The Runaway Heiress (17 page)

'Clearly I have spent an
ungodly life, as I have already been accused once today.'

'Probably a surfeit of
claret. And poor quality at that, if it was Torrington's.' She cackled with
laughter. 'Have you forgiven him yet, my dear? It might be best if you do. And
I never did like Torrington, even if he is your uncle.'

'Spare us all our blushes,
Aunt May.' Aldeborough came to his wife's rescue, but to his surprise Frances
chose to respond to this forthright lady.

'I have forgiven him. And
I must tell you that my lord did not abduct me. He rescued me from an
impossible situation— and it was of my making, not his. Indeed, I have no complaints.'

'Well, well, Aldeborough. You have a champion
here. Very noble of you, my dear, I am sure.' Lady Cotherstone's eyes twinkled
at the colour that had risen to tint Frances's pale skin. 'We must have a
comfortable chat later when you can tell me all about it. I love gossip and
don't get enough opportunities these days. I'll wager my pearl necklet that the
Marchioness was up in arms. Let us have tea. Ring for Rivers. And here is
Matthew—you didn't tell me he was joining us. Quite a family party, in fact.
Perhaps we should have a bottle of port as well.'

There was no opportunity for the rest of that
day for Frances to have any private conversation with Aldeborough. He did not
come to her room that night and she found that she did not have the confidence
to go to his. She spent a restless night, haunted by memories of violent death
and the part she had played in it.

Next morning Frances made
a point of accosting Aldeborough in the library before he left to meet Kington
and to ride out to inspect a land-drainage project that had been put in hand
along the flooded river meadows.

'Can I disturb you?'

He was leafing through a
stack of papers on his desk with an air of resigned frustration. 'Of course. I
am delighted to be disturbed by a lady as pretty as my own wife.' He stood and
smiled in welcome. 'What are you planning to do today? Don't let Aunt May bully
you into one of her schemes. She may be ancient, but she has more stamina than
anyone I know unless it is Juliet. My sister is very like her.'

Frances smiled at his
unexpected gallantry, but otherwise ignored it. 'About yesterday,' she began,
without preamble, before she could have second thoughts. 'The highwaymen.'

Aldeborough continued to
smile, but his eyes became hard and flat, discouraging discussion. 'They were
just footpads. A normal hazard when travelling except that this time it was too
close for comfort.'

Frances was determined not
to be discouraged and met his eyes with her own direct gaze. 'I don't believe
you. I am not a fool. They were not just footpads and it wasn't just chance, as
you well know. They intended murder—they threatened to kill you.'

Aldeborough still refused
to be drawn. 'Don't make too much of it. I have started enquiries in York; if
there is anything to discover, it will be done.'

'So you think I should
just forget about it?'

'Yes. What would be the
point in worrying about it unduly?'

'But I killed a man! I
have blood on my hands.' She heard a rising note of hysteria creep into her
voice and fought hard to suppress it.

The expression on
Aldeborough's face softened at her words and obvious distress. He immediately
came round the desk to take her hand.

'Forgive me, Frances. I
did not consider... Perhaps it is the effect of campaigning that makes a man
accept death so cheaply. I have been thoughtless, not realising how you must
react to such a horrifying incident.'

'I could not sleep for
thinking about it. I kept seeing the pistol and the blood.'

He smoothed the frown from
between her brows with a gentle finger. 'The only consolation I can give is
that if you had not shot the rider, I would be dead, and you too. There is
nothing more certain.'

'I suppose so.'

'So you must not let it
prey on your mind. I order you to stop!' He replaced his finger with a gentle
brush of his lips.

She laughed, if a little
shakily, and, although her fears remained, had to admit the justice in what he
said. 'Very well. I didn't mean to trouble you. Only...'

'I understand.'

'I expect you do. I will
try not to let it worry me.'

'What an amenable wife you
are this morning!' He stroked his hand over a ringlet, which had escaped from
its pins, with a twitch of his lips.

'Yes, I am, aren't I?' she
responded equally lightly. 'So you see, there is no need to resort to such
extreme methods as highwaymen to rid yourself of a troublesome wife. Miss
Vowchurch warned me that travelling to the Priory could be dangerous. She did
not know the half of it.'

It was
said as a joke, a light-hearted jest, laughter in her eyes, expecting a similar
response from him. Instead his reaction was devastating. His hand fell from
her hair, while the; other one clenched into a fist on the papers he was
holding. His eyes blazed in a face from which all blood had retreated, then
went flat and cold. Fire and ice. He clasped her wrist in a grip that branded
her with its heat.

'What can you possibly
mean by that interesting statement?' he asked quietly and conversationally, his
tone at variance with the controlled emotion in his face.

'What have I said?* she
asked perplexed.

'I never believed that
you
would believe such slander.'

'I don't understand; Hugh.
What should I not believe?'

'Richard's death will
haunt me for ever. I don't need you to remind me of it or to repeat what the
world chooses believe.'

'Richard?
What has he to do—'

'I
will not discuss it. It is no concern of yours. My mother has clearly done an
excellent job on you in the short time that you were under the same roof. I
never realised that you were so much in agreement.'

'I
understood that Richard fell from his curricle,' Frances answered carefully,
wary of this sudden, unexpected explosion of anger.

'Oh
yes! He fell. And broke his neck.' His face was a mask, his voice full of
bitter self-mockery. 'And I inherited everything. So I must have been to blame,
do you not think? It is all very logical. I must have hated my brother from the
moment of my birth, for standing in the path of my ambition to possess the
title and the fortune that goes with it. And how I must have rejoiced at his
death. I must have offered up prayers of gratitude to God when I held his
lifeless body in my arms and wiped the blood from his face.'

Frances
flinched at the searing pain underlying the turbulence in his voice.

'Hugh—I
never believed that. How could—?'

'And
I do not want your pity!' He turned from her, releasing her wrist, and in a
violent movement swept the papers from the desk in a maelstrom of scattered
sheets. 'I never wanted this. Neither his death nor his birthright.'

Instinctively
Frances put out a hand to restrain him, to break the hold of the desire to
destroy, but he stepped back from her, fighting to regain control and dispel
the vicious mist that clouded his vision. She saw the effort it cost him in his
clenched fists and the pulse beating rapidly in his throat.

'Forgive
me. It was not my intention to inflict my family's private problems on you. I
expect I should apologise for my unseemly behaviour.' His voice was flat and
empty of emotion after the storm as he wilfully closed his mind to the flare
of grief in her eyes at his deliberate distancing of her from his past.'But not
yet!'

He
flung down the forgotten papers, still grasped in one hand and now hopelessly
mangled, and strode to the door,

wrenching
it open, but not before she had seen the anguish beneath the anger in his eyes.

'Where
are you going?' She followed him to the door, hand outstretched to detain him.

'Out!'

He
slammed out of the library, his footsteps echoing down the corridor, leaving
her bereft and bewildered. What had she said? She had never even mentioned
Richard. And what had his mother to do with it? Penelope's flippant comment
edged back into her mind.

Take care if you are travelling with
Aldeborough. History has a habit of repeating itself.

But what had she
meant about history repeating itself? Frances's mind flew back to the
conversation with Matthew in Hyde Park, when she had asked him about the fate
of his eldest brother. He had been very non-committal about Richard, reluctant
to go into any detail, leaving her dangerously ignorant of an event that
clearly had torn the family apart—and still had a desperate effect on Hugh. She
smoothed her fingers gently over her wrist, which he had clasped so passionately.
It was time that she found out the answers to a few pertinent questions.

Ambrose arrived
unannounced in the library as Frances lingered, picking up the ill-used
documents, undecided on her next move.

'Good
morning, Frances. Where's Hugh? I agreed to ride out with him to inspect some
project or other on the estate.' He smiled and kissed her hand with easy familiarity.

'You've
just missed him. I expect he has gone to the stables to meet Kington. Matthew
is there as well, I think.'

'Right.
I'll catch up with them.' He turned to go.

'Ambrose. Before you go, I need...' She hesitated,
unsure what to say next.
          

Ambrose
turned back, surprised at the tension in her voiced and noticed her anxious
expression for the first time.

'Are
you quite well? You look a little pale.'

'I am perfectly well.
Only... Ambrose, can I ask you to tell me about Richard—how did he die?'

A wary expression crossed
Ambrose's face. 'Why? What has Hugh said?'

'Nothing. That is the
whole problem. No one will talk to me about it, other than in vague hints and
innuendo about
gossip
and
scandal
that leave me in the dark. And I think
I've just said something terrible.'

'Well, I would tell you,
but I think it would be better coming from someone in the family. I know Hugh
would not want me to gossip about it and as a friend I should respect his
wishes.' Ambrose considered the matter for a moment. 'But I agree that you
should know. Why don't you ask Lady Cotherstone? She will be a fount of all
knowledge.'

'Yes. I will. I think I
have hurt him very badly, Ambrose. I've never seen him so angry.'

He took her hand and gave
it a reassuring squeeze. 'I will go after him. Don't worry over it. You did not
know, so how can you blame yourself?'

'Ambrose...' Frances
hesitated and then continued. 'I would rather you did not tell him that I spoke
to you. I would not wish him to think that I was gossiping behind his back.'

'Of course. If that is your wish.'

Frances was waiting
impatiently for Aunt May when she eventually emerged from her bedchamber,
Wellington puffing at her heels.

'Good morning, my dear.
Where is everyone?' Her toilette was even more bizarre, a stiff creation with a
demi-train in figured puce damask, her hair secured under a tiny lace cap. A
powdered wig, thought Frances, would not have been out of place. But she was
far too anxious to be diverted by Aunt May's antique outfit.

'Out. But never mind that.'
She raised her hands in exasperated frustration. 'Forgive me, Aunt May. You
have got to tell me the truth about Richard—what happened to him? Was it an
accident? Where does Hugh fit into it? No one will tell me the truth. I asked
Ambrose, but he said I should ask you.'

'What a sensible young
man. Still letting it fester, are they? And I don't suppose Hugh will talk
about it at all. What has happened to put you in such a state?'

'I suggested, in a jest,
you understand, that the highwaymen's attack on us yesterday could have been
an attempt by him to get rid of a troublesome wife.'

'Which attack? You had
better tell me from the beginning. Let us go into the morning room and fortify
ourselves with a glass of port. Don't be so unhappy—it can all be straightened
out. You learn that when you have lived as long as have. Now, my dear. From the
beginning.'

'I killed a man.' Frances
looked anxiously at Aunt May, expecting to read condemnation in her face.

'Did you, my dear? I am
sure you had your reasons. You must tell me all about it. Drink this and relax
a little.' Soothed by Aunt May's calm acceptance, she sipped a little port and
calmly told all.

Frances described the
events of the previous day, including; Aldeborough's reluctance to discuss the
danger and finally; her own inappropriate words, in jest but inflicting so much
harm. And she told her about Penelope's mischief-making words, although at the
time she had not realised their significance. 'So I need to know,' she
finished.

'Of course you do, my
dear. Where shall I start? With Richard, I suppose. I never knew him as well as
I know Hugh. He was a bright, lively boy, always bursting with energy and the
apple of his mother's eye. He was quick to realise this, of course, and was
clever enough to use it to his own advantage. He did everything to keep his
mother sweet and she would hear no wrong of him. Not that there was wrong to
tell—unless he was a little too selfish and careless of others. Reckless, too,
I dare say. He was always scrapes. But then, young men often are.' She sighed,
her eyes unfocused as her mind travelled back over the years. 'He was very much
like my brother, their grandfather. They say it runs in families. Well, Richard
was the reckless one. I don't know if he would have made a good Marquis. He had
only just inherited the title and he was very young. I don't really think he
cared enough for the duties and responsibilities involved, only for the
consequence and the money, of course. There was plenty of that.'