The Kidnapped Bride (12 page)

“Why on earth did you elope with him in the first place?”

It was all she needed. The story seemed to pour from her as she explained about the abduction and Grandpapa’s ridiculous will. She could not bring herself to explain why she had encouraged Darcy in the first place, so she glossed over those details, and he did not press her. She told him nothing about the afternoon’s affair either, merely stating that Darcy had already been displeased with her when Sir Nicholas arrived, that her dress and behavior at dinner had angered him further, and that they had quarreled. “I think he must have had quite a bit to drink, too,” she added.

“He did,” Sir Nicholas agreed grimly. “Then what?”

She told him that there had been a struggle. Since she left out most of the details, he responded with little more than a grimace. But when she added that, later, she had feared she might have hurt Darcy seriously, even killed him, Sir Nicholas set his glass down and got up, moving with quick, athletic grace to kneel beside the body again. Carefully, he examined Darcy’s skull.

“There’s a beautiful lump there all right,” he said, “but it didn’t break the skin, let alone his head. He may have been groggy when he was shot, but I’d swear he was on his feet. He was certainly alive, at any rate. No bullet ever brought that much blood from a dead man.” He returned to his chair with a further order to finish her brandy and continue her tale.

Flushing, Sarah took another sip. It felt smoother going down, so she tried another. “That’s all, sir. I let Erebus in and took him upstairs with me. I was a little afraid that Darcy might come looking for me. And, even if he did not, I expected someone to find him and put him to bed. But no one came, and that’s when I began to wonder if I’d killed him after all. I was just coming to see when I heard the explosion.”

“Pistol shot,” he corrected. “I heard it, too, down at the stables. Came as quick as I could.” He looked at her sharply. “Where were you exactly?”

“On the landing. Erebus just lurched downstairs, barking, and scratched at the door.”

“So you could see the library door when you heard the shot?”

“Yes.”

“And those French doors were open to the terrace?”

“When I came in. I’m sure I shut them earlier.”

“No matter. Just means Darcy let someone in. Be quiet a moment now. I must think.”

Sarah watched him. He was still sipping brandy and leaning once again against the mantel shelf. He looked strong and capable and relaxed, for all the world as though the fourth Earl of Moreland still breathed. A new thought entered her head, and she stared at Sir Nicholas with great intent.

“You are his heir.”

The sharp blue gaze encountered her own. “If that means you think I’m responsible for this, you can put that silly maggot straight out—”

“No, no!” Sarah protested, shocked that he would think such a thing. “I only just realized that you are the new Earl of Moreland … my lord.”

He relaxed again, a tiny smile just touching his lips. “I suppose I am at that,” he said, then eyed her more sharply yet, “unless … is it possible that….” He hesitated. “Pardon the indelicacy, my lady, but could you possibly be with child?”

Sarah blushed, shaking her head. “No, my lord.”

“How can you be so certain?”

Flushing painfully, she turned away. “I’m sure,” she said firmly.

Nicholas’s eyes narrowed, but he spoke calmly enough. “Then, I suppose I’m the new earl. Who would have thought it? Certainly not Darcy. Nor I, for that matter.” He looked a bit dazed by the notion, but the effect was momentary. He gazed down at the body again, speculatively.

“What shall we do, sir?”

He looked at her again. “You are going to finish your brandy and go to bed. No, don’t argue. I’ll take you up myself, if necessary, and lock you in.”

“You wouldn’t!”

“Don’t be melodramatic,” he advised her. “Of course I would. I suppose Tom’s gone off somewhere. Someone will have to find him. I’ll send Timmy, my tiger, for the nearest magistrate. I assume Sir William Miles still holds that position.” Sarah confessed that she had no idea. “Well, Tom will know. At any rate, you would be well advised to play least in sight. There’s little I can do to prevent your being suspected of this, but I’ll do my possible. The less anyone sees of you now, the better. So drink up.”

Glaring, she demanded, “Why should anyone else suspect me?”

“Because he was shot with his own pistol. I recognized it and so will Tom. So will Beck, if anyone shows it to him. How would a housebreaker manage to kill Darcy with his own gun?” She swallowed. “I don’t know. But I didn’t do it!”

