On a Wild Night (44 page)

His next words answered that.

Luc glanced at Martin, his dark blue gaze sharpening. “We need to think of this as a challenge, coz—we rarely failed, not when we put our minds to something.”

Martin looked at him, met his gaze, then his lips twisted wrily. “You're right—a challenge, then: how to prove Edward's guilt. There must be a way—there
is
a way. So what is it?”

Luc looked at Reggie. “How did he get up north?”

“It sounds like he went via Nottingham.”

They tossed questions back and forth, defining how Edward must have acted, trying to see where evidence—something they could prove—might lie. Amanda and Reggie joined in; Jules brought in platters and decanters. They drank and ate, and racked their brains.

After an hour, Martin sat back. “This is getting us nowhere. Even if we prove he was up there, it's another thing to prove he pulled the trigger. And even if we did, there's nothing to connect that with Sarah and Buxton.”

Luc grimaced, but his eyes were hard. “It's Sarah I'd like to see him pay for. That's where it all started.” He sighed. “If only she'd said
something
—chattered to her nurse . . . ?”

Martin shook his head. “Mrs. Crockett was adamant, and she wouldn't have forgotten—”

“Wait!” Amanda grabbed Martin's arm. “That's
it!
”

“What? Sarah left no clue—”

“No. But only the four of us and Mrs. Crockett know that.”

Luc's eyes narrowed. “We fabricate something—”

“Not exactly.” Amanda waved for silence. “Listen. This is what—as far as anyone beyond this room knows—is going on.” She drew breath, her mind whizzing from point to point as the details fell into place. “Martin has offered for my hand, and that means he has to resolve the old scandal. So for the first time, he's revisted the scene and asked questions of the people involved. The murderer knows Martin's been back home, so all that fits.

“One of the people he'd naturally have spoken with is Mrs. Crockett. While she didn't know anything,
after
we'd left, she rummaged through the trunk where Sarah's father had put Sarah's belongings. She hadn't previously looked because she'd assumed Martin was guilty.”

Amanda glanced at Martin. “I know that's not the case, but it's better for my story if she thought all these years it was you. That explains why she didn't until now look in Sarah's diary. You were hauled away, essentially convicted of the crime—no proof was needed years ago. Now . . . after we left, Mrs. Crockett remembered the diary, but wasn't sure
it still existed. But when she looked in the trunk, she found it, and in it, of course, Sarah doesn't name but describes enough to identify the man who forced her, the one who's babe she was carrying.”

She glanced at her audience. “All men think young girls write everything in their diaries, don't they?”

Luc shrugged. “If one was dealing with innocents, it would be a concern.”

Amanda nodded. “Just so. Mrs. Crockett sent word to Martin, asking what you wanted her to do with the diary. You wrote back to send it to London.” She looked at Martin, Luc, Reggie. “The diary will be delivered here, on a certain day at a certain hour, because it'll come down with the coach, so
when
it arrives will be fixed. And we'll be here, waiting for it to be delivered, to open it and read what's written there—”

“And Edward will move heaven and earth to stop that happening.” Luc sat forward, his expression intent. “It might work.”

“And,” Martin said, “the scheme will work even if it isn't Edward.” When the other three looked at him, he went on, “Other than circumstantial evidence, we have no proof it
is
Edward. We'd be foolish to assume it's definitely him.” He glanced at Amanda. “Which is why your plan is so sound—it'll work no matter which of the five on our list is the one. Whoever he is, he'll try to stop us reading the diary.”

“But we haven't got a diary,” Reggie said.

“Any book will do.” Martin glanced at the shelves all around them.

“No, it won't,” Amanda countered. “It should at least look the part. I've an old schoolroom diary with ribbons and roses on the front. It hasn't got my name on the cover—I'll write Sarah on it. That will look convincing.”

Luc frowned. “If it was me, I'd try to get the diary back from Mrs. Crockett. I'd turn up at her cottage and say Martin sent me to fetch it.”

