The room was charred and sweltering. Even the late summer breeze, invading through the broken window, could not steal away the stench of smoke.
Henry’s boots crunched over shards of glass. He gazed out the window—the dewy grass along the cliff, the faded rocks, and the sea that met a brilliant sky. He didn’t know why he’d requested this chamber for her, only that a part of him had known she’d appreciate the view.
She shall need new accommodations now. She could not remain in the west wing. He hardly knew why he’d placed her there, only that keeping her close had seemed imperative after the fire.
Perhaps he could suggest the room opposite Peter’s. There were lovely draperies on the windows, a sizable bed, and plenty of space for any furniture she might have need of. Yes, she would be most comfortable there. A logical solution.
As the thought formed, another was pushing through. One he scarcely had the courage to comprehend.
No. He crossed the room and tugged the remains of her bed-curtain to the ground. The heavy fabric fell in a heap at his feet. God, I cannot.
He wasn’t ready for another wife. He wasn’t ready to move Miss Woodhart into his bedchamber. He wasn’t ready to cast his bloody shirtsleeve into the fire for fear she’d discover it in his things.
She must have questions. All the speculating murmurs had doubtless reached her ears, arousing doubts she had failed to voice. He had no right to keep the secrets from her any longer.
If she was to be his wife, she must know the truth.
Every step she took in the blackness took her farther from the west wing. She half expected her mother, at any moment, to appear from behind and order her back to bed.
What a silly thought. In all the times Ella had gotten out of bed, her mother had never once caught her—and if she had, her father would have come to the rescue. Or had her mother known all along?
She didn’t know and it hardly mattered. What she wouldn’t give to see the both of them again, seated before the hearth with each in their own place. Mother had always settled on the settee, cross-stitching with Matilda cuddled next to her. On the other end, Lucy had held a book or a letter—either of which she would read out loud in soft tones. Father had occupied a chair closest to the hearth, and he often drifted asleep until Ella invaded his lap. She still recalled the rhythm of his heartbeat.
But that is gone. Ella’s hands reached into the darkness and pulled open the bedchamber door. She slipped into a room that banished old memories with the gentle touch of new ones.
Sweet boy. He didn’t stir when she settled onto the edge of his bed and swept her hand down his cheek. She kissed his brow. My dear little Peter, if only I could rescue you from hurt.
Heaven forbid that Peter should ever know the truth. He’d already lost a mother. To lose a father too—
“Peter?”
Ella sprang from the bed. She couldn’t see, couldn’t recognize the figure in the darkness. “Lord Sedgewick?”
No answer.
“My lord?”
The figure remained still, erect, silent.
Ella’s legs buckled as she took one step forward. “Ewan?”
Something dropped at his feet. Without ever saying anything, he fled from the room, leaving the door open behind him.
Ella rushed to retrieve the object. Her blood ran cold.
If he’d read it … then he knew.
She should have stayed in her chamber as she was told. Mrs. Lundie had advised her to rest, had insisted she stay in bed. She could have seen Peter in the morning. Why had she done such a thing?
But Ewan would have come anyway. What would he have done if Ella had not been there? Awaken his child? Read him the diary?
Ella leaned against the mantel, exhaustion making the tears run faster. Lord Sedgewick—I’ve got to tell him.
Something needed to be done. Ewan could not be permitted to see Peter whenever he wished as if Peter were his son.
Because he wasn’t. Not anymore. Lord Sedgewick had raised him, loved him, nurtured him. That meant more than any bloodline.
I can’t tell him. Ella gripped the diary in her hands. She glanced down into the small flames and lowered the book, hesitating. Perhaps Ewan only wished to see the child. That would be natural. Maybe he’ll never speak a word of what he knows.
She was right not to tell Lord Sedgewick what she had seen tonight. It would only hurt him—and Peter.
With her vision a blur of tears and firelight, she tossed the diary into the flames. Was she doing the right thing?
She opened her bedchamber door after Henry’s second knock. She stood before him in a white linen dress and bandaged arm. In two short days, her cheeks had regained their rosiness, her lips their smile. He shouldn’t have stared, but he couldn’t stop himself.
“My lord.”
He cleared his throat. “How do you feel?”
“Well, thank you.” She stepped into the hall and closed the door behind her. “Though I would greatly appreciate it if you would inform Mrs. Lundie that I am not an invalid. She has the most exasperating notion that I should remain in bed.”
“No.” Her smile widened. “One more moment in there and I shall shrivel away and die.”
“Then it seems I have rescued you, does it not?”
“For the second time.”
His heart raced at the warmth in her tone, but he did not look away. Instead, he grasped her hands. “Would a ride out of doors alleviate your distress?”
“I feel a bit too tender for a saddle, I fear.”
“Would a gig suit you?”
“Oh yes.” She hurried back into her room and returned wearing a stovepipe bonnet and lace gloves. He tucked her hand in the crook of his elbow.
Never had the journey to the stable taken so long. Never had the stable boy moved so slowly as he prepared the horse and gig. God, help me tell her.
“All ready for you, m’lord.” The stable boy led the horse and gig to them. “But there ‘pears to be rain a-comin’.”
“We shall return before that.” Henry lifted her, hands spanning her waist, and planted her upon the seat. His chest worked faster as he went to the other side and joined her. “Ready?”
Her eyes were curious, wide, as if she sensed his tension. “Yes.”
He gave the whip a small crack, and the wheels lurched into motion. The gray morning sky stared back at them—sad, gloomy, as if prepared to unleash a torrent of tears. Shadows loomed across the road, cast by stone fences or age-old trees. Familiar rolling hills stretched endlessly ahead. From not far away, the ocean waters made low, roaring warnings of a pending storm.
What would she think when she knew the truth? How would she look at him? Would she keep the secret he’d hidden for so long? He told himself she’d understand, that compassion would override any shame. Hadn’t she nearly said she loved him?
He’d nearly said it too, only he hadn’t. Maybe it was just as well.
“Did you speak with Peter this morning?”
His mind shifted to her question. “Yes.”
“At breakfast?”
“Afterward. He slept late, so I went to wake him myself.”
“I see.” Silence again, silence he hated.
Tell her. The road turned in a small curve until the ocean noises became fainter. Dear Savior, help me tell her.
But he didn’t, and the horse kept plodding farther away until the sky began to rumble. Moist, tropical scents filled the breeze.
“Perhaps we should start back,” she said at last. “I believe there shall be rain, after all.”
He didn’t answer. Without looking at her, he turned the horse toward home. Light sprinkles of moisture blew into his face as if tears from heaven. God, please.
Then her fingers reached for his and tugged the reins away from him. She pulled back and the horse stopped. “My lord, you cannot think me blind enough to not perceive your pain.”
His eyes raised to hers.
“And if I am the source of that pain, let me offer remedy. If you regret the feelings you implied before—”
“I regret nothing.” His chest throbbed. “And if you wish to offer me remedy, become my wife.”
First it was in her eyes—that soft, sweet glow that so quickly sparkled with tears. Then it was on her cheeks, a spreading shade of pink. And her lips. He tried so desperately not to search, not to look—but it was there too. He wondered if this was the sight of love.
“You forget,” she whispered. “You forget that I am a governess.”
“I have forgotten nothing.”
“But people shall—”
“Let them talk.”
Silence.
Then, as if in amazement, “Your wife? You wish me to become Lady Sedgewick?”
“Yes.” He hesitated, swallowed hard. “But only after you know what has happened to the last lady of Wyckhorn.”
Ella stared at him while cold fear clawed away her ecstasy. For the first time, she didn’t want the truth. She didn’t wish to know things that would disappoint her heart, that would devastate her love for him.
He is innocent. The words came again, the ones she’d come to believe. He wasn’t capable of hurting anyone, of taking a human life. No matter what her sister had done, he wouldn’t have murdered her. He was innocent. He had to be.
But even as her mind cried the words, his face told her differently. “Ella.” He got no farther than her name before a noise disrupted the quiet.
Both of them turned, just as two matching bays pulled a hackney beside their gig. The door swung open, and a black hat poked out into the rain.
Ella gasped. No.
The vicar climbed out, shoes sinking into the mud as his pale face lifted to hers. “I prayed to God I would find you, Miss Pemberton.”
Lord Sedgewick’s eyes snapped to hers.
“What are you doing here?” Instant rage lent a tremor to her voice. “You had no right to come.”
“Matilda said there had been no letters—”
“I have been busy.”
“I was afraid for you.” The vicar’s forehead tightened as his gaze slid to Henry. “And I have come to do what I should have done a long time ago, but lacked the courage for.”
“Mr. Beaumont—”
“Please get down, Miss Pemberton, and do not suffer me with complaints.” He caught her waist before she could squirm away.
Lord Sedgewick did nothing to stop him.
“Return her to Wyckhorn long enough to retrieve her things, then see that she is brought back to the village,” the vicar told the driver, as he opened the hackney door wider. “And do not be persuaded by her pleadings, for I am only performing the will of the Lord.”
She struggled against him. “I won’t go.”
