By the middle of the afternoon Jacobin was bored and fretful. Kitty and Walter didn’t reappear so she’d explored the house by herself, tried to interest herself in a novel, then retired upstairs to change into one of Kitty’s gowns. She couldn’t wait for Anthony to see her properly dressed, then to throw herself into his arms. She ran downstairs with unladylike haste to see if he’d returned.
Simpson was in the hall, and, not wishing to deal with his barely veiled hostility, she went first to the library, Anthony’s favorite room. It was empty. Something caught her eye on the terrace outside: a white handkerchief tied to the handle of a certain garden urn.
He was back!
A hard, icy rain was coming down; it would have been sensible to put on something warmer than the light wool shawl that went with her gown. But, she thought with a shiver of something other than cold, Anthony would soon warm her up. She could hear the roar of the millrace through the howling wind, but a faint welcoming light glowed from the ground-floor windows of the Queen’s House. She tore open the door and slammed it behind her, ready to hurl herself at him.
A chill quiet contrasted with the tempest outside. She went through the door from the small vestibule into the main saloon, which was bitter cold and lit by only a pair of candles. As usual it was going to be up to her to light the fire.
“Anthony,” she called. “I’m so happy you’re back. I have something to tell you.”
Silence. Was he teasing her? “Anthony,” she repeated.
She moved farther into the room, searching for him in the half light. Unease prickled the back of her neck, dousing her euphoria. She heard, or perhaps only sensed, the air stirring behind her, and a hand touched her shoulder.
“Jacobin.” The voice was close to her ear.
She stopped dead.
“Edgar.” She could hardly enunciate the syllables. Then slowly turned to face her cousin.
He must have been standing behind the door when she entered the room. He stood there, short, slight, and neat in his precisely tailored garments. And the expression on his face so reflected Edgar’s habitual mild amiability that she found it impossible to credit that he was a murderer. It had to be wishful thinking on her part to consider him guilty. Edgar Candover just didn’t seem dangerous.
Yet she couldn’t think of an innocent reason for his presence at the Queen’s House.
“What are you doing here?” she asked. “Did you know I’d be here?”
“Oh yes, cousin.” His soft, slightly high-pitched voice conveyed no emotion. “I knew about your signal to Storrington. His butler is a helpful man. He doesn’t like you very much, you know.”
“Simpson? He knew?” Of course Simpson had found out. As she was well aware, servants always knew everything.
“I understand you’re to be married, Jacobin.”
He sounded sincere, but it wouldn’t hurt to get nearer the door. She fancied she could outrun Edgar if it became necessary.
“Yes, Edgar, is it not wonderful? You must wish me happy.” She forced her features into an expression of trust and edged sideways.
“I do. At least I would.” His voice dropped a notch and gained a mournful tone. “But, alas, the ceremony won’t take place.”
“Not take place?” Indignation overcame the alarm she was beginning to feel. “Of course it will. Lord Storrington and I love each other.”
Then remembering her last meeting with Edgar, she softened her voice. “I’m sorry I couldn’t accept your offer, Edgar. I hope you’re not upset.” If she could keep him talking she might be able to reach the door. At least he’d made no move to restrain her.
“No, I’m not upset,” he said, his dull eyes glowing with some unidentifiable emotion. “But I’m afraid it’s going to be very sad for Storrington when you are found dead.”
During the ride to Guildford to find Candover’s solicitor, Anthony considered what he already knew of Candover’s finances. A large portion of the Hurst Park estate was mortgaged. Yet for some reason there were substantial lands that remained unencumbered. None of the land was well maintained, for every penny of Candover’s income had gone to his pleasure with nothing being put back into improvements. And Candover had sold off a great deal of movable property: jewelry, paintings, and a valuable collection of rare books, including several Caxtons.
It occurred to Anthony that some of the land might, in fact, belong to Jacobin. Lord Hugo had mentioned that Auguste de Chastelux had required a large dowry to accept Jacobin’s mother, and it made sense that part of that settlement would remain in English property. Given Candover’s charming personality, it wasn’t much of a stretch to believe he’d withheld Felicity’s fortune from his despised niece.
Jacobin would be pleased to discover she wasn’t penniless, he thought with a smile. Not that he cared, but given his future bride’s fierce independence, he knew she’d appreciate not entering marriage empty-handed. His mind lingered pleasurably over the previous night’s lovemaking. What a good thing it was they had to marry at once. His stomach tightened with anxiety about what the solicitor might reveal, and whether it would help clear them both of suspicion.
“Lord Candover’s will is quite straightforward,” the solicitor said. “Everything goes to his cousin Edgar, the new baron. With the exception, of course, of the portion set aside for Felicity Candover and her issue through the terms of her marriage settlement.”
He was right, Anthony thought. And Jacobin would be thrilled.
“Does Miss de Chastelux inherit a good sum from her uncle’s death?” Hawkins asked eagerly. Anthony could see the direction the man’s mind was taking.
“But presumably Edgar Candover gets more,” he said quickly to restore Hawkins’s attention to more fruitful fields. “He must have inherited a substantial estate.”
The solicitor hemmed and looked at them over his spectacles. “It’s a little complicated. In recent years Lord Candover has been what I can only call improvident. But his sister was guaranteed a half share of the income from the property at Avonhill in Wiltshire during her brother’s lifetime and the lands in their entirety after his death. And since his late Lordship wasn’t able to mortgage them, they represent the only productive part of the estate. The new Lord Candover’s inheritance isn’t particularly enviable. It will require quite an infusion of money to restore it to prosperity.”
So, thought Anthony angrily, Candover has been living off Jacobin’s inheritance from her mother for all these years. The man had deserved killing.
“Jacobin de Chastelux stands to benefit considerably from her uncle’s death,” said Hawkins. “More so than the male heir.”
“Is the property hers outright,” Anthony asked, “or does she hold only a life interest in it?”
“If Miss de Chastelux marries, her property will go to her husband, and to her children if she has any. If she were to die unwed, it reverts to the estate.”
Anthony saw what that meant, even as the damn runner continued to look triumphant at finding a cast-iron motive for Jacobin to murder her uncle.
“Don’t you understand, you dolt, that Edgar Candover had a perfect motive for killing Candover and making sure his cousin was blamed? That way he’d get the whole lot, including the valuable part of the estate.”
“It seems convoluted,” Hawkins objected. “I prefer the more straightforward motive. Criminals are rarely subtle.”
Anthony wanted to shake him. “To hell with what you prefer. It’s in Edgar Candover’s interest to see his cousin dead before she marries. And she’s supposed to be marrying me in two days’ time.”
“You intend to kill me?” Jacobin still could scarcely credit it. “You killed Candover,” she said, “though I don’t understand why. And I certainly don’t see why you have to kill me.”
“I don’t want to,” Edgar said earnestly. “But it’s the only way. If you’re alive I’ll never get the Avonhill estate. My cousin squandered and gambled away most of his fortune except that one property. For eight years I’ve held things together getting no thanks and very little respect. But I didn’t mind because I knew that eventually I’d get the title and Avonhill. It’s the only thing he never mortgaged, and I made sure enough money went back into the land to keep it profitable. It’s a snug little place and will suit me. I’m a very modest man. He never told me the estate was your mother’s and was to go to you. When I discovered the truth a few months ago I knew he had to die before he spent everything.”
Jacobin considered this latest evidence of her uncle’s perfidy. “I don’t want it,” she said, trying to placate Edgar. “You can have it. Storrington has plenty of money.”
“I wish I could accept your offer, but Storrington would never let me have it. Once you’re married he’ll have control over it. You should have accepted my offer while you had the chance.”
“You won’t get away with it, Edgar. Storrington will hunt you to the ends of the earth, and if he doesn’t kill you, you’ll hang.”
“Oh no. You will be blamed for killing Candover. Your note confessing to the crime will be found near your body. You are going to commit suicide in a moment of remorse.”
She looked for a weapon. Edgar wasn’t much bigger than she was, and she was strong. A large and ornate vase stood on a side table. Sèvres, she thought irrelevantly, and ugly. She wanted to weep when she remembered the last time she’d smashed Sèvres porcelain in this house. She looked forward to breaking it over Edgar’s head.
Though her glance was discreet, he noticed the object of her attention. “Don’t even think about it, Jacobin, or I’ll shoot you.” He was pointing a gun at her, a twin of the pistol that had killed Candover.
“You’ve been planning it for months, haven’t you? My God! You probably even meant for me to be blamed for the poisoning. Did you see me in Brighton that night?”
“I knew you were in Brighton. No one ever thinks I’m clever.” His voice shook with resentment. “Without me your uncle would have been under the hatches years ago, but I got no thanks for my work. But when you ran off with Jean-Luc, I knew he wasn’t any use to you. Cousin Candover didn’t know that, all he cared about was Jean-Luc’s cooking. He believed you’d truly eloped with him. I traced the two of you to London and found out he’d got you a position in the prince’s household at Carlton House. Then I just had to wait my opportunity, wait until Candover was invited to dine. It was convenient that it was in Brighton rather than London. There was always food to be purchased after Brighton dinners.”
“So all those words of affection you said to me at the Argyll Rooms were nonsense.”
“Oh no, Jacobin. I would have married you then. I used to envy Jean-Luc. For eight years he had all your smiles, all your attention, and you hardly noticed my existence.”
Though she’d rather have spat at his declaration, flattery might buy her some time. “I wish you’d told me then, Edgar. I was always fond of you but I had no idea. And now I see how very intelligent you are.”
His pale eyes warmed a little and he smiled. “That’s good of you to say so, Jacobin.” He moved closer to her, and for a moment she thought he was going to kiss her. Vile as such a prospect was, it might give her a chance to snatch away the gun.
Instead he pressed the barrel of the pistol into her ribs. “It’s time for your suicide, my dear.”
“I’ll never write a note,” she retorted. “You’ll have to shoot me.”
“No need. The note’s all ready and sitting on that pretty little desk over there. I’ve had plenty of time to practice imitating your handwriting.”
“Anthony will know I didn’t write it. There’s no paper in that escritoire.”
“No matter,” Edgar said, unimpressed. “I fancy Lord Storrington will be too stricken with grief to recall such an unimportant detail. Now, lead the way out, please. And don’t forget, I won’t hesitate to shoot you here if you give me any trouble.”
“Out? Why?” Jacobin had an insane notion that Edgar was worried about blood on the carpet.
“You’re going to drown yourself in the millrace, just as Storrington’s mother did.”
“How do you know she killed herself?” Jacobin had learned that fact from Kitty earlier in the day, but it certainly wasn’t general knowledge.
“Candover told me in one of his drunken fits. Said he’d driven her to it, boasted of it because he’d fancied her himself and she turned him down. We Candovers don’t like to have our wills thwarted,” he concluded with a touch of manic and pathetic pride.
She couldn’t let him do it to Anthony. Even if she had to die, