What Wild Moonlight (24 page)

Steeling herself, Katya returned her attention to her companions. Jeremy Cooke studied the path as he walked, looking extremely uncomfortable. Corrina and Montrose watched her reaction intently, their eyes glowing with barely subdued excitement. Despite their physical beauty, they resembled nothing more than a pair of vultures eagerly waiting to descend.

With an expression of what she hoped would pass for serene detachment, she inquired, “Now that we’ve come this far, perhaps I should hear the rest of the story. Exactly how did Miss Whitney die?”

Philip Montrose sent her a slightly superior smile. “Undoubtedly that was what Mr. Cooke was so gallantly trying to warn you about before we interrupted,” he said. He paused, then finished with the cool aplomb of a fencing master drawing the blood of a novice who had dared to challenge him, “Lord Barrington murdered her.”

Nicholas studied Katya as they sat together in his coach. It was late, and the only sound breaking the stillness of the night was that of the horses’ hooves as they moved ploddingly up the steep path that led to his villa. Since leaving the casino she had been curiously silent, almost reserved. Quite a remarkable change from the passion-flamed gypsy who had fallen into his arms in Lord Chalmers’s wardrobe.

“Tired?” he asked.

“Not at all.”

“You’re quiet.”

“Am I?”

A sardonic smile curved his lips. “Do I detect a note of sarcasm?”

She turned toward him, her beautiful lavender eyes filled with simmering resentment. “When were you planning to tell me about Allyson Whitney?”

He let out a long sigh and leaned back against the plush leather seat. “Ah.”

“Ah? Is that all you have to say to me? Ah?”

He regarded her in silence for a long moment, then said evenly, “Suppose you tell me what you heard—and from whom you heard it.”

“Very well. I was walking with Jeremy Cooke when we happened to meet Philip Montrose and Corrina Jeffreys. The subject of Allyson Whitney was raised—as was the matter of her death.” She paused and took a deep breath, as though gathering her courage; then she finished in a rush, “They told me that you murdered her.”

“And?”

Her brows shot skyward. “Isn’t that enough?”

“Apparently I owe them a word of thanks,” he replied. “They did not malign my character to the extent that they might have.”

“What more could they have said?” she asked, aghast.

“They could have told you that I was responsible for my brother’s death, as well,” he replied flatly. His gaze locked on hers across the shadowy dimness of the coach interior. “You don’t think one earns the title of Lord of Scandal simply by disposing of an inconvenient mistress, do you?”

An expression of horrified awakening dawned on her face. “Did it not occur to you to mention this to me earlier?”

He paused, an unfathomable expression on his face. “Given our initial arrangement, I didn’t deem it necessary.”

Heavy silence reverberated between them. Before he could guess her intention, she lifted her arm and rapped her gloved fist against the roof of the coach, calling for the driver to stop. The groomsman ignored her command, urging the team along at the same even, measured pace. After several subsequent—and considerably louder—attempts to gain the groomsman’s attention failed, she folded her arms across her chest and sent Nicholas a frigid glare.

“Do you mind?” she asked tightly.

“Not at all.” He tapped his knuckles against the roof. “John, stop the coach.”

The groomsman drew the team to an immediate stop. Katya threw open the coach door and stumbled out, moving away from him with what appeared to be blind urgency. She strode silently down the path, finally stopping before the jagged, white-capped rocks that drew him so often to the very same spot. She stared out over the moonlit sea, her brows pulled together in a troubled frown.

Nicholas stopped a few feet away, maintaining a quiet distance. A mist had risen from the sea; it wrapped her in a shroud of shimmering gray fog. The gentle night breeze lifted a few strands of her elaborately styled hair. The ebony spirals danced about her face in soft disarray. As he studied her, he was struck by the slimness of her shoulders, the smoothness of her bare arms, the lissome curve of her spine. Despite her posture of sophisticated independence, an air of fragile vulnerability surrounded her.

“I shouldn’t have involved you in this,” he said. “You’ve done your part, you’re under no further obligation to me.”