“I know that now. And you are not alone, Countess.”

Sarah smiled gratefully. “Could we not remove the pistol?”

“No,” he replied firmly. “We will tell the truth. The facts may tell against you now, but when the answer is found, they will tell against the real criminal even more. If we monkey about with the evidence, we can only help him escape.”

Little though she liked it, his argument made sense, so Sarah drank the rest of her brandy and stood up, casting a last glance at her husband’s body. “It is difficult to believe he is dead,” she said, half to herself.

“Send for your maidservant,” Nicholas said harshly. “You should not be alone up there.”

Reluctant to admit to him that she had no personal maid servant, Sarah only nodded and turned away toward the hall. Erebus trailed after her.

“Lock your door, Countess.”

Sarah glanced back at him. “I will. G-good night, sir.” He said nothing at all, but as she wended her way back upstairs, Sarah had little fear of being hailed before the magistrate, despite his rather pessimistic warnings. It did not occur to her to wonder why she should trust a man whom she had hitherto thought to be censorious, overbearing, and dictatorial. She only knew that she did.

By the time she had locked herself in her room, she had begun to wonder what would become of her and nearly chuckled at the thought that she was now a dowager, the Dowager Countess of Moreland. The title sounded perfectly stuffy. But the next thought sobered her quickly. She could not stay here. Surely, the new Lord Moreland would expect to take up residence at Ash Park, principal seat of the earls of Moreland since whenever, and even Penny’s presence would not be enough to make living in his house with him an acceptable option. No doubt, he would expect her to return to her aunt and uncle. Sarah plumped down on the window seat, depressed at the very thought.

Her window was slightly open, and she soon heard the sound of hoofbeats on the drive. That would be Timmy going for the magistrate. She didn’t know the exact time, but it was surely after eleven and would be midnight before they returned. It would be as well if Sir Nicholas—no, she must remember now to think of him as Lord Moreland—could claim that she was asleep by then.

Accordingly, she undressed herself, grimacing at the sight of the bloodstains near the hem of her skirt. She wondered if Betsy would be clever enough to get them out so that she might wear the flattering gold dress again. But of course she would not be able to wear it anyway, she realized, as her spirits plunged to a new low. She would be expected to mourn her husband’s death for at least a year!

Snuffing the candles; Sarah crept into bed, feeling very sorry for herself. What had she done to deserve such a fate? It was not fair that, at the tender age of seventeen, she should first be stolen away from the gaieties of London, then forced into marriage with a man like Darcy Ashton, and finally cast into widowhood with all its attendant restrictions without so much as a thought by anyone for her own wishes. How had it happened?

A tiny voice deep within whispered that it had happened because she had played foolish games, had willfully disregarded her aunt’s very sensible warnings, and had defied a cardinal rule of respectability by getting into a closed carriage with a gentleman. In other words, the tiny voice insisted, refusing to be stifled, the whole business was Sarah’s own fault.

Knowing the voice spoke only the truth did nothing to make the accusations more palatable, but she virtuously decided then and there that in future she would heed the advice of those who had her best interests at heart, that she would never again give way to impulse, that she would strictly curb her willfulness. Sarah might have sunk even more deeply into the arms of self-pity, had she not suddenly shocked herself by gripping the pillow and wishing that whoever had murdered her husband had seen fit to do so before that damned assignation in Bond Street!

Caught up by the wicked thought, she came to her senses and began to think more practically about her situation. What were her options? At first, there seemed to be none, except to return to Berkeley Square and beg forgiveness for her sins. Then she thought that perhaps she might convince Miss Penistone that the two of them should find a cottage somewhere—not London—and set up housekeeping. They would need money, but surely Darcy had made arrangements for an independent—an annuity or something—or perhaps her grandfather’s money would now come to her. These thoughts and others spun around her mind, and though she had been certain she would not sleep a wink, she soon drifted off.

