“You—you have nothing to be sorry about,” Grey said brokenly. “I thought—I believed that she—” He shook his head and tried unsuccessfully to suppress a sob. “I was a fool,” he bit out.
Jennifer stepped toward him, instinctively seeking to comfort him, to drive away the agony that quivered in his voice, but he raised both hands as if to ward her off. “No.” His voice was stronger. “Keep away from me. I can’t—I can’t think clearly.”
He stood up and brushed past her, stumbling blindly down the stairs. His shoulders were bent in an attitude of utter defeat, and watching him, Jennifer felt a wave of pity and grief for him, which evaporated instantaneously into fury as she heard his study door slam.
He had gone to drink himself into a stupor again, she realized angrily.
Didn’t the fool realize that drinking wouldn’t solve anything?
“Damn you, Grey,” she said to the empty chamber. “Damn you to hell.”
• • •
“I need to talk to you.”
Carey, idly puffing at a pipe as he sat in the parlor, looked up in surprise. “Oh. Good afternoon, Catherine. How can I help you?”
Catherine limped into the chamber and sat down on the leather-upholstered settee in front of the blazing fire. It was still cold outside, despite the fact that it was nearly spring. “I’m worried about Jennifer,” she said without preamble.
So am I,
Carey thought.
Worried because she fancies herself in love with a lunatic. I should have stopped her from marrying him last year. I could have made her my mistress. I could have offered her uncle more money. I could have—
He cut off that line of thought, aware that it was unproductive. Jennifer was married, and she was in love with Grey. And there was nothing to be done about it now, nothing at all. “Why?”
“Grey is very angry with her,” Catherine said haltingly. “I don’t really know what happened, but—”
Carey lifted a russet eyebrow. “Are you afraid he might murder her?” he said cruelly.
Catherine said nothing, but he saw her pale slightly.
“I know you lied all those years ago. You told everyone that Grey was in the stable all night, when in fact he killed Diana. Didn’t you?”
When she stubbornly said nothing, he shrugged, feeling a reluctant stab of admiration for her obstinate, if misguided, loyalty. “Very well. Let’s table that for now. Tell me exactly what has you concerned.”
“He’s been in his study all afternoon,” Catherine said. “He was so angry this morning that I was frightened. I don’t know what happened, but I know Jennifer had something to do with it.” She hesitated, then looked at him squarely. “Please, Carey. You have to watch Jennifer to make certain—to make certain nothing happens to her.”
Carey drew a mouthful of smoke into his lungs
thoughtfully. He knew what had caused the discord between Grey and Jennifer, even if Catherine did not. It was his fault. Damned blundering fool that he was, he had unwittingly caused another argument, just as he believed he had caused the quarrel between Grey and Diana that led to her death.
This argument might lead to Jennifer’s death. He could not permit that to happen.
“Very well,” he agreed tightly. “I will keep an eye on Jennifer tonight. I promise. And Catherine …”
“Yes?”
“Don’t worry. I’ll take good care of her. I promise.”
Jennifer did not see Grey again that afternoon. Distressed as she was over the situation with her husband, she was grateful for the absence of the O’Neills. In a way she was even grateful for Grey’s refusal to leave the study. She was not certain she wanted to see him in this mood. Surely, in his current vitriolic and angry state, he would be infuriated if he knew of her plans.
She was not required to entertain anyone at dinner tonight. Catherine and Carey ate in the dining chamber, and Grey did not eat at all. She supposed he was still trying to numb the pain of his discovery by drinking. Jennifer ate nothing at all, though a slave brought food to her chamber. She was too nervous to eat. She could do nothing but wait.
Since she did not have to play the hostess tonight, she spent the early part of the evening sitting anxiously in her chamber with no company other than William. Earlier she had sent a note, which said only, “I have reconsidered your proposition. Please meet me at nine o’clock at the wharf to discuss.”
She did not pause to consider that her plan was dangerous. She was determined to establish, once and for all, that Grey was no murderer.
At eight-thirty she left the house.
Though she left as quietly as possible, Grey heard the soft tapping of her shoes on the planks of the hall floor. Arising from his easy chair, he strode from his study and followed her.
In his hand he carried a pistol.
