On a Wild Night (43 page)

“We're not finished yet—one appearance does not a solid facade create.”

His smugness faded. “You mean I have to attend more functions like this?”

Amanda's dimple winked. “Perhaps not quite as intense as this. But you needn't think you can slink back into that great house in Park Lane, deeming your duty done.”

He read the determination behind her smile. He glanced around, caught the odd disgruntled eye. “At least I no longer have to pretend to approve of those man-milliners you had in your train.”

“They weren't man-milliners!”

They spent the rest of the dance in a bantering discussion of those gentleman who'd previously vied for her attention. When the music ended, they were beseiged by those wanting to be able to claim acquaintance with the latest news. When the orchestra struck up again, numerous gentleman offered to partner Amanda; she smiled and declined, turned her smile on Martin and gave him her hand. “Perhaps we could stroll?”

With an easy nod, he excused them; covering her hand where it rested on his sleeve, he led her down the room.

They were stopped constantly; it was some time before Amanda could ask, “Have you heard from Luc?”

“He's somewhere here.” Martin scanned the crowd. “He must have learned something . . . there he is.”

They changed tack and came up with Luc, standing a few feet from a group that included his sisters and Amelia, surrounded by a court of earnest young gentlemen and some less young, focused on Amelia.

Luc nodded. “I can eliminate some names . . .” The introduction to a cotillion rang out; his gaze returned to the group. His attention didn't shift when his sisters accepted partners and headed for the floor; only when Amelia brightly gave her hand to Lord Polworth did Luc look back at them.

“Is there somewhere we can talk without being overheard?”

Martin nodded. “Devil said to use his study.” He glanced at Amanda.

“We can go out through the side door.”

She led them into the main house. The sounds of the ball faded. Reaching Devil's study, they walked in. A desk lamp was alight, turned low. Amanda adjusted the wick. “What have you found?”

Luc searched, patting his pockets. “Damn! I've forgotten the list.”

He glanced at Martin, who went through the same pantomine with no better result.

Amanda sighed, lifted her reticule, opened it, hunted, and pulled out her copy of the list. Luc held out his hand; she pretended not to see. Spreading the sheet, she held it so the light fell on it. “Now—who have you checked?”

Luc walked to her side; Martin came up on the other.

They all studied the list.

“Moreton.” Luc tapped the list, glanced at Martin. “I was standing beside him when you made your entrance in there—he was genuinely delighted at the sight. He's no more capable of dissembling now than he was ten years ago. If he was the murderer, he would have been reeling. Instead, he was thrilled.”

Martin nodded. “Cross off Moreton.”

“And George and Bruce and Melville, too. They haven't set foot in London this Season, and from what you told me, the time between either of you deciding to go north and Reggie being shot leaves no leeway for anyone out of town to have been alerted in time to act.”

“That hadn't occurred to me,” Martin murmured, “but you're right. Not only did the murderer have to learn of my departure, there was only an hour in which he could have heard.”

“Actually”—Luc glanced at Amanda—“it probably wasn't
your
departure he heard of, but Amanda's.”

“Mine?”

“Your recent entrance notwithstanding, your relationship hasn't been any sort of secret. If the murderer heard that you”—Luc nodded at Amanda—“were going to Scotland for a visit, he might well have assumed Martin would accompany you, and that you would stop at Hathersage.”

“That makes more sense. There was very little time between me deciding and leaving.” Martin looked at the list. “We have five names left.”

“And I doubt we'll do better.” Luc leaned against the desk. “I've checked four of those five, and none of them can
offer verifiable evidence of where they were five nights ago.”

Amanda blinked. “How can four gentlemen not be
somewhere
someone saw them?”

“Easily.” Luc glanced at Martin. “Radley's the one I haven't had a word with yet, but you can bet he'll be the same as the others.”

Martin grimaced. “I see.”

“See what?” Amanda looked from one to the other.

Luc looked at Martin, then said, “Radley and the others are cousins, much the same age as us.”

When he said no more, Amanda stared at him, then looked at Martin. “You can't mean . . .” She looked again at Luc. “
All
of them?”

He gave her a helpless “what-would-you” look.

“Humph!” She looked at the list. One name leaped out at her. “What about Edward? You're not going to tell me he wasn't doing his duty accompanying your sisters and mama to some ball.”

The cynical look Luc bent on her was answer enough. “According to Cottsloe, our butler, Edward came home early, told Cottsloe to tell Mama he was in bed with a migraine and didn't wish to be disturbed, and left. He returned sometime during the night, but no one was awake to know when.”

Her racing thoughts must have shown in her face, for Luc added, “I wouldn't read too much into the timing—he's done much the same before. Unfortunately, the . . . establishment he favors is usually afloat on gin. I wouldn't trust the word of anyone there. The same goes for the others—not the gin, but that they can't produce a reliable witness, which means we can't cross them off our list, but their movements don't necessarily make them guilty.”

Amanda wrinkled her nose; she studied the list while Martin and Luc made arrangements to meet at Martin's house the next day.

She stared at one name, continued to frown. She was acquainted with the five men still on the list, although other
than Edward, she knew them only distantly. The other four were as Luc had said, very like him and Martin; she had no difficulty imagining that they might have been visiting some lady whose name they wouldn't divulge. That was one thing, but to frequent an establishment that “floated on gin”?

She knew Luc too well to think he was exaggerating; if anything, he would have—and had—glossed over his brother's less-admirable predilections.

Which left her feeling decidedly equivocal about Edward. What sort of man actively posed as a long-suffering, righteous puritan to society, but secretly visited dens of iniquity?

“Come on.” Martin took her elbow. “We'd better get back to the ballroom before imaginations become overheated.”

Amanda stuffed the list back into her reticule and let him lead her to the door.

Under orders from his prospective bride and mother-in-law, Martin called in Upper Brook Street the next morning, took Amanda up beside him in his curricle, then drove across Park Lane and into the park.

Tooling down the Avenue, he glanced at Amanda, noted her bright eyes, sensed the sheer triumph that gripped her—decided it made the sacrifice worthwhile. She'd assured him he only had to do this once; he'd deduced it was some strange rite understood only by the female half of the ton.

That deduction gained credence as the matrons and senior hostesses, sitting regally in their carriages drawn up along the verge, preceptibly brightened at the sight of them, then smiled graciously and nodded; Amanda smiled radiantly and nodded back. Martin contented himself with the occasional impassive nod to the more influential ladies and those he recognized as his parents' friends, and concentrated on guiding his high-bred bays through the obstacle course of the fashionable area.

They drew up to chat with the Dowager Duchess of St. Ives, and later exchanged pleasantries with Emily Cowper. Then they were through the gauntlet, past the last carriage; Martin let the bays trot. He was congratulating himself on having survived the ordeal, when Amanda tugged his sleeve and pointed to where carriages were queueing to turn.

“Now we go back again.”

He glanced at her—she wasn't joking. He grumbled, but complied. He'd agreed to perform as requested until she and her female relatives—a pack of assertive and willful ladies—decreed his resurrection within the ton accomplished. Thereafter, he'd gathered, he could retire from the fray, returning for command performances, much as their husbands and sons.

He'd deemed it prudent not to mention he intended retiring for most of the year to Hathersage. As they drove once more between the lines of carriages, his home had never seemed more attractive.

They were back in the thick of things when Amanda grabbed his arm, squeezed so hard he felt her nails through his sleeve.
“Look!”
She pointed with her parasol.

He followed the line to two young ladies strolling in the sunshine, a gentleman following a few paces behind. “Edward, Emily and Anne.”

“It's Edward.” Amanda's tone was shocked.

He glanced at her; the color had drained from her cheeks. She looked at him, eyes wide. “I never realized . . . at a distance, he looks
just like you
.”

Martin swallowed a dismissive snort. “Don't get carried away—all five on our list look like me at a distance.” He glanced again at Edward, but the press of traffic forced him to drive on. “He doesn't look
that
much like me.”

“I know—that's my point. He's shorter and slighter and his hair isn't as bright. And his features aren't as strong. I didn't truly think he was that likely . . .” She swivelled to look back again. “But just now . . . it's the distance. It reduces everything to just proportions.”

She faced forward again; a quick glance showed her face had taken on that stubborn cast he knew well. “If it
is
Edward—”

“Amanda—”

“No.” She held up her hand. “I'm not saying it's proven, but just suppose it was him. How did he find out about us—you or me—going north . . .”

Her voice trailed away; he glanced at her again. Her face
had blanked, then she looked at him and excitement rushed in. “Amelia! We have to find her.”

She looked around, scanning the lawns. “I haven't seen her . . . she wasn't with Mama, which means she's strolling, but she wasn't with Emily and Anne, and Reggie isn't about . . .
there
she is!” She grabbed his arm again. “Pull over. Quickly.”

He squeezed the curricle between an ancient landau occupied by a bedizened old harridan with a yapping pug and a cabriolet overflowing with giggling girls. Who took one look at him and giggled all the more.

Amanda was all but jigging in her seat. Amelia had seen her waving madly; escorted by Lord Canthorp, she came strolling up.

Amelia touched fingers with her sister, smiled at him, then introduced his lordship. While he and Canthorp exchanged a few drawling words, Amanda and Amelia exchanged meaningful glances.

As a result, Canthorp received a pretty dismissal and was sent on his way. As soon as he was out of earshot, Amelia looked at Amanda. “What?”

Amanda drew breath, opened her lips, paused, then carefully asked, “The day I left for Scotland, did you tell anyone where I'd gone?”

Cornflower blue eyes reflecting her curiosity, Amelia nodded. “At Lady Cardigan's luncheon, Lady Bain and Mrs. Carr asked where you were.”

Amanda's excitement faded. “No one else?”

“Well, no one else
asked
, but we stopped in the park on the way to the luncheon and met the Ashfords. It came out in conversation with them.”

“It did?” Amanda gripped Amelia's hand. “Who was there—of the Ashfords, I mean?”

“The usual four—Emily, Anne, their mama and Edward.”

Martin closed his hand over Amanda's, squeezing to silence her. “Amelia, think back. What exactly did you tell them?”

Amelia smiled. “That's easy. Mama and I discussed what we should say before we left home. We decided we should
be deliberately vague. We agreed to say Amanda had gone north for a few days, nothing more.”

 

They drove around the streets for an hour, debating the possibility that Edward—
Edward!
—was the villain they sought.

“You cannot—simply
cannot
—argue that it isn't possible,” Amanda declared.

They'd parted from Amelia, both so subdued, so shocked, that Amelia had been openly concerned. Amanda had calmed her twin with a reassurance and a promise to tell all later, then they'd driven on, quickly leaving the noisy Avenue behind.

“I'll allow that it's possible.” The deadened tone of Martin's voice told her he was, in truth, more convinced than that, but . . .

She glanced at him, at his stony expression. “If you're thinking that exposing him will cause Luc, Lady Calverton and his sisters pain, don't forget all the pain he's already caused people no longer able to seek justice.”

The frowning glance he threw her told her she'd hit a nerve; she hurried on, “And we can't forget that, if he thinks he's got away with it, he might do something like it again. You cannot expect me to believe that half the men in your family frequent the stews. And, you see, Edward has built a reputation as steadfastly righteous, stuffy and pompous but always rigidly correct—you haven't been here to see it, but he has. Melly and I always thought it was his way of puffing himself up, especially because, although he's handsome enough, he could never hold a candle to Luc. Or you.”

Martin grimaced. After a moment, he said, “When we were younger, he was always in our shadow.”

Amanda kept silent; if she was struggling to reconcile the possibility, then how much harder would it be for him?

Two minutes later, she closed her hand over one of Martin's, twined her fingers with his, felt him glance at her. “I just remembered something Lady Osbaldestone said. I'm not sure what she was alluding to, but it wasn't just your situation. She said that in even the best of families, there's often
a bad apple in an otherwise sound crop. She said that in your case, no one believed
you
were a bad apple. She didn't say it in so many words, but I gathered she considered it a family's duty to weed out the bad apple.”

She met his gaze. “I was just thinking—wasn't that what your father thought he was doing? What he felt, for the family's sake, he had to do? Only he picked the wrong apple.”

He held her gaze for a moment, then his grew distant; he looked back at his horses. A minute passed, then he stirred, glanced around. “Luc will be God knows where at this hour.”

“But he'll meet us at Fulbridge House at four.”

When Martin nodded, his expression grim, she quietly added, “And between then and now, we have Lady Hetherington's
al fresco
luncheon and Lady Montague's at-home.”

He looked at her, then swore.

