CHAPTER NINETEEN

Jason climbed the iron steps into the carriage Litchfield had provided for his use while he was in the city, settled himself in the seat, and leaned back against the tufted leather squabs.

His meeting with Lucien had come to an end. They had gone over the evidence they had collected, but the word of a woman who had been a frightened child of ten, the written statement of a killer, and a financial agreement between Lady Brookhurst and his brother was hardly enough evidence to convict the reigning duke of Carlyle of his own father’s murder.

Jason steepled his fingers, brooding over the problem, knowing what he had to do. Barnstable had uncovered nothing new. What they needed was a credible, reliable witness.

What they needed was Celia Rollins—damn her black-hearted soul—to tell the bloody truth!

It was risky—damned risky—he knew, to approach her. But Celia was the key and time was running thin. There really was no other choice. Litchfield’s place wasn’t far from her town house near Hanover Square so he ordered the driver to head in that direction. Already tension rippled through him. What he planned was dangerous in the extreme, but in order to clear his name, he would have to take the chance. Somehow he would have to convince her he had enough evidence to convict her and Avery of the murder.

The coach rolled along toward its destination. Oblivious to the inkseller hawking his wares beneath a plane tree in the middle of the block and the beggar who was singing at the corner, Jason watched without seeing the city creep past. It wasn’t until they reached St. George Street that he realized he had almost arrived at his destination. Speaking through the small opening beneath the driver’s seat, he ordered the coachman to turn down the alley at the rear of the house, then signaled a halt in front of the stable.

“Wait for me here,” he told the driver. “If someone comes, go round the block and I’ll meet you on the street at the north entrance to the alley.”

He would approach the house through the servant’s entrance. If the coachy thought it odd, he didn’t care. He wasn’t about to give the woman notice he was coming. His resurrection from the grave would arrive with the same amount of warning he’d had of her treachery and betrayal.

Moving silently, making his way toward the back of the town house, he skirted the garden and headed for the small door at the rear of the house. Seeing no one, he pulled it open and silently stepped inside, then paused to listen for the sound of footfalls coming in his direction.

No noises. No servants roamed about. Jason remembered it was Celia’s custom to dispense with unnecessary help when she anticipated some sort of intimate liaison. He wondered whom she awaited and hoped Celia’s paramour wasn’t already upstairs.

Voices traveled along the corridor leading down to the kitchen below, but the stairs leading upward were deserted. Making his way stealthily along the passage to her second story suite of rooms, he paused outside to listen, then quietly walked in.

He remembered her extravagant tastes, but not the clutter. Silver candelabra crowded cut crystal dishes. Dozens of ornate snuff boxes covered the entire top of an ivory inlaid table. There were gilt clocks, chiming clocks, featherwork friezes, cut paperwork, small Japanned vases—to say nothing of the larger pieces like the ornate clavichord she had shoved against the wall.

Apparently the lady’s penchant for expensive baubles had grown in proportion to her sexual appetites, which over the last eight years were rumored to have risen to legendary extremes.

Quietly crossing the room, his footsteps silenced by the thick Oriental carpet, he made his way toward the bedchamber. He stopped at the door but hearing no voices or movement, pulled it open and walked in.

A soft gasp alerted him of a female presence and he turned toward the sound. Celia sat at a rosewood dressing table beside the door to her sienna marble dressing room, an extravagance she’d had built at great expense to her late lamented husband, the doddering earl of Brookhurst.

Her eyes took in his plain but well-tailored clothing then began a keen appraisal of his form. She hadn’t yet realized who he was.

“What are you doing in here? Who gave you permission to enter my room?” She was gowned more simply than he might have expected, in a mint green taffeta day dress, something she might wear to a ladies’ tea. But her straight black hair fell loose around her shoulders and her bosom nearly spilled from the top of the gown. He wondered again whom she was expecting.

He smiled grimly. “Hello, Celia.”

Her eyes swung to his, clashed and held. She rose from her dressing stool as he walked closer, her hand sliding to the base of her long slender throat. “Jason! My God—is it really you?”

He wasn’t wearing his glasses. No bagwig hid his hair. He knew she would know him. He wanted her to know who he was. He drew himself up to his full height, taller and nearly three stone heavier than he had been eight years ago. Intimidation was his game and he had learned to play it well.

His eyes remained locked with hers, icy cold and dark with determination. “It’s been a long time, Countess.”

“Dear God—it is you!”