No one disturbed her slumber, and she awoke much refreshed the following morning. The sky was clear, and birds sang cheerfully in the trees outside her window, so it was no wonder that she did not immediately recall the events of the previous evening. When she did, however, she jumped out of bed with a sense of dismay and a burning curiosity to know what had taken place while she slept.

Dressing quickly in a simple sprig muslin morning gown, she tied back her hair with a ribbon and sallied forth to find the new Lord Moreland in the breakfast parlor. Nicholas smiled at her and gestured toward a rather bulky gentleman standing near the sideboard.

“Good morning, my lady. May I present my man, Dasher? He has agreed to serve us this morning, since Beck is absent, and I thought it would be a deal more comfortable for you than if Tom were to do so. You may say what you like in his presence. As Darcy so inelegantly used to phrase it, Dasher’s as close as an onion. Besides, I’ve very few secrets from him.”

“How do you do, Dasher?”

“His lordship is very kind, my lady.” With these brief words he turned his attention to the preparation of her breakfast plate, while Nicholas himself rose to seat her.

“I trust you slept well.”

“Yes, thank you. But what happened? You must tell me everything.”

There was little enough to tell. Sir William Miles, the magistrate, was reserving judgment for lack of telltale evidence. Pressed, his lordship admitted that the magistrate had asked a pointed question or two regarding Sarah’s part in the affair but had accepted his request that she not be wakened. “I told him the truth,” he added, “that you were in a state of shock and needed your rest. He wants to see you sometime today, however.”

“Oh!” She had hoped never to have to think about the details again. “Must I?”

“You must. There’s nothing to worry about. He is a gentleman and won’t accuse you of anything. He merely wants to hear what you can tell him.”

“Very well,” she said meekly, thereby clearing the first hurdle of accepting someone else’s advice. Nothing further was said while Dasher served her breakfast, but once he had poured out her tea, Sarah gathered her courage to broach the subject preying hardest upon her mind. “I suppose you will be wanting to send me back to London as soon as possible,” she said; carefully casual.

N
ICHOLAS SET DOWN HIS
cup, his eyes narrowing. “Why the devil would I send you back to London?”

“Well, I certainly cannot stay here!”

“Why not?”

“I cannot believe you would ask, my lord,” Sarah declared roundly. “You, who are forever preaching proprieties, should certainly realize that it would be most improper for me to remain here with you. Or do you not mean to take up residence here?”

“Certainly, I mean to take up residence. This place is crying out for proper management. But the one fact needn’t preclude the other. You will naturally remove to Dower House.”

“Dower House?”

“Of course. Surely, you’ve inspected it. I’m sure it needs a touch or two to make it habitable, but that needn’t take long.”

Sarah had a vague memory that Darcy had mentioned a Dower House, but she had assumed it must have fallen down, or burned, or suffered some other disaster, since she had never seen it. She was very much surprised to learn that it lay not fifty yards off the library terrace. The fact that she had never discovered it for herself was easily explained, since she had rarely left the house, and the thick growth of trees between the two dwellings rendered Dower House invisible from all but the uppermost windows of the main house.

Directly after breakfast, his lordship announced that he would take her over Dower House himself. Passing through the library doors onto the terrace, they soon discovered that Darcy’s gardeners had evidently had no orders to clear the path, which was nearly overgrown. Nicholas went ahead, breaking branches in an attempt to make passage easier for Sarah, but she snagged her skirt more than once. Her curiosity overcame any annoyance she might otherwise have felt, however.

The house itself, when it came into view, was a neat, three-story, white brick and half-timber structure with broad stone steps leading up to a wide veranda and double doors of heavy, carved oak. The entry was flanked by two projecting window bays.

Nicholas pushed open the front doors, clearly astonished to find them unlocked, but a hall floor thick with dust and walls hung with cobwebs seemed to indicate that no one had been next or nigh the place in months, if not years.

“This is disgraceful,” he muttered.

Sarah could only agree as she followed him through a door on their right into what had been a drawing room in better days. Curtains hanging at the windows were so thin and faded that it was impossible to tell what their original color or material had been, and there was no furniture. Across the hall, the dining room was in similar shape. The floors were dry, cracked in places, and the whole place smelled of dust and mildew.