“Forgive me, but I am afraid you do not have a choice.” With strength she had never imagined him to have, the vicar hoisted her into the hackney. He slammed the door hard.
No. Ella pushed at the door, but the wheels were already turning. She fought for a glance of Lord Sedgewick’s face.
He never looked up.
“I am not a man of great strengths, my lord, nor do I possess any abilities with weapons.” As the vicar spoke, he drew a pistol from his coat. “But for all my deficiencies, I am still quite capable of pulling a trigger.”
“Then pull it.” Henry remained rigid in his seat. He didn’t think, didn’t ask questions—only remained as still as possible, a statue in a world that no longer made sense.
“You cannot think this will be easy for me.” Wet hair stuck to the man’s skin. “Especially as a man of the cloth. Do you have any idea how this could destroy my congregation?”
“My sympathies, sir.”
“Do not mock me. I have undergone far too much pain, far too much agony to be mocked.” His skeletal throat bobbed. “Every one of them believed she had gone to London, but I knew the truth. I am as acquainted with Ella’s hatred as I was her father’s.”
Hatred. The word slapped him.
“If I were any kind of man, I would have gone after her myself. I would have spared Ella from danger. I would have avenged the life you took.”
“You know nothing of my wife’s death.” Henry almost didn’t recognize his own voice, the menacing growl in this tone. The sudden need to defend himself after all this time.
“On the contrary. Lucy’s father knew you were lying all along. It was only a matter of proving it.” Spittle flew from his lips. “Which is what I intend to do right now—once and for all. Now get down.”
Henry climbed out of the gig and stood before him.
The vicar took a step back. “All you have to do is tell me what happened. After that, the law and God may punish you.”
“My wife was sick.”
“You must not understand. I am going to kill you, Lord Sedgewick, if you do not expose yourself.”
“Then you had better do it.” Henry took a step forward.
The vicar retreated one more step. The pistol began to tremble. “There is no going back now, you see. I cannot let you live to murder Ella as you did her sister.”
With another step, then another, Henry approached. He stood close enough to grasp the gun, but he did not. A part of him wanted the absurd little man to pull the trigger. Wanted to die where he stood. Anything would be easier than facing Ella … Pemberton.
The vicar’s tight shoulders collapsed. His pistol dropped to the mud. “God have mercy on me,” he muttered. “I am not a man at all.”
Henry never answered. He climbed back into his gig, leaving the vicar and his pistol motionless in the rain.
Lucy’s sister. He flicked the whip for the fifth time. Her sister, come to destroy me. He should have known. His mother had taught him well—but not well enough. By the time his wife had betrayed him, the lesson should have sealed his heart in stone.
But he’d let another woman penetrate his bulwarks. What a stupid, wretched fool!
When he reached the stables, he leaped down without bothering to take the horse inside. He ran to the manor, burst inside.
She was waiting for him. He knew she would be. She should have hidden in fear, escaped while he was away so he wouldn’t kill her too. Isn’t that what she believed of him?
But no. She stood there with tears big enough that he might have thought they were real. She was more deceiving than Lucy had ever been.
“You are unharmed.” Her words were strangely calm.
He ripped off his wet coat, slung his hat to the floor.
Dunn appeared in a doorway.
“Henry.” Odd, that she should speak his name now, of all times. “Henry, please, I—”
“Do not give me another apology.” His chest hurt. “If you would like to shoot me too, I shall provide a weapon.”
She blanched. “I love you.”
He hated the sound of those words. They cut him. Deep. “Get out of here.”
“I love you.” Again, louder this time. “I cannot deny I came here in pretense, but you must know that my heart—”
“Your heart!” His fists balled. “Your heart, Ella Pemberton, is as wicked as your sister’s.” He started past her, but she latched onto his arm.
He flung himself out of her touch. Then he leaned forward, towering over her. “You came here for the truth, Miss Pemberton, and now I shall give it to you. I killed your sister.”
A wretched sound escaped her. “I do not believe you.”
“I have a shirtsleeve upstairs to prove it. If you don’t believe that, speak to the man who buried her.”
She shook her head.
“Dunn.” Henry whirled to the doorway. “Tell her, Dunn.”
His steward shook his head. “My lord, I—”
“Tell her!”
Dunn’s voice cracked, “She was shot when we buried her.”
Ella’s hand flew to her mouth. Still, she shook her head. “I cannot believe this of you. I cannot.”
“Then that makes us even, Miss Pemberton, because I cannot believe you.” Henry drew away from her and brushed past Dunn on his way through the doorway. He paused only feet away, however, and said without turning, “See that she is removed from Wyckhorn immediately, Dunn. She is never welcome within these walls again.”