 

They attended both events. Although Martin cloaked his impatience in effortless charm, his temper had never been so close to his surface; Amanda could feel it, a thrumming tension just beneath his skin. It grated on her nerves. When, ten minutes after they'd arrived at Lady Montague's, Martin grumbled in her ear, “Can we go now?” she obligingly developed a headache, and excused them both.

Martin helped her into his curricle, then whipped up his horses for Park Lane.

“Edward?”
Reggie stared. “The blackguard! Yes, I can just imagine it, the way he proses on and on—”

“Wait!” Martin cut him off.

Together with Reggie, Amanda looked at Martin, standing before the library windows, staring at the courtyard filled with greenery.

“We shouldn't condemn him without proof. As yet, we have none.”

She conceded, “All we know is that it
might
be him.”

Martin sighed. “In all cases—Sarah, Buxton and Reggie—Edward had both knowledge and opportunity, something we've yet to establish for anyone else. However, until we have unequivocal proof, I suggest we temper our stand.”

From the chaise on which he was reclining, Reggie grimaced
at Amanda, perched in her favorite spot on the daybed. She leaned forward and whispered, “Could it have been Edward you saw?”

“Yes, damn it!” Reggie whispered back. “I said it looked like Dexter because I'd just seen him, and it was him who was asking—I was facing him then and there. I know it wasn't Luc because his hair is pitch in the night, but if Dexter hadn't been there to compare with, I'd have said the blackguard looked just like Edward.” Reggie glanced at Martin's back. “Not that that will wash as proof, unfortunately.”

Luc arrived as the clocks struck four. He took one look at Martin's face, and asked, “What?”

Martin told him, repeating Amelia's unprompted words.

When Martin fell silent, Amanda spoke, pointing out the discrepancy in Edward's known behaviors. “The image he consistently paints of himself is a fabrication. He's not a kind and caring brother, not truly, and he's not an upstanding, righteously moral gentleman, either.”

Slumped in an armchair, Luc stared at her; his face was pale, but his expression wasn't disbelieving. After a moment, he looked at Martin, then heaved a heavy sigh. “I still remember Sarah.” He closed his eyes briefly, then opened them and fixed his gaze on Martin's face. “And yes, I can believe it of Edward.”

It was the last thing Martin had expected to hear—his shock, his quick frown said as much. “How . . . ?” He came closer. “Are you sure?”

“Sure he did it? No. Sure he could have done it—yes.” Luc glanced at Amanda and Reggie, then looked at Martin again. “I know him—the real Edward—a lot better than any of you. What Amanda said is right—the image Edward projects to the ton is quite different to the man he really is. And no, it isn't something that's happened recently.”

Luc looked down, straightened his sleeve. “I used to wonder if it was just jealousy, a reaction to the fact that you and I were always . . . just more—better, stronger, whatever. Edward could never measure up, even if no one used that particular yardstick but him. But when he was seven, I caught him torturing the household cat. I rescued her, took her
away—I didn't tell Papa, but I tried to explain to Edward that what he'd done was wrong. He didn't understand, not then, not later.”

He glanced at Martin. “You probably never heard, but Edward was frequently in trouble at school—for bullying. Since he came on the town, I've had little real contact with him; he knows I don't approve, so takes care I don't hear. Nevertheless, his attitude for years has been that we—the wealthy, the titled, the chosen few—matter, while all those of lesser degree are merely here for our convenience.” After a moment, he added, “The servants hate him. If it wasn't for Mama and the girls, they wouldn't bear with him.

“So could he have forced Sarah, killed Buxton, said nothing when you, who he always resented, were accused? Could he have shot Reggie thinking he was you? Yes.” Luc looked at Martin. “If he let you take the blame for him once, I doubt he'd hesitate to make that permanent.”

Martin held Luc's gaze, then stepped around and dropped onto the daybed. He shook his head, and slumped back, staring at the ceiling. After a time, he glanced at Luc. “We still need evidence.”

“Short of wringing a confession from Edward—and you won't—I can't see where you'll get it. He's clever, calculating and there's not an ounce of warmth to what runs in his veins. Appealing to his sense of honor would be a waste of time—he doesn't recognize the concept.”

The bitterness behind Luc's words, the set of his long lips, spoke eloquently of his feelings—he'd tried and knew he'd failed to reform his brother. Amanda watched him, wondering if he would accept the need to bring Edward to justice.