Cheryl Holt (32 page)

“Amanda!” Michael called from down the hall, but his appearance couldn’t cool her wrath.

She lunged at Pamela, and as Pamela noted her wild stare, her violent countenance, she chuckled merrily and goaded, “Michael is all mine.”

“Laugh at me, will you, you deceitful hussy?” Amanda’s ire boiled over. She rushed forward and pushed Pamela, smacking into her with bruising strength.

Pamela was at an awkward angle, her bottom resting on the balustrade. The blow sent her flinging backwards, her arms flailing out, and in an instant, she flew over the railing and hurled to the ground two floors below. As she hit the marble stones on the verandah, there was a loud thud.

Amanda gasped and peeked over the edge, stunned to discover that Pamela was still and unmoving, her limbs twisted, her dress askew. Blood seeped from her crushed head.

Guests were walking in the garden, taking the night air, and someone shouted, “What was that? Did you see it?”

There were numerous murmurs; then several people hurried onto the patio to hover over Pamela’s body.

“It’s Pamela Martin!” a man exclaimed. “I think she’s dead.”

Amanda lurched into the shadows, shielding herself from view, as Michael raced onto the balcony and peered down to learn what had happened. The crowd was gaping up, trying to ascertain from where Pamela had tumbled, and on espying him lapsed into a shocked silence.

Eventually, a woman pointed at him and hissed, “Murderer! Murderer!”

“Just like your father,” another bellowed, “when he killed your mother.”

“You Farrows are mad!” a third tossed out. “Every cursed one of you!”

In union, they took up the scathing chorus, and Michael faced them down. For many minutes, he suffered their derision and accusations, letting their insults sluice over him. He was stoic, resigned, and visibly angry, but he didn’t respond to the allegations, didn’t defend himself or offer an alternate scenario as to what had occurred.

Then, without any explanation, without a question to herself regarding the brutal deed, he turned and went inside. Amanda waited a few seconds, then tiptoed away.

 22 

“Are we here?” Margaret asked.

Michael looked out the carriage window and surveyed the yard of the coaching inn where they’d stopped. “I believe we are.”

“Do you know where their house is located?”

“No. I’ll go in and obtain directions.”

He gazed at his young traveling companion, relieved that he’d had her accompany him. Considering the losses she’d sustained in the past year, and the changes she’d been through, she was holding up remarkably well.

“Will they be glad to see us?”

“Of course they will,” he replied, when he wasn’t positive as to what their reception would be.

They were about to arrive at Barnett Manor, unannounced, uninvited, and unexpected. What would Emily say? What would she do?

While she’d never be rude to Margaret, he was fairly sure she would slam the door in his face.

He couldn’t describe what bizarre urge had brought
him to Hailsham. Pamela had been buried in a quiet ceremony, but after events had concluded, he and Margaret had been trapped in the mansion. They’d been unable to venture out without enduring the scorn and ridicule of the entire population of London.

When Amanda had pushed Pamela off the balcony, Margaret had been watching from his bedroom window. She’d witnessed it all, so Michael had been cleared by the authorities, but others insisted her story was false. Everyone was certain that he’d murdered Pamela, and people were demanding that he be hanged, or that he be stripped of his title and transported.

He refused to dignify the charges with a response, so the rumors flew without refutation, and with each passing day, they grew more sordid. Gossip abounded, with friends and enemies alike spreading outrageous, untrue tales.

There were even vile fabrications about himself and Margaret, with perverted claims that he had an unnatural relationship with her, and thus had coerced her into lying about Pamela’s death.

He couldn’t abide any of it. The furor too closely resembled the time when his mother had been killed by his father, when his father had committed suicide. In one insane instant, Michael had been orphaned and forced to assume the role of earl. The slew of recent disasters had stirred a familiar cauldron of detested melancholy. He was saddened beyond measure, and every despicable emotion he’d suffered during his parents’ calamity had resurfaced to plague him tenfold.

He’d needed to escape, had needed to take Margaret away so that she wouldn’t overhear the repulsive yarns
that were being bandied. For reasons he couldn’t explain or understand, he’d decided to visit Emily in Hailsham.

He felt as if he were on a boat and adrift at sea, that he was about to be swamped by huge waves, and she represented a peculiar type of anchor. He was desperate to speak with her, to ascertain that she was all right. She’d never cashed the bank draft he’d sent, and he was frantic to know why she hadn’t. Perhaps she was still too angry, but she couldn’t let pride prevent her from using the money to secure her future.

Beyond his desire to inquire about the money, he had to tell her what had actually happened with Pamela. He didn’t want anything from her. He would never be so brash as to propose marriage or attempt to inflict himself on her in a more permanent fashion. The last few weeks had proven, once again, that he wasn’t fit for polite company, that he should never aspire to a different existence, and he’d accepted that reality.

But she symbolized a better period in his life, when he’d been happy and content, and in his current miserable condition he was yearning to confide in her, was anxious to seek the solace and comfort he attained when he was in her presence.

He had another, more selfish, motive for calling on her. He had to find somewhere for Margaret to go. The girl couldn’t live with him, not while such squalid reports were being disseminated, but she’d weathered tremendous adversity, and he couldn’t bear the notion of dumping her at an impersonal, distant boarding school, yet he could devise no other option.