“You won't have time,” Martin told him. “We're going to settle this quickly.” He glanced at them all. “The diary will
arrive tomorrow evening—the coach from the north arrives at St. Pancras at five o'clock. To make it more realistic, and to make sure the diary arrives here and no attempt is made to waylay it en route, I'll send Jules up north to fetch it. In reality, we'll wrap the diary, give it to Jules, and one of my grooms will drive him to Barnet at dawn tomorrow. He'll be there to catch the coach when it stops on its way south later in the day.”

“But what about Jules?” Amanda turned to Martin. “We know the murderer's dangerous. We don't want Jules harmed.”

“You needn't worry about Jules—he can take care of himself.” When Amanda didn't look convinced, Martin's grin turned wry. “Jules is an ex-Corsican bandit, an assassin, among other things. He was once sent to kill me.”

Luc considered Martin. “He obviously wasn't much good at his job.”

Martin raised his brows. “Actually, he was very good—I'm just better.”

The cousins exchanged cousinly glances, then turned back to the business at hand.

“However, just to make sure, and lend further verisimilitude to our tale, I'll send two grooms to meet the coach at St. Pancras and escort Jules and the precious diary back here.”

Luc nodded. “Yes. That will do it. Setting guards about the diary is a masterstroke—you wouldn't bother unless you were convinced the evidence it contains is crucial.”

“As it would be in more ways than one. It would prove I was falsely accused, clear me of the old scandal, restore my standing within the family, pave the way for me to marry Amanda—connecting me with the Cynsters—and ensure I'm the darling of the ton for the foreseeable future.” Martin glanced at Luc. “If it is Edward and he craves social standing and also resents me as you say, then the combination of all that good to come my way, all hingeing on the information in the diary, will make it utterly impossible for him not to react.”

 

* * *

 

The next day dawned, and everything was in place. Amanda had unearthed her old diary, written “Sarah's” on the cover; wrapped in brown paper, it was now in Jules's possession. Together with one of Martin's grooms, he'd left for Barnet at dawn.

All of them had their alloted tasks. Reggie remained at Fulbridge House in charge of the command post. The others reported to him throughout the day, confirming their tasks completed, checking that all was on track.

After intense discussion, they'd agreed on how to get their story to all five gentlemen still on their list. They needed to be sure that all five received the message—the warning of impending exposure—before five o'clock that afternoon. It took the combined arguments of Amanda, Luc and Reggie to convince Martin that it was impossible to keep the matter private.

“However,” Amanda had pointed out, “the best way to make sure the story is repeated enough to be believed, quickly, is to tell it to selected people ‘in confidence.' “

Luc had studied Martin's stony countenance, then sighed. “You can't have it both ways—it's either going to be quick and public, or drawn out and potentially more dangerous if we try for secrecy.”

Martin had finally capitulated and they'd settled on their approach. Even though it had been by then very late, Luc had left to do the rounds of the clubs to seed the story into the right circles. After that, he would stop by the ball his mother, sisters and brother were attending, but let Edward sense no more than that there was something in the wind. Something to do with Martin.

This morning, Luc would visit Limmers; later, he'd swan through the clubs, idly coming upon the other four on their list, checking they'd heard without asking. They would assuredly ask
him
for the latest news, which, of course, he'd give.

As for Edward, they'd agreed he should hear the news from a source he'd never suspect—his sisters, Emily and Anne. Amanda was delegated to tell them the tale; with
Amelia beside her, primed to lend assistance, she set out with Louise in the carriage that morning for their usual drive in the park.

Meeting the Ashfords, deciding to join the girls strolling on the lawns, was normal practice. As usual, Edward remained close but did not walk with them. Amelia and Amanda artfully turned the conversation to Amanda's upcoming wedding. Emily and Anne peppered her with questions, innocently enthusiastic about what would be their first haut ton wedding.

It was easy for Amanda to confide, breathless with relief, that the cloud over Martin's name would soon be lifted. When the girls, who'd heard whispers of the old scandal, eagerly looked for an explanation, she divulged all they needed to know, skating over the details of the old crimes but ensuring they had a firm grasp of what was to occur later that afternoon and, even more importantly, the expected outcome and all that would ensue.

Delighted, Emily and Anne declared it seemed just like a fairy tale. Exchanging glances, Amanda and Amelia encouraged them further, confident that both girls would sit in their carriage and happily chatter to their mother all the way home, with Edward sitting by listening in.

There was no safe way to confirm that Edward had heard all the necessary details. Martin, on horseback, screened by low-hanging branches, watched the unfolding scene, watched Emily and Anne part from Amanda and Amelia and return to their mother's open landau. Edward climbed in and sat beside his mother. The landau rumbled off along the Avenue.

It passed Martin, concealed beneath the tree; he heard Anne relate: “It—the diary—is to arrive at five today!” Shaking the reins, he ambled out, following the carriage, not close enough to be sighted amid the other traffic but close enough to keep the Ashfords in view.

The girls talked non-stop. His aunt smiled, nodded and questioned. Edward sat next to her, po-faced, utterly still. When the carriage reached Ashford House, Edward descended,
handed his mother down, then his sisters. Lady Calverton swept up the steps; Emily followed. Anne stepped out in her sister's wake—Edward stopped her.

From the corner of the street, Martin watched as Edward interrogated Anne. In sisterly fashion, Anne heaved a sigh and recited answers. Eventually satisfied, Edward let her go; she climbed the steps and went in. Edward remained on the pavement, his expression unreadable, then he whirled and strode quickly inside.

Martin watched him go, then returned to Park Lane to make his report.

After that . . . throughout the day, he and Amanda had to play the part of ecstatic lovers, projecting the image of a couple for whom the last hurdle to wedded bliss was teetering, about to fall. As indeed it was, but they were so keyed up, so focused on what would occur later, that billing and cooing was an unexpected strain. In large part, he left it up to her. Plastering a smile on his face, he aimed it at anyone who came up, stayed planted by her side, and thought of other things.

Until she jabbed him in the ribs. Turned a sweet smile on him. Her eyes sparked. “Your face keeps changing. It starts pleasantly besotted, then gradually gets harder until you look positively grim! Lady Moffat just asked if you're feeling quite the thing.”

“Well . . .” He stopped himself from frowning at her. “I'm distracted.”

“So think of something else—
distract
yourself with something else. Something pleasant.”

There was only one thing he could think of that might work.

It did. The discovery that, despite all, she was still so deliciously flusterable, focused his predatory senses, and after that, an interlude in Lady Carlisle's music room while all her ladyship's other guests were indulging in post-prandial discourse on the lawns, seemed the perfect opportunity to distract them both.

Her shivering sigh as he slid into her was the sweetest music he had ever heard, her soft, smothered, keening cry as
he drove her to ecstasy and she shattered in his arms the ultimate benediction.

When they drifted back to earth, finally caught their breath, she lifted her head, studied his eyes, then her lips, swollen from his kisses, curved in a smug smile. She scored her nails lightly up his nape, an evocative caress that made him shiver. She touched her lips to his. “You're mine,” she whispered.

“Always.”

He kissed her back. Realized they were both still too tense, too wound tight with expectation. Realized her ladyship's guests had much yet to discuss.

Decided to give them something more.

 

They gathered at five in Martin's library. Reggie and Jules's nephew, Joseph, currently acting in Jules's stead, had rearranged the furniture, swapping the daybed with a chaise from further down the long room.

“It was too distracting,” Reggie declared when Amanda stood staring at the replacement chaise.

She had to admit that was true. Noting the daybed, still intact but at the other end of the room, she nodded. “It does make this area more formal.”

“Precisely.”

Luc joined them, nodding briskly. “The other four all know, but I saw no sign that any of them might interfere. Quite the opposite—they seemed delighted you were so close to clearing your name.”

Martin's lips twisted. “Edward knows at least the vital details.”

Luc met his gaze. “So the trap is set.”

They settled to wait.

The library shared a wall with the front hall; when the front doorbell pealed, they all tensed. Listened to Joseph's footsteps cross the hall. Listened as he spoke to the caller.