She turned slowly to face him, an incredulous smile on her lips. “Are you releasing me from my post with top references, as though I were a housekeeper or a cook? Shall I expect a letter of commendation? Mistress for hire: well-spoken, tolerably attractive, possesses superior aptitude for petty thievery?”

Ignoring her sarcasm, he lifted his shoulders in a faint shrug. “If you like, I can provide you with a train ticket out of Monaco and enough money to comfortably settle your parents’ debt.”

She placed her hands on her hips, studying him with an expression of irritated disbelief. “What I would like,” she said, “is an explanation. Why would anyone believe you murdered either your brother or Allyson Whitney?”

“A minute ago you sounded as though you believed it.”

“Don’t be absurd,” she answered shortly. “Of course I don’t.”

An exasperated nonchalance filled her voice, as though the mere idea of his being a murderer were too ridiculous to be entertained even for a minute. Her unhesitating display of loyalty was profoundly unexpected—and profoundly touching. Nicholas let out a dark sigh and raked his fingers through his hair, wondering where to begin.

Finally he said, “Approximately six weeks ago I received a wire from the authorities in Monaco informing me that my brother had died, that he had leaped to his death from these very rocks.”

An expression of quiet horror showed on her face as her gaze moved from him to the jagged rocks lining the cliff. “How dreadful,” she said softly. She ran her hands over her arms as though banishing a sudden chill. “Were the two of you very close?”

He shook his head. “Unfortunately not. With every year that passed, we grew more and more distant. The last time I saw Richard we had a bitter argument. He had long since depleted the funds my father had left him, yet his gaming debts were higher than they had ever been. I had paid off his debts on several previous occasions, but this time I refused to do so. I’ll spare you the details of the row that followed—suffice it to say that the argument was heard not only by all the servants in the house, but by a few neighbors as well. Richard was livid. He swore he would get the money from me one way or another, and that I would be sorry I had ever refused him.”

“What did he mean by that?”

“I’m not sure. We never spoke again. The next communication I had informed me of his death.” Nicholas hesitated, sorting through the bleak memories that followed. “I discovered that Richard was even more deeply in debt than he had admitted when I saw him in London. He was about to lose everything he owned, and I had refused to help him.”

“You didn’t know,” Katya pointed out softly.

“That hardly signifies now, does it?” He lifted his shoulders in a resigned shrug. “Rumors immediately spread through London of the row Richard and I had had before his death. Evidently Society determined that I was directly responsible for his death—by refusing my own brother the money he needed, I left him no choice but to take the honorable course of action and end his own life.”

“That’s ridiculous,” she scoffed.

“Perhaps. Or perhaps there’s more truth in that than I want to recognize.” He stepped on the jagged rocks, moving across their slick, sea-sprayed surface until he stood nearly at the cliffs edge. He stared down at the tumultuous, swirling mass of sea and rock beneath him. “His body was never discovered,” he said quietly. “But his clothing and possessions were found at the top of the cliff, as well as scattered among the rocks below.”

Uneasy silence filled the space between them.

Abruptly recalling himself, he returned his gaze to Katya. “Forgive me. That’s a rather grim bit of news to share.”

“If his body was never discovered, how can you be certain what happened?” she inquired.

Her question went directly to the heart of what had been eating away at Nicholas for months. Putting aside the swirling emotions of shock, anger, and guilt, what bothered him more than anything else was the sense of doubt and disbelief that lingered over his brother’s death.

“I’m not,” he said. “I knew Richard, better than I’ve known anyone in my life. He was charming, impetuous, and shrewdly intelligent. He was also reckless, selfish, and occasionally amoral. But above all, he was a fighter. He would not have been so careless with his own life that he would have thrown it away because he could not face the shame of debt.”

Katya nodded. “Your brother is alive. I saw it in your palm. He lives.”

A hollow smile curved his lips. “Unfortunately, I need more assurance than that.” He hesitated a moment, then continued, “That’s why I hired a private investigator to look into the circumstances surrounding his disappearance. At first I suspected murder—perhaps someone to whom he was indebted had decided to take matters into his own hands. Now, however, I think it may run deeper than that.”

“What did you learn?”

