River Of Fire (53 page)

Sometimes, Bowden realized, one doesn't know what one values until it's gone.

He went to the stables and ordered his horse to be saddled. Then he set off after his wife, not knowing if he was going to try to stop her or join her.

At breakfast Rebecca announced, "I'm going to take a picnic and spend the day drawing."

Sir Anthony glanced up absently. "What direction shall we send the search parties if you forget to return for dinner?"

"West. I thought I might walk to Skelwith Crag."

He gave a nod of understanding. She guessed that he would make his own pilgrimage to the cliff when he was ready.

Rebecca packed a basket with drawing supplies, bread, cheese, and two small jugs, one holding cider and the other water for watercolor painting. Then she set off.

It was cooler in the Lake District than London, and snow was still on the highest hills. She took a shawl for warmth. The crisp air was bracing. More and more she liked the idea of living permanently at Ravensbeck.

In no hurry to reach her destination, she walked at a leisurely pace and collected wildflowers on the way.

But finally, filled with trepidation, she arrived at Skelwith Crag.

Despite the name, it was not a high, bare mountain-top but a tall hill crowned with birches. One face was sheered away, which created a breathtaking view over a fertile river valley.

She emerged from the birch grove and set her basket on the ground. Then, as the wind whipped through her hair, she took note of each familiar landmark.

Six mirror-smooth lakes and tarns were visible, and several tumbling little rivers, full now from the snow-melt. Rugged hills beyond counting, with well-cultivated dales in between. It was a lovely view for the last moments of one's life.

Then she deliberately studied the crag itself. Rather than a sharp drop-off, the cliff had a slanting brow that sloped gradually at first, then with increasing sharpness until it reached the final, fatal drop. It would not be impossible for someone to absently walk farther than was safe.

Accident? Suicide? Murder? She doubted they would ever know for sure. She felt a deep ache, and wondered if she would ever be able to weep for her mother.

One by one, she threw the flowers over the edge and watched them drift on the wind to the valley far below. Then she found a sunny, protected corner and settled down with her back against a convenient stone. Rebecca thought that a religious person might have prayed for her mother's soul. She opened her watercolors.

Helen Seaton would have understood.

Frazier went to an attic window of his leased house and raised his telescope to scan the river valley. His gaze went automatically to Skelwith Crag. He expected to see nothing, but someone was there. A woman in a dark blue gown, sitting.

He caught his breath with sudden excitement when he realized that Anthony's damned daughter was there sketching. Perfect.

He went to his room for the slender gold band, then down to the stables. The ride would take about an hour. Since she was drawing, she should still be there when he arrived.

But she wouldn't be for much longer.

Kenneth arrived at Ravensbeck by late morning, his horse lathered with exertion. Ignoring the charms of the weathered gray limestone house, he took the front steps three at a time. The door was unlocked, so he walked in.

A footman who had come from London emerged to greet him. "Lord Kimball, you're here early," he said with surprise. "Impatient to see Miss Rebecca, I've no doubt."

"Exactly. Where is she?"

"I believe she's gone walking in the hills."

Kenneth swore. "What about Sir Anthony? Or Lady Claxton?"

"They're in the gardens. Shall I take you there?"

Barely curbing his impatience, Kenneth said, "Please."

Sir Anthony and Lavinia were enjoying the pale sunshine when Kenneth arrived. His employer said jovially, "You've completed the rebuilding arrangements already? If you'd been in charge of the army, Napoleon would have been defeated in six months."

After dismissing the footman, Kenneth said, "I came because I'm concerned for your safety. Is Frazier in the neighborhood?"

"Not that I know of."

"Perhaps he is," Lavinia remarked. "One of the local maids said this morning that all the Londoners seemed to be coming early this year. I didn't think much about it at the time. But Frazier has a summer house only a few miles away. Perhaps the girl was referring to his arrival."

Kenneth swore again. "I believe he threw the bomb into Seaton House and that he killed Lady Seaton last summer."

There was a moment of frozen silence. Then Sir Anthony sputtered, "That's absurd! Helen's death was accidental. It's insane to say she was killed by one of my oldest friends."

Kenneth shook his head. "It was an improbable accident. I gather that her intimates suspected suicide, which is why no one will speak of her death."

Sir Anthony's face paled. "You've been talking to Rebecca."

He nodded. "From what she said, if Lady Seaton were to take her life, it would probably have been in the winter, when her melancholia was at its worst. Not in the summer."

Lavinia laid her hand over Sir Anthony's. "Listen to him, my dear. He's making sense, especially about Malcolm Frazier. Frazier's voice is always edged when he speaks of you. His resentment of your success might have overcome his friendship and made him capable of doing what Kenneth said."

While Anthony stared at his mistress, Kenneth said impatiently, "I'll explain later, but first I want to find Rebecca. Do you know where she went on her walk?"

"To Skelwith Crag, where Helen died," Sir Anthony replied.

Lavinia's brows drew together. "I think the crag is visible from Frazier's house. If he is in residence, he could see her there. But surely he would have no reason to hurt Rebecca."

"Why would he kill Lady Seaton?" Kenneth retorted. "I think he's more than a little mad, and I don't want to take chances. Is there a groom who can guide me to the crag?"

"I'll take you there myself." Sir Anthony got to his feet. "Though I don't believe you, your concern is infectious."

"Then let's go
now
. By horseback."

Ten interminable minutes later, they set off at a brisk canter. As the men rode, Kenneth began to give terse explanations. When he described Lord Bowden's assignment and his own covert role, Sir Anthony said dryly, "So Marcus is the one responsible for finding me a secretary. I think I'll write him a thank-you note. He'll hate knowing he did me a service."

Surprised, Kenneth said, "You can forgive my deceit?"

Sir Anthony gave him a shrewd glance. "You may have entered the house falsely, but that doesn't mean you're treacherous."

"I wish Rebecca were so tolerant."

"Ah. So that's why she isn't wearing your ring."

"I didn't realize you had noticed that."

"I notice a great deal, but thought it better not to meddle any further." They came to a fork in the trail and Sir Anthony turned onto the left branch. "My daughter has a problem with trusting, I fear. it's easier for her to believe the worst of people." He sighed. "She was such a quiet little girl. She never seemed upset by the irregularities of the artistic world, or by her mother's volatile moods, or my self-absorption. It wasn't until she ran off with that idiot poet that I realized we had failed to give her the stability a child needs. By that time, it was too late to really repair the damage. I worry about her. Except for her work, she has become so closed in. That was why I thought you would be good for her. She needs a man who is steady. Someone she can rely on, no matter what."

Sir Anthony's analysis of his daughter certainly explained why she had taken it so badly when she learned that Kenneth had violated her family's trust. It had been easy for her to think the worst, and his own guilt and confusion about his future hadn't helped. But, by God, Kenneth knew now what he wanted.

Putting the thought aside, he described why he believed Frazier was a murderer and arsonist. As Sir Anthony listened, his doubtful expression changed to shocked acceptance.

When Kenneth finished, the painter said, "If Helen didn't kill herself…" His voice broke. "You can't know what that means to me." His face showed grief and anger, but also relief that a terrible burden had been lifted.

They fell into silence. Kenneth pushed the pace hard across the rough countryside. The anxiety he had first felt when Rebecca left London had intensified to near panic even though his head told him he was worrying needlessly. Rebecca would be painting a landscape and snappish at being interrupted. She would tell him acerbically that he was a fool to carry on so.

He would never be so happy to be wrong if he lived to be a hundred.

"Good day, Rebecca."

She almost jumped from her skin as a familiar voice sounded from a dozen feet away. Her concentration and the constant soughing of the wind had kept her from noticing his approach.

She glanced up, holding her sopping brush to one side so it wouldn't dribble onto her picture. "Good day, Lord Frazier," she said coolly. "I didn't know you intended to come north so soon."

"I came on impulse." He gazed at the vista, tapping his thigh idly with his riding crop, every inch the London gentleman.

She thought dryly that it was a pity he hadn't stayed in London. It was tiresome to have him underfoot all the time. The man seemed to have no independent life—he existed as a satellite of her father. But he must be treated politely. "The lake country is a welcome relief after the city."

He dug into his waistcoat pocket. "I had a mission— to give you a small gift."

Not wanting anything from him, she said, "If it's a betrothal present, I must decline. Lord Kimball and I have decided we shall not suit."

"It's not a betrothal present." His lips curved in something that was not a smile. "At least, not for
your
betrothal. Here."

He extended his hand. She reluctantly reached out and he dropped a small object into her palm.

It was the missing heart band from her mother's gimmal ring.

She stared at the slim band, feeling a chill that struck to her bones. Kenneth had been right: Her mother had been murdered, and by her father's friend.