Paying the Virgin's Price (11 page)

          He touched her shoulder to reassure her. 'My problem is not with the rest of his family. They are no more to blame than the Wardales were. Those girls were no different from Honoria and Verity. Little more than babes when it all occurred, and God knows what happened to them.'

          She thought again of the haunted look in Nell's eyes when she had first come to them. 'If their father was innocent, they deserved better than they received.'

          His face clouded. 'You deserve better as well. A life of ease and not labour. But you are content, because your work is honourable. Perhaps it is true of them as well.'

          'Or perhaps not,' she said, and watched as his expression became even more glum. And suddenly, it occurred to her why he might be so interested in the Wardales. He must have some knowledge of Nell's sister, Rosalind. A
tendre
, perhaps? If she was part of the secret he did not wish to share, it must have ended tragically. Did he blame himself? Perhaps the mysterious stranger he mentioned was their brother, Mr Wardale.

          'I think I can see why you are obsessed with the crime and its aftermath.' Though she had vowed to him that she would not be suspicious or question him about his past, she wondered all the same. If her surmise was correct, she feared a visit from the mysterious stranger, almost as much as Nathan did. 'And now that you have put the idea in my head, I doubt I will be satisfied until I know the truth about the Earl of Leybourne. Although I am sure that Lord Narborough did them no harm. And I think there is a way I can assure you, that will do very little harm to anyone.'

          He hesitated, and then said, 'No harm? Because I would not put you at risk.'

          'What risk could there possibly be to me? I will be taking the girls to the Narborough's country house shortly, to visit their parents. Today, I meant to tell you that I would be gone for some days. In case you had been considering another meeting.' She gave a little dip of her bonnet to hide her face from him, for it embarrassed her to have him know how she had looked forward to their walk this week and that she was already planning for the next one. 'We will be leaving tomorrow. But once I am at Stanegate Court, I will have a chance to disprove your claim.'

          His hand tightened on her shoulders. 'I would not have you snooping through drawers and searching the attics like some common thief.'

          She smiled. 'That will hardly be necessary. Lord Narborough has kept a journal for most of his adult life. The full books are clearly labelled in a small library. Lord Narborough uses the space as his study, but I would hardly consider it private. No one will think twice if I go there in the afternoon to read. And once there, I am sure it would not be difficult for me to borrow the journal that corresponds to the year that Christopher Hebden died. If I find evidence that supports your claim, I will tell you.'

          'You would do that for me?' He touched her face. 'I am not trying to turn you against your employer. Nor do I expect you to follow me blindly. I have not known you long enough to have earned your trust. I only wish you to exercise your judgment and objectivity over anything you might discover about the events in question. Look at it as a stranger might. If you find that I am wrong, then you have every right to correct my assumptions. But if there is any shred of evidence at Stanegate that proves me right? You would not be disloyal to your employer, if he did not deserve loyalty.'

          There would be nothing to find, for she was sure that if the journal contained anything but the most mundane information, it would not be sitting out in a common room. If she looked at it, she could assure Nathan that she had done her best. But what if he did not believe her? Supposing his insistence was some mad obsession on his part and that he insisted on more and more searches?

          As if he read her mind, he said, 'I give you my word that I will trust your findings, if that is what worries you. No matter what you discover, I will ask no more of you. That you would even consider helping is more than I deserve. I trust you would not conceal the truth from me, for I believe, after our few conversations, that you are an honest and fair-minded individual. Nor will I bother you further, if you arrive at the house and change your mind about this. I will go my own way, and you will see me again when I have satisfied myself on the matter of Lord Narborough.'

          And this, more than anything else, decided her. For she was enjoying his company too much to give it up so quickly. If she looked at the book, she would be guaranteed at least one more meeting with Nathan when she returned to London. 'It will do no harm just to look at a book. They are kept in plain sight and easy reach.'

          'You are too good, Diana. And your help and friendship are more than I deserve.' He took a deep breath, and looked all around them, as though making sure that there was no one to observe them. Then he smiled at her, and there was a merry twinkle in his eyes. 'But enough of this talk of the past. We promised ourselves that we would look only forward, did we not?' And very carefully, he raised her gloved hands to his lips, and kissed the knuckles again. 'It is a beautiful day, and we will not see each other again for some while. Let us enjoy what time we have.'

Chapter Eleven

         
T
he trip next day to Stanegate Court was as it always was, an exhausting experience, even though it was not a long journey and the roads were good. The travel would have been quite pleasant, had the attitude of one of her companions been better. Verity was no trouble, as even-tempered and cooperative as ever. But Honoria approached the trip with the enthusiasm of a condemned prisoner. She overslept, dawdled over the packing--taking first too little and then too much for a week's stay. Once in the carriage, she spent the time in sullen silence while Diana attempted to cheer her by pointing out landmarks that they had all seen dozens of times.

          She could not really blame the girl. Despite the frequent corrections she received from Marc and herself, London held nothing like the censure Honoria would receive in the company of her mother. Even when she was on her best behaviour, it was unlikely that she would find as much praise as her younger sister did. Lady Narborough's continual criticism would make her behaviour on their return to London worse rather than better.

          Diana reached out a friendly hand and laid it upon the girl's, which were folded neatly in her lap. 'I know you do not wish the trip, Honoria. But think of the good it will do for your father.'

          The girl sighed. 'I will do it for Father, of course, if it will cheer him to see us.'

          'I am sure it will.'

          'But we will not stay long, will we?'

          'Not long.'

          But once they had arrived, Diana worried that they would be lucky to manage even a short trip. The trouble began from the moment they entered the house. Lady Narborough greeted both girls warmly, commenting on their looks and demanding to know in detail about each dance at each party and every sign of interest from a gentleman of the Ton. But where Verity was congratulated on her good sense for her refusal to make a decision, Honoria was gently upbraided for being a flirt. Verity's dress was most flattering today. But Honoria's was a trifle too loose, was it not? And horror of horrors, her slippers were scuffed.

          Diana felt a bit guilty for recommending the ensemble. For she had informed both girls that a trip to family hardly required their finest. And since Honoria exhibited a perfectly normal tendency to be active when in the country, it was better to add fresh scuffs to an old shoe than to ruin a new one. But Diana had long ago learned to hold her tongue in these situations. Lady Narborough meant nothing by her comments, and it was not Diana's place to explain to her how they hurt her eldest daughter.

          After the grilling delivered by their mother, it was time to visit Lord Narborough. He was no longer confined to a sickbed, but according to the letters they had received in London, he rarely left his rooms. Diana had to admit that his colour was poor, and it appeared his appetite was as well. The contents of his lunch tray were nearly untouched.

         
Guilt
, she wondered? And then checked herself. For the thought had never entered her mind that his failing health might be more than a normal weakening with age, until Nathan had placed it there.

          'And how are my fine girls, Miss Price?' Narborough's eyes sparkled at the sight of them, and for a moment, he seemed more his old self. But she could see by the way Lady Narborough hovered at his side that she feared any shock might finish him.

          'Well, sir.' She gestured the girls forward and they greeted their father warmly, assuring him that the time in London was happy, and regaling him with stories of the balls and dinners they had attended and the people they had met.

          And Honoria's behaviour was exemplary, just as Diana knew it would be. The girl made her time in London sound innocuous and glossed over the more rambunctious adventures with such good humour that her father laughed out loud. Even her mother could not have complained for the positive change her visit wrought in the earl.

          When she was sure that she was not needed, and that the family was as happy in their time together as they were ever likely to be, she excused herself. She walked quietly into the little room where the journals were kept. They were just as she remembered them, lined up neatly behind the glass doors of the bookcase, bound in leather with the dates stamped in gold upon the spines. They were the work of a man with pretensions of grandeur. Lord Narborough must think that his every thought was worthy of study by someone. Although who would wish to read them, she was not sure. She had never seen the books removed from the shelves in all the years that she had been in the household. Not even in reference by the man who had done the writing. His children, when faced with the things, silently rolled their eyes at the folly of an old man.

          When she reached to open the cabinet, it became clear to her why the things never moved. The glass door was locked against casual reading. How strange. Did he fear discovery of something or merely wish to keep the things clean and organized?

          She shook her head to clear it of suspicions. After her talk with Nathan, even the most common actions seemed fraught with guilt. Whatever the reason for locking the things up, she had no real wish to ask for the key and call attention to her interest, for she could think of no way to explain herself.

          Fortunately, or unfortunately, such intervention would not be necessary. She carefully removed a pin from her hair, rearranging the curls to disguise its absence. Then she went to work on the lock with the bent bit of wire and a letter opener from the nearby desk. Now she would see if ten years of excessive virtue had dulled her skills as a lock pick. She had not had to behave thus since she was a girl and tried to get around her father and his gambling, searching for hidden money in locked desk drawers.

          She felt the satisfying click of the lock's mechanism as the tumblers slid home, and then she pulled the door open and traced her finger back as though travelling back through the years to a point almost twenty year's distant, and removed the volume labelled 1794. This would have the information, if anything would. She set it aside for a moment, rearranging the remaining books so the gap in years would not be obvious. Then, she relocked the door and slipped the purloined volume into her pocket.