Nicholas released a weary sigh. He moved away from the edge of the cliff and came to stand beside her. “I don’t know who is currently in possession of the scroll. But I’m convinced I know who stole it from my home initially.”

Katya searched his gaze. “Your brother?”

“Allyson Whitney.”

Startled surprise showed on her features, then her brows drew together in a troubled frown. “I don’t understand.”

He thought for a moment, searching for the best way to order the events. Finally he began, “On the night of Allyson’s death, she and I attended a ball at Lady Sarah Rathbourne’s. The gala was the event of the season, and as such it was naturally mobbed. We had been there a little over an hour when Allyson created a horrid scene, announcing loudly that she had had enough of my insane jealousy and possessiveness. She burst into tears and demanded that I take her home immediately. Her accusations were completely baseless, but that mattered little. As you can imagine, the spectacle did not go unnoticed by the crowd.”

“I would think not.”

“We left the party and my coachman took her home.” He paused, then admitted candidly, “At the time I was vain enough to believe that she had created that little spectacle in order to gain my attention. After my brother’s death our relationship—such as it was—had floundered dramatically. I was not the attentive suitor she desired.”

“I think your inattentiveness would have been understandable.”

He lifted his shoulders in a faint shrug. “To you, perhaps, but not to Allyson.”

“What happened next?”

“I wasn’t yet ready to return home, so I adjourned to a private club on King’s Street. The following morning I was visited by two men from the magistrate’s office who informed me that Allyson had been murdered. Her body had been found in an alley in London’s east end, strangled to death.”

Katya gave a slight shudder. “How awful.”

He nodded. “In light of the public quarrel we had had the night before, naturally I was their first suspect. Fortunately I had a score of witnesses who could attest to the fact that I had passed nearly the entire night at the club. That was enough to satisfy the magistrates of my innocence, but not society at large. The rumors immediately began to circulate that I had killed Allyson with my bare hands in a fit of jealous rage.”

“I see.” She studied him for a long moment. Her expression conveyed neither disbelief nor pity, but merely somber contemplation. “What caused you to believe Allyson was responsible for the scroll’s theft?” she asked directly.

“A month prior, she had asked me several questions about the scroll. She even asked me to show it to her. At the time I attributed her sudden interest to the legend of the Stone of Destiny—she was fascinated by jewels of any size, shape, or form.”

“So she knew where the scroll was kept.”

“She did. And I highly doubt it was a coincidence that it disappeared from my home on the night she died.”

“I agree.” She studied the horizon, searching the glistening midnight stars as though the answers she sought could be found there. The wind whipped around her as she stood motionless at the cliff’s edge, sending her crimson skirts flaring out in the night breeze. After a minute she turned back to him and said, “Is it possible that Miss Whitney might have been offered money to retrieve the scroll from your home—and was murdered before the transaction was completed?”

“I considered that as well.” Eager to finish the discussion and put it behind them, he continued matter-of-factly, “I believe that the person who planned the theft used Allyson as a pawn—he intended to kill her all along. He probably suggested she create a scene at Lady Rathbourne’s ball as an excuse to leave early and rendezvous with him, when his true intention was to create a motive that would make the authorities suspect me in her death.”

“But why would Allyson agree to take part in his scheme?”

“I suspect she thought she would profit handsomely from her role—and that she could get away with it. Had she not been murdered, I never would have suspected her involvement. Her quarrel with me had been entirely fabricated. She would have laughed it off to minor dramatics and expected us to resume our relationship just as it had been before.”

“I see.” Her expression assumed an air of reserved contemplation—not judgmental, merely thoughtful.

“There’s more, but it’s mere conjecture on my part,” he said.

“I’d like to hear it.”

“Very well.” He placed one booted foot on the jagged rocks and leaned forward, peering out over the smooth indigo sea. “The person I’m after could have hired a thief to break into my home and steal the scroll. That would have been far simpler, far less risky. He chose instead to hire my mistress, murder her, and then lay the blame for her death at my door. He wants more than the scroll and the Stone to which it leads. I suspect he wants to see me dragged before the House of Lords and branded a murderer before all of London. He wants to see me stripped of my homes and my title and my wealth, to see me hurt and humiliated.”