The smile twisted, became almost brutal. “I’m afraid so, my love.”

She cringed away from him, terror now in the eyes that clung to his. She whirled and tried to bolt past, but he caught her arm, halting her flight before it ever got started. With a firm grip on her shoulders, he forced her against the wall.

“Leaving so soon, my love? How disappointing. And here I thought you’d be overcome with joy to discover I’m still breathing.”

Her gaze darted furtively toward the door. Celia moistened her full ruby lips, preparing for a scream.

“Don’t even think about it. I doubt there is anyone around to hear you and even if there were, I doubt they would give the sound much credence, considering the sort of behavior that goes on in here on a fairly regular basis.”

She tossed her head in a way he remembered, her fear receding since thus far he had not hurt her. “How would you know? You abandoned me, left me to whatever ruthless measures fate had in store. What right have you to condemn me?”

“I abandoned you?”

“That is correct. Obviously you escaped from prison without the slightest concern for what was happening to me. You left me to face the judges, to deal with Avery and the scandal the two of you created. You cared nothing at all for me while I was devastated with grief at the thought that you were dead.”

Anger pumped through him, so fierce it made him dizzy. “You testified against me at the trial, remember? You verified Avery’s story of the murder—or has that minor detail slipped your mind?”

She looked up at him through long black lashes, her red lips pouty and imploring. “I was confused. Everything happened so quickly. By the time I had sorted things out, they told me you were dead.”

His hands bit into her shoulders. He wanted to shake her till her teeth rattled inside her empty head. “I am not a boy anymore, Celia. You can’t make me believe your lies by batting your beautiful eyes or tempting me with the ripeness of your bosom. You and Avery planned my father’s murder for months before it happened. I’ve come to insure the two of you pay for what you’ve done, and I have the evidence I need to do it.”

Shock and panic filled her deep green eyes. “What … what are you talking about? There is no proof. Your father’s been dead eight years. What proof could you possibly have?”

“There was a witness, Celia. And the man Avery paid to kill me in prison has also come forward.” His mouth twisted maliciously. “And of course there is the document Avery signed the day after the murder—blood money he agreed to pay to you for the rest of your miserable life.”

“It isn’t true, Jason!” She threw herself against him and began to bitterly weep. “I loved you. I’ve always loved you.” Desperate green eyes pleaded through lashes spiked with tears. “I love you still.”

Jason stared down from his considerable height above her. “Do you, Celia?”

“Yes—oh, Jason, yes! Truly, I do. You must believe me. I knew nothing of what your brother was planning. The night of the murder, I was frightened, terrified he would kill me, too. He said he would if I told anyone the truth. After the trial, I thought you were dead. The money was his insurance that I would keep my silence.”

Jason worked a muscle in his jaw. How could the woman invent such outrageous tales when both of them knew exactly what had happened? Watching her now, he clamped down on an urge to strike her. He had never hit a woman before, but he itched to leave the imprint of his hand across her perfect cheek.

“So you were frightened,” he taunted, “too terrified of my brother to tell the truth.”

“Yes.”

He ran a knuckle along her jaw. “But you’ll tell the truth now, won’t you, Celia? Because you know that if you don’t, you will hang right alongside of Avery.”

She swayed toward him, slid her arms around his neck and pressed her heavy breasts into his chest. Her nipples were rigid, he saw with a feeling of disgust. She was aroused by his anger. She wanted this tougher, stronger, unyielding version of himself that she had never seen. And she wanted the control over him that she had had before.

“Avery is an animal. I loathe the very sight of him.” Her hand slid down to the front of his breeches. “It’s you I love, Jason.” She cupped his sex and began to stroke him, but his fingers caught her wrist and he pulled her hand away.

“Those days are past, Celia. At present, all I want from you is the truth. I intend to set up a meeting with the judges at Old Bailey. I’ll send word of the date and time, then come for you myself. I’ll expect you to tell them it was Avery who killed my father. You’ll do that—won’t you, Celia?”

When she hesitated, he squeezed hard on her wrist.

“I’ll tell them.”

“If you try to leave London, the judges will take that as a presumption of your guilt along with Avery’s. If you try to warn my brother in any way, I’ll see you pay equally for the crime he committed.”

He gripped her arms, dragged her up on her toes, and shook her—hard. “Do you have the least doubt I mean what I say?”

Celia looked into eyes as icy as death itself, and a shiver of fear snaked through her. “No.”