Margaret had been great friends with Emily’s niece, and Michael hoped he could persuade Emily to let
Margaret stay in Hailsham. At least until matters calmed in the city.

Emily was a kind woman, a generous woman, and despite her low opinion of him, she’d help Margaret. Michael was convinced she would.

“Are you hungry?” he asked Margaret. “Would you like to come in and have something to eat?”

“No, I’m excited to arrive. I’d rather proceed directly to their residence.”

He smiled. Though confronted by constant tragedy, she remained the most pleasant and sweet child, and he wished there was a way to keep her with him, but he’d never be that cruel. She had to be sequestered as far away from him as he could manage.

“Give me a minute, and I’ll see what I can learn.”

“I can hardly wait!”

His appearance had created a stir, and he climbed out to chaos. Boys rushed from the stables to tend the horses, and servants at the inn peeked out the windows to discover who was riding in such a fancy vehicle.

He went in and acquired easy instructions to Barnett Manor, as well as a meat pie for Margaret, and he was prepared to depart when he literally bumped into Reginald Barnett.

By all accounts, it was a small village, but what were the odds?

Michael cringed and resisted the urge to dust off his jacket. The oaf gave him the willies, and Michael couldn’t stand Barnett’s pompous, pretentious attitude, but then, the sentiment was clearly mutual.

From Barnett’s scowl and derisive glare, he disliked Michael as much as or more than Michael disliked him.

“Why are you here, Winchester?” Barnett showed no courtesy, though Michael couldn’t blame him. When they’d previously parleyed, Michael had nearly pitched him out in the yard. The shame had to still grate on Barnett’s enormous pride.

Michael thought about ignoring the question and the man, but he’d been informed that Emily was living in Barnett’s house. “I’m traveling through, and I’d planned on a brief visit to Barnett Manor.”

Barnett glanced about, then requested a private room from the innkeeper. They were escorted to one, and as the proprietor closed the door, Barnett spun around.

“So . . . you’re sniffing after my cousin. I might have guessed that you would, but since you’ve dared to impose your eminent self upon us, I must point out a fact you obviously don’t know.”

“What is that?”

“She’s no longer my cousin.”

“Don’t spew riddles,” Michael snapped. “What do you mean?”

“She’s my wife.”

“Your . . . your wife?”

“Yes.”

In all his visions of his meeting Emily, in all the images he’d conjured, the horrid possibility had never entered his mind.

She’d married Reginald Barnett? How could she have?

When she’d been in London, she’d grasped what a villain Barnett was. She’d been ready to survive on the streets rather than subsist under Barnett’s roof. What had transpired to change her view?

There was only one answer: It was all Michael’s fault.
How could he have failed her so completely? If he’d provided for her, if he’d made sure she’d had the money she needed for Mary and Rose, she could have forged a different path.

He couldn’t believe the appalling news! He simply couldn’t believe it!

Devastated, he wanted to rail and howl, to shake his fist at the heavens, to bellow,
Why? Why?

Yet he controlled any outward sign of distress. He was a master at hiding his emotions, and he’d die before he’d permit Barnett to realize how grievously the tidings had wounded him.

“Congratulations,” he blandly stated as if the subject were of no consequence whatsoever. “When was the ceremony?”

“A few days after she returned. We’d called the banns earlier in the spring, so the vicar felt it was appropriate to carry on without calling them again.”

Michael would have cut out his tongue so as not to inquire further, but he caught himself saying, “I trust Emily is happy . . . ?”

“She’s back at home, where she always belonged,” Barnett replied, “and you are not welcome to stop by and see her.”

“As you wish.” Now that he’d been advised of her wedding, Michael was eager to go, but Barnett was keen to rub it in.

“It’s tit for tat, isn’t it, Winchester?” Barnett goaded. “Doesn’t it gall you?”

Michael knew he should disregard Barnett and be off, but the idiot’s hostile tone was too provoking, too infuriating.

“What’s that?”

“Can you picture me sawing away between her pretty thighs?” Barnett snickered. “My appetite is voracious, and I have her whenever and wherever the mood strikes me.”

Michael was so shocked by the foul comment that he was speechless. What husband would speak so despicably of his new bride? What man would utter such a dastardly remark to another man with whom he was scarcely acquainted?

“You’re a swine, Barnett.”

The insult had no effect and didn’t shut him up as Michael had hoped.

“She’s mine,” Barnett preened, “and she has to obey me. Would you like me to describe some of the deeds I force her to perform? I give it to her in the mouth. I shove it up her ass. She can’t refuse me.”

He chortled with glee, and it was such a revolting, nauseating sound that before Michael could pause to reconsider, he punched Barnett as hard as he could. There was a crack, and blood squirted from Barnett’s nose.

The knave shrieked as he lurched to the side and covered his face. “Who the hell are you to come in here and assault me?”

“I am the man who loves her, who will love her forever.”

“But she isn’t yours!” Barnett was cackling with malice. “She’ll never be yours!”

Michael grabbed him, shook him like a rag doll, and warned, “I intend to keep track of her.”

“Hah! Am I to be frightened?”

“You should be.”

“What if you learn that I’ve harmed her? What will you do? She’s my wife, and there’s not a person in the kingdom who can gainsay me.”

It was true. Whatever ignominy he perpetrated against Emily, it was nobody’s business, and no one would interfere. Barnett could murder her, and if he invented a tolerable lie, he’d never be prosecuted.