J
ennifer walked across the wide, moonlit lawn that sloped down to the river. Despite her determination to get to the i bottom of this matter, her mind was not on the task at hand. All she could think about—all she had thought about all day—was the tender way Grey had made love to her last night. He had been so gentle, so kind—
And then everything had been shattered because he had thought that she had been unfaithful.
She remembered his grief at the discovery that Diana had lain with another, and she felt a brief spurt of annoyance. He had been angry and wounded when he thought Jennifer had sought affection elsewhere, but the discovery that his long-dead wife had loved another had hit him far harder. It was a painful reminder that Diana meant more to him than Jennifer could ever hope to.
Or was it?
Thoughtfully, she considered the situation. Grey had been distraught because he had somehow, over the course of many years, come to believe that Diana was more than human. He had canonized her in his mind and was understandably horrified when he discovered that she was no saint, but only a very fallible woman.
Perhaps the fact that he knew Jennifer was merely a woman, a human being with myriad faults and flaws, worked to her advantage.
She did not want to be placed on a pedestal; she only wanted to be loved.
Grey strode swiftly down the front stairs of Greyhaven and stepped quietly onto the grass, following the small figure of his wife. He was halted abruptly by a voice behind him.
“Stop right there, Greyson. Turn around. Slowly.”
At the menacing voice, Grey turned. Behind him stood Carey O’Neill, his face dark with anger. His blue eyes blazed from above a dueling pistol—a duplicate of the pistol Grey held in his hand.
The pistol was pointed straight at Grey’s heart.
Diana was no longer a factor, Jennifer reasoned as she picked her way across the grass. Whatever Grey had felt for his first wife had surely been smashed into a million pieces by his discovery that she had loved another man.
But Grey felt something for Jennifer. She was certain of it. The passionate way he had made love to her last night demonstrated all too clearly that he cared for her.
The only thing that stood between them, then, was Grey’s belief that he was a murderer. If she could prove that someone else had murdered Diana, then the last barrier would fall.
And she planned on proving it tonight.
“Drop the pistol, Greyson.”
Grey cursed mentally. He had taken the dueling pistol he held from his case, carelessly leaving the box open on his desk. Obviously Carey had found the open case and taken the matching pistol. “Carey—” he began placatingly.
“
Drop it
.”
Recognizing the menace in the other’s tone, Grey
dropped the pistol. Whatever else he might be, he was no fool.
“Now,” Carey said. The pistol did not waver. “Suppose you tell me what you are doing out here.”
“Carey, I really haven’t the time—”
“Tell me why you were following Jennifer with a pistol,” Carey said. The expression on his face was deadly.
Grey sighed. Damn the young fool’s ridiculous attraction to Jennifer. Damn him to hell for interfering.
“I was following her,” he said briefly, “because she’s going to meet another man.”
Jennifer reached the wharf at the bottom of the lawn, glancing around. There was no one here. Well, she was early. She pulled her cloak around her, feeling the cold more intensely here near the river.
Now all she had to do was wait.
“You idiot!” Carey exploded. “I know you think she’s been unfaithful to you, but you couldn’t be more wrong. Damn it, I asked her to be my mistress and she declined. She loves you—God only knows why.”
“She kissed you,” Grey pointed out mildly.
“I
kissed
her
!”
Grey felt a wave of relief. After a long day spent reflecting on everything he knew of Jennifer, he had come to suspect as much. Nonetheless, it was a relief to know for certain that his efforts to hold her at a distance had not forced her into the arms of another lover.
“You’re so jealous you can’t see what’s right in front of you,” Carey growled. “She loves you, and you’re too damned suspicious and surly to love her back. She isn’t going to meet another man, you fool. There is no one for her but you.”
Grey did not answer. His eyes were fixed on something over Carey’s left shoulder. “My God,” he whispered.
Carey glanced around, and Grey leaped on him like a panther. The full impact of his weight knocked the younger man to the ground, slamming the pistol from his grasp and sending it flying harmlessly into the grass. Grey caught the younger man by the throat and held him pinned helplessly to the ground despite Carey’s impotent struggles.
“Now,” he said in a conversational tone, “we will talk. We don’t have much time. Unless I am greatly mistaken, Jennifer is in very real danger.”
“Hello, Jennifer.”