“Then I shall count on your unparalleled sense of self-preservation, Lady Brookhurst, to ensure you abide by your word.” He started toward the door, then stopped and turned. “One more thing.”

She wet her lips, which looked stiff and pale around the edges. “Yes, Jason?”

“Should you, for any reason, decide to cast your lot once more with Avery, it will not be a naive young duke you’ll be facing but a man who will track you to the ends of the earth just to squeeze the life from your lovely, traitorous body.” Turning, he stalked out of the room.

At the alley, he paused. His carriage was gone. He walked to the corner, spotted the conveyance, and climbed in. At last, the tide was turning in his favor. With Celia to testify in his behalf, proving his innocence would be assured. His lands would be restored, his good name returned.

For the first time since he had returned to England, the tension drained away and relief trickled through him.

Then the carriage rounded the corner, rolling past the front of the town house. He spotted the Haversham crest on the door of Velvet’s smart black coach, and tension knotted in his stomach once more.

*   *   *

Velvet had never been to Lady Brookhurst’s town house. From the outside, the narrow structure in Hanover varied little from the others packed shoulder to shoulder along the tree-lined street. The inside of the house was another matter entirely.

The residence had been done in an elaborate French motif, the extravagant gilt and silk-upholstered furnishings interspersed with Oriental pieces that looked slightly out of skew in their surroundings. The resulting mix might have been bearable had there not been so much of it. As it was, except for a small open area in the middle of the drawing room, scant inches stood between the hodgepodge of expensive objects.

The butler quirked a busy gray eyebrow in Velvet’s direction. “Her ladyship awaits you upstairs, Lady Hawkins. She wishes you to join her for tea in her private drawing room.” He turned and started walking, expecting her to follow, his pointed nose stuck high in the air.

As she trailed him up the corridor, she noticed there appeared to be an odd lack of servants, just the butler and a serving maid moving through the empty halls downstairs.

The unease she’d felt when she had earlier left the house returned as she approached the door to the countess’s private suite. When the butler opened the door to the drawing room, eyeing her with an air of disapproval, it settled like a cold stone in her stomach. It churned there, mixing with anticipation. Perhaps today she would uncover some scrap of information that would prove helpful to Jason.

Velvet sat down on an ivory brocaded sofa and surveyed the drawing room, as overdone and gaudy as the rooms downstairs. She fidgeted, trying to get comfortable in her stiff panniers, fiddled with her apricot embroidered silk gown, and wondered why the countess kept her waiting.

The door leading into Celia’s bedchamber was firmly closed yet Velvet started at the sound that came from within. Furniture moving, the muted sound of voices. A scraping noise and something heavy hitting the floor. Dear heavens, what was going on in there?

On tiptoe, she crossed the carpet, straining to make out the dull mix of sounds coming from behind the thick wooden door. Moving closer, she pressed her ear against it, but the noises had abated.

Velvet chewed her lip, curiosity warring with concern. Perhaps the countess had fallen. Perhaps she had been injured. Perhaps she needed help. Steeling herself to the anger she might well face on the opposite side of the door, Velvet turned the silver knob and eased it open, then leaned forward and peered inside.

“Good sweet God!” The breath wedged in her chest at the sight of Celia Rollins sprawled across her huge canopied bed, her skin as pale as the sheets, her head bent back at an oddly canted angle. Velvet rushed toward her—just in time to see a man’s tall figure moving out through the French doors onto the balcony. As large as he was, he traveled swiftly, climbing over the rail and making his way down the trellis. She raced to the window only to find he had disappeared behind the tall box hedges in the maize at the front of the garden.

Velvet gripped the bedpost, her breath coming fast now, harsh and erratic. She could see the countess wasn’t breathing, that there wasn’t the least rise and fall of her chest. A survey of her face, a glance at the deep green eyes staring in lifeless horror, the strangely bent angle of her head, and Velvet realized Celia’s neck had been broken. Great dark bruises were already forming, indentations of the deadly work done by a man’s powerful hands.

Her hold on the bedpost grew tighter, her whole body shaking. Dear God—the countess had been murdered. And Velvet had seen the man who had done it. Who was he? Why had he killed her? Sweet Lord, what should she do?

Looking away from Celia’s limp, twisted figure, she fought to gather her wits, to make herself think. Images of Jason rose in her mind, a tall man, dark-haired and incredibly strong. I despise the woman, he had said, had even mentioned a desire to get his hands around her lovely white neck.