          Before she left the room, she paused to listen for noises in the library, feeling less than comfortable with the relief she felt when she heard silence. If she was doing nothing wrong, then why did she feel so guilty?

          The lock was the answer, of course. She had planned on simply removing a book from a shelf in a public room and sitting down to read. But the lock was a warning that the contents were not meant to be removed. So when she was sure that no one would see, she took the book to her room, closed and locked her own door behind her, and opened it to the first page.

          What had been the day of the murder? Had Nathan even said? Best to begin at the beginning and work her way forward.

          She flipped quickly through the first few months, surprised at how little the family had changed. There were stories of Marc, serious and quiet even as a boy, and the little scamp Hal. Honoria was not out of leading strings but had already gotten into a multitude of scrapes. Verity was still in the cradle, and there were detailed descriptions of the baby gifts that Lady Narborough still had on display in shadow boxes and glass cases around the house.

          And then an entry in a shaking hand, as though the writer were consumed by emotion.

         
Don't know what's to be done with Will. His behaviour grows reckless. No better than Hebden. They are both detestable and I am sick to death of their company.

          He might have known a dozen Wills and Williams. It was not specific enough to connect with certainty to William Wardale, the Earl of Leybourne. Nor did it explain what might constitute reckless behaviour. She continued to read.

         
The situation grows worse with each day. Hebden's Gypsy brat now playing with my boys. Kit encourages the association. Seems to find it amusing to see the dark lad and treats him as though nothing is odd. I cannot believe that his wife, Amanda, turns a blind eye to it all. But she is raising the boy as her own.

          She struggled to remember what she had heard of the scandal. Kit must mean Christopher Hebden. There was something about a lost child, after the father's death. A bastard son, who was sent away. And Amanda Hebden, prostrate with grief over the whole affair. Diana flipped through more pages.

         
A shocking discovery. No wonder Amanda does not clean her house of the Gypsy filth. She is too busy with Leybourne to care. How can Will dine with us at the club, and then go off to tup Hebden's wife? And Kit is too busy with his whores to care. They laugh and talk together, then go off to their sinful beds as though it means nothing.

         
They were the friends of my youth. But now I feel unclean by the association.

          The book shook in her trembling hand, as she tried to imagine the frail man upstairs penning the angry words. Although he was most particular with his own reputation and that of his children, she had never seen him cross with anyone in all the time she had lived with the family. But perhaps he had been a different man twenty years ago. She paged eagerly on.

         
Another shouting match with Kit over the cipher business. Too much whisky on all sides and not enough sense. He called me a traitor. I called him out, told him to solve the damn cipher if he is so eager to find the spy in our midst. But he cannot. The thing is unbreakable.

         
Without Will there, we'd have come to blows. Very embarrassing. But nerves frayed all round. This cannot go on much longer.

          Traitor? She had never thought of Lord Narborough as less than an honest man and proud defender of his country. But he did not deny the accusation. And then, another note, coming almost as a postscript to the last.

         
Hebden says he has cracked the cipher. Now the truth will out. There is no stopping it.

          And all that was left of the next page was a ragged tatter. Someone had seized the thing and ripped it from the book. She ran her fingers along the place where the pages should be stitched, and counted the little bits of paper: one, two, three pages missing. And at the top of the next page, a single line, hanging as though forgotten.

         
Dear God, forgive me.

          Her pulse quickened. It proved nothing. But whatever had happened was worse than she suspected. Accusations of infidelity and treason on both sides. The missing pages, as though someone did not wish the truth to be known.

          And that last statement, which could mean anything, but appeared damning when taken with all the rest. What was she to do with the information? It appeared that Nathan might be right. And it left her with a difficult choice to make. She'd lived in ignorance of any problems in this family and known Lord Narborough to be nothing more than a fond old man, caring deeply for his wife and children. But his health had worsened after the appearance of Nell and then the Gypsy. Was this because he feared the truth being revealed?

          Had she found this information even a week ago, she'd have been tempted to turn her back on it. Better to let the matter rest and put the book back upon the shelf, instead of stirring up old troubles that could hurt more people than they helped. But now?

          She took the book and set it in the bottom of her valise, and then covered it with a pile of folded stockings. She would pray that no one noticed its absence during the visit, and then she would take it back to London to show Nathan Dale. If he felt a pressing need to know the identity of the Hebden murderer, she would help him. It did not matter whether it was to avenge a lost love or free himself from the harassment of the same man that haunted her own past. She would do it, because in only a few weeks, she had grown to love and trust him beyond any loyalty she might feel to her old friends.

          Because her objective opinion on past events, based on the contents of the little book, was that the truth could be every bit as bad as he assumed.