertaking to resolve the old scandal, so, suddenly, unexpectedly, the murderer finds himself under threat.”

She nodded, her eyes locked on his. “And so he struck back—it was you he was trying to kill when he shot Reggie.”

“Yes.”

“Do you think he's realized? That it was Reggie and not you he shot?”

“Possibly. But even if he had, he had to leave, let us go, and he can't risk coming after me here.”

Amanda frowned. “Why not? He presumably knows the place—”

“And, very likely, everyone here knows him.” When she didn't look convinced, Martin continued, “If he was seen and recognized . . . killing me would accomplish nothing if he was caught. If he could kill me and get away with it—it was worth a try. Now, however, he'll most likely reason that there's still a good chance I won't be able to clear my name, or even if I do, that, after all these years, there'll be no evidence to link him with Buxton's death.”

Martin grimaced. “As, indeed, will very likely be the case.” He took her arm, twined it with his and turned her along the gallery.

She let him steer her while she juggled facts, slotted more pieces into her mental jigsaw. “But,” she eventually stated, “the best and surest way to clear your name socially, especially after all this time, will be to prove that someone else was the murderer.”

He hesitated, then nodded. “The most effective way but not, perhaps, the only way.”

She looked into his face. “Did you give any undertaking? About resolving the scandal?”

“Not in words, but it was understood.”

“Well, then!” She closed her fingers on his arm, let her determination ring clearly; she wasn't about to let anyone or anything come between them now, certainly not a murderer. “I suggest we start looking for one of your maternal relatives who fits the bill—one who was here, who knew Sarah, and so on.”

He halted in a wide swath of sunshine. “There might be other options.”

She studied his face, then raised both brows. “You aren't, by any chance, imagining I'll agree to you letting the matter rest, opting instead to live your life in the shadows?”

His gaze remained somber. “Whoever it is, they've a family depending on them—innocent people will be harmed by their fall.” He held her silent with his gaze, drew breath, then went on, “Sarah's dead—nothing can bring her back. As for Buxton, righting the injustice there worries me less, but—”

“Wait!” She waved her hands. “Go back. You're worried about harming the murderer's family by exposing him?”

When he merely raised a brow—a sign she could interpret perfectly well—she suddenly saw the problem Lady Osbaldestone in her wisdom had foreseen. Saw the hole—the pit a surfeit of protective commitment could bury a man in—and knew she had to address it, overcome it, here and now.

She locked her gaze with his. “Your family disowned you wrongfully. I know you will not, could not bring yourself to ever turn your back on any other as they did you. You'll make whatever sacrifice is asked to protect your family, all of its members. Am I right?”

He frowned, shifted.

“However,” she pressed on, “no matter the situation, no matter what arguments you propound, nothing can ever change the fact that your principal goal must be to protect the future of your house. You've been reared and trained to put that above all else”—she dragged in a breath—“and the future of your house lies with you”—she jabbed his chest—“and me, and our children.”

His eyes abruptly narrowed; she blushed, waved dismissively. “That's not the issue here.”

The hardening of his expression suggested that their potential offspring was very much an issue with him; she realized, changed tack. Gestured. “Just think—this murderer has already shot Reggie mistakenly. What if he decides he needs the certainty of your death and again tries to kill you, but kills me, or one of our children—or both!—instead?”

His expression told her she'd overplayed her hand, that he knew precisely which string she was pulling. She kept her eyes wide, hands splayed, palms up, and held his gaze; whatever else, that string was an extremely strong one.

He exhaled. Glanced away.

She caught his hands, twined their fingers, felt his tighten, lock. Held his gaze when he looked back, her expression open, without guile. “The future of your house is you and me and our children. Sacrificing your own future to protect others of your family is one thing. Sacrificing
us
is another.

“No one would ever expect it of you. It's not something anyone can ask. Some may be hurt, but we'll be there—you and me and the others who'll help us—we can help them through whatever comes. But you can no longer shield the murderer.” She looked into his eyes, then quietly added, “Aside from all else, he isn't worthy of your care.”

They stood there, handfasted, gazes locked. The sun washed over them, warming, bringing the promise of growth and abundance, of future happiness. About them, the house seemed to stretch, as if waking from a long sleep. From somewhere downstairs came Allie's voice and a clattering jangle of cutlery.

Martin drew in a long breath, briefly squeezed her fingers. Glanced away through the window.

She waited, praying. What more she could say?

“He's a member of the family who was here over Christmas and New Year that year, then returned for the Easter gathering.” Martin looked down at her.

She smiled brilliantly, joyously. “Can you remember . . . ?”

He shook his head. “There are more candidates than you suppose. That side of the family's extensive, and many visited frequently. Every Christmas and New Year, every Easter,
and at least twice every summer, there were huge house parties held here. We regularly slept more than seventy.”

“So who would know? Allie?”

“No.” After a moment, he said, “I'll need to check in my father's study.”

She knew he hadn't been in there yet, knew he would want to check alone. She smiled. “I need to look in on Reggie, then talk to Allie.”

Slipping her fingers from his, she stretched up and kissed his cheek. He accepted the caress but immediately turned his head. Met her eyes, then bent his head and touched his lips to hers.

In a simple, achingly sweet kiss.

“Join me when you finish with Allie.”

 

Martin opened the door of his father's study, a square room with windows looking west along the cliffs. Allie had yet to penetrate this far; the room was dim and dark. Crossing to the windows, he pulled aside the curtains, stood looking down, watching the river glint as it wended eastward.

All about him was quiet . . . watchful. Was it fancy that made him feel his father so close, as if his presence still permeated this room a full year after his death? Drawing breath, mentally girding his loins, he turned.

Took in the mahogany desk, the admiral's chair behind it, the leather worn to a smooth shine. The blotter, a few marks upon it, the pen sitting in an inkstand long dry. There were no papers left lying on the desk. Everything had been tidied away. Not by him, by the solicitor.

He didn't even know where his father had died, or how, only that he had. Martin recalled the date, realized it had been exactly a year later that he'd first set eyes on Amanda.

The thought of her, of all she'd said, melted his inertia. Sent the past retreating to a manageable distance. Put the present into perspective.