Velvet shivered. The killer was as big as Jason, perhaps even larger, and his hair was dark, mayhap even black.

It couldn’t have been Jason. Surely not. Jason would never have killed her. But the trembling worsened and her head felt so light she thought she might faint.

A noise at the door kept her standing. She turned in that direction and saw Jason’s tall frame outlined in the opening. He stood rigid, unmoving, his blue eyes wide in an expression that mirrored disbelief. His face was as pale as her own.

“My God!” He strode into the room, not stopping till he reached the foot of the bed. “For the love of Christ, what has happened?” He stared a moment more at the limp and lifeless figure, then his gaze swung in Velvet’s direction. He noticed the pallor of her cheeks, saw her sway unsteadily toward him, and caught her as her legs went limp beneath her.

If she swooned it was only for an instant. “I-I’m all right. I didn’t mean to do that. I can stand on my own.”

He just kept walking. “I’m taking you out of here. You can tell me what happened to Celia, then we’ll figure out what we’re going to do.”

They didn’t leave by the front stairs as she had expected. Instead Jason carried her down the servants’ stairs at the rear. His carriage was waiting in the alley behind the stables. He loaded her aboard, then ordered the driver round front, stopping only long enough to send Velvet’s coach back to the Haversham town house.

“How … how did you know where I was?” Velvet peered up at him from the seat beside him, but Jason didn’t answer. He was staring out the window, his jaw set, lines of distress making him frown.

“Jason?”

He turned at the sound of his name, seemed to gather his concentration. “I’m sorry. You asked how I knew you were there.” He scowled down the length of his nose. “I came here to see Celia. I hoped to convince her to tell the truth. I saw your carriage as I was leaving. I figured I had better go back and see what mischief you were up to.”

His features looked strained, the skin taut across his cheeks. Turbulent blue eyes fixed on her face. “What happened, Velvet? What were you doing in there?”

Velvet leaned back against the seat of the carriage, which rattled along the crowded streets, the noise of the wheels absorbed by the rattle of carts and wagons, the thud of footman’s boots carrying wealthy patrons in sedan chairs.

“Lady Brookhurst invited me to tea,” Velvet said. “She promised to give me all the latest gossip on Avery’s marriage. She thought that would interest me, since we were once betrothed.”

A muscle jumped in his cheek. “Go on.”

“When I got there, the butler said the countess wished me to join her for tea in her suite. I thought that rather odd, but since I was there for a purpose, it didn’t really matter.”

“So it was you she was waiting for. I thought she was planning a lover’s tryst.”

Velvet’s cheeks grew warm with embarrassment. “I was wondering … it sounds rather silly, but is it possible … could Celia possibly have had those sorts of designs on me?”

Jason’s hand slammed down on the windowsill. “God’s blood, Velvet—I told you to stay away from her! The woman was completely depraved! The thought of you exposed to a creature like that makes my skin crawl. I can’t imagine what the devil I ever saw in her. I can’t believe I was ever fool enough to fall prey to a woman like that.”

“She was very beautiful, Jason,” Velvet said softly, unable to suppress an image of Celia’s broken figure sprawled atop the bed.

He sighed heavily, raked back a lock of his thick dark hair. “Tell me the rest,” he said.

Velvet took a steadying breath, neatly folded her hands in front of her. “I waited in her private drawing room, but Celia never appeared. Then I heard noises coming from her bedchamber. I opened the door and found her, lying on her bed, just as you saw her. That’s when I saw the man—”

His head whipped around. “You saw him! You saw the man who killed her?”

“I got a glimpse of him, yes.”

“And I suppose he also saw you.”

Misery washed over her in long thick waves. She had been trying not to think of that. “Yes.”

“I told you to stay away from her, dammit! I was afraid something would happen. Bloody hell, Velvet—don’t you ever do a single thing I say?”

She straightened on the carriage seat, drew herself up. “Not when I have a chance to do something that might help you. I had to go, Jason, can’t you see? I—” Love you, almost spilled out, but she clamped down on the words. “I wanted to help you. If Celia hadn’t been killed, I might have discovered something useful.”

Jason held her gaze for several long moments, then turned to stare back out the window, resting his head against the back of the seat. “It was Avery, wasn’t it.”

“No.”

His gaze swung in her direction, darker now, intense. “If it wasn’t my brother, then who? What did he look like?”

“In truth, he looked a great deal like you.”

“Me! You think I am the one who killed her? Celia was the only hope I had of clearing my name. Why the devil—”

“I said he looked a lot like you. I didn’t say it was you. His height and build were the same. He might have been bigger, thicker through the torso. His hair was as dark or darker than yours. I never saw his face.”

The muscles tightened beneath his dark brown coat. “But you aren’t sure, are you? You think I might have been the one who killed her.”

“You said you were there.”

“I decided it was time to face her. Time was running out. I hoped I could pressure her into telling the magistrates the truth.”

“And?”

“Celia agreed … not that it matters now.”

Velvet reached for his hand, felt the tension, the bitter frustration running through him. The muscles across his cheekbones stretched his dark skin taut. Thin lines etched his forehead.

“I know you didn’t do it. If I’d had the least suspicion, it would have been allayed the moment I saw your face. There was no doubt you were as surprised to see her dead as I was. And even if that had not happened, I do not believe you are capable of murdering a defenseless woman.”

Something flashed in the depths of his eyes, the darkness that was constantly with him, a glimpse of something grim and forbidding she had seen in him before.

“You might be surprised, Velvet, what a man will do, under the right set of circumstances.” He shook his head, moving a tendril of his hair, and some of the darkness faded. “But, no, I didn’t kill her. Avery might have arranged it. Perhaps he has learned I am alive and meant to ensure her silence, or perhaps he was simply tired of paying her off.”

“Or perhaps there is no connection at all. Perhaps she had other enemies that we know nothing about.”

Jason stared out the window. “My instincts say no, that Avery is the man behind this. At any rate, the woman is dead and with her any chance I had of clearing my name.” His shoulders seemed weighed down. His eyes had turned a dull bluish gray, bleak and defeated. “To make matters worse, the killer has seen you. He knows that you can testify against him. There is every likelihood he will now come after you.”

Unconsciously, Velvet’s fingers gripped his arm. “I’m frightened, Jason—for both of us. What are we going to do?”

“I won’t let him hurt you. I promise you that. I’ll hire men to guard the town house. I’ll see that someone is with you whenever you go out.”

Velvet didn’t argue. She hardly wished to end as Celia had done. “What about the murder? The butler must have found Lady Brookhurst by now—or if he hasn’t he very soon will. He knows I was there. I shall have to report the murder, and it would probably be best done sooner than later.”

“Aye. You’ve no choice in the matter. As soon as we get back home, we’ll send a messenger to the constable’s office. We’ll tell him you were frightened when you discovered Celia’s body, that you rushed back to the town house, then sent word of the crime as quickly as you could.”

“Surely he’ll want to speak to my husband. What should I do?”

“Tell him I’m gone. You can say I had business in Northumberland, that I won’t be back for several more days. That should put him off for a while. If the man in charge of the case had no connection to my father’s murder eight years ago, he won’t know who I am and I’ll be able to speak to him if that is what he wants. Otherwise, we’ll cross the bridge when we come to it.”

Velvet still clutched his arm, his biceps so large both hands wouldn’t wrap around it. He could have killed Celia, broken her neck as easily as snapping a twig. Yet she knew he was innocent, just as she had known he was not guilty of killing his father. Perhaps she was biased. She loved him, after all, more each passing day. But she believed in Jason Sinclair as she had from the start. His pain was her pain and seeing him now, she knew he was suffering.

“We’ll find a way,” she whispered softly. “I know we will. You can’t give up, Jason, I won’t let you.”

Penetrating blue eyes swung to her face. There was tenderness there and a world of regret. “I’m a lucky man, Velvet, to have been your husband even for a very short time.” His hand brushed her cheek, lingered there a moment. Their arrival at her town house ended what else he might have said.

The tenderness fled his eyes as the carriage rolled to a halt and despair settled in once more. He had lost hope now and she couldn’t let that happen. He didn’t deserve to be punished for a crime he didn’t commit. She wanted to help him, yet every moment he remained in England he was in danger.

A sharp pain throbbed under Velvet’s breastbone. She loved him. She wanted him to stay with her, but in the end, unless he was dead, he was certain to leave. His mind was made up and she knew now how implacable he could be.

The pain dug deeper, twisted inside her. He would die or he would leave. Either way she was going to lose him.

Descending the iron steps of the carriage, she took the arm he offered and let him guide her toward the door of the house, but the ache remained, rose as a bitter lump in her throat.

Dear God, she was going to miss him.