Jennifer turned around and forced a smile to her lips.
“Hello, Christopher.”
“Jennifer sent a note to Christopher Lightfoot this morning,” Grey explained, in much the same tone he would have used had they been sitting in the parlor companionably smoking pipes. He ignored Carey’s expression, which promised death. “Unfortunately for her, she asked old Moses to take it over to the Cove. What she didn’t realize is that Moses, unlike most of our slaves, can read. He looked over the message, thought I should see it, and brought it to me this afternoon. It said, “I have reconsidered your proposition. Meet me at the wharf to discuss. Jennifer.’ ”
“I don’t believe it,” Carey growled. He was still annoyed by his ineptitude in allowing himself to be bested by Grey. Damned idiot that he was, he had been taken in by the oldest trick in existence. “I just finished telling you that she loves you.”
“She isn’t meeting Lightfoot for a tryst, damn it!” Grey took a deep breath and finished, “She thinks he killed Diana.”
• • •
“You look lovely,” Christopher Lightfoot breathed admiringly, taking Jennifer’s hand. She smiled at him in a way that she hoped was flirtatious and batted her long eye lashes. She had practiced fluttering her eyelashes in front of the looking glass for a full hour today. She thought she looked like a fool, but men seemed to like that sort of thing.
She dropped the concealing cloak to the ground and his eyes widened. His gaze seemed irresistibly drawn to the expanse of flesh that swelled above the neckline of her gown. In the hopes of putting him off his guard, she had worn the lowest-cut gown she owned, displaying a shockingly immodest amount of her small but firm breasts. The peach-colored silk set off her golden coloring well. Atop her carefully coiffed hair she wore a small, frilly confection of peach silk and lace known as a butterfly cap. She looked lovely, young, and entirely defenseless.
In a pocket beneath her overskirt she carried her knife.
“She may think Lightfoot murdered Diana,” Carey said sneeringly, “but we know better, don’t we?”
Grey’s silver eyes, unreadable in the dim light, bored into his. At last he said, “I’ve already admitted to her that I killed Diana. But she—”
“Bastard!” Carey exploded. “I knew it was you! I
knew
it!” Enraged by the other man’s admission, he began to struggle violently, and one of his fists struck Grey in the mouth, splitting his lip. Cursing in annoyance, he struck Carey hard. Carey grunted and lay still, the wind driven out of him.
“Yes, damn it, it was me,” Grey snarled. “I don’t remember killing her, but I know I did it. Catherine said—”
“Catherine? But she said you were in the stables all night!”
“She lied,” Grey said shortly. “Carey, I told Jennifer I was the murderer, but she simply won’t believe me. As you said,
she loves me, and she’s blind where I’m concerned. She’s gone to confront Lightfoot. She doesn’t realize that he’s a very dangerous man. The bastard wouldn’t object to raping her if he thinks he can get away with it.”
“Why the hell does she think Lightfoot murdered Diana?”
“I told you, I don’t remember killing Diana. I don’t remember anything except finding her body, damn it. I was dead drunk. Catherine found me, and she told me I said I killed Diana over and over again—so obviously I’m the murderer. If only I could remember—” Grey broke off. “The reason Jennifer thinks Lightfoot killed her,” he went on, more calmly, “is because he was having an affair with Diana.”
“I’m so glad you came,” Jennifer exclaimed, batting her eyelashes coyly. “It’s been so lonely for me in that great big house, with no one for company except Grey—and he’s scarcely any company at all.”
“Is that the reason you’ve suddenly decided to have an affair with me?” Christopher inquired. “Because you’re lonely?”
Beneath his polite tone Jennifer detected a hint of menace. There was definitely more to Christopher Lightfoot than met the eye, she decided. He seemed like a harmless dandy on the surface, kind and very handsome, but the dark blue eyes hid something that Jennifer did not care for at all. Perhaps, she reasoned, he was suspicious of her sudden capitulation.
“Oh, it was hardly a sudden decision,” she said airily, aware that in the cold air her nipples were hardening under her gown. Christopher’s avid stare made her realize that the thin silk of the gown did not hide that fact at all. “I’ve always thought you were terribly attractive. But I’ve been afraid. Afraid of Grey.” She paused, then added, “So many people seem to believe he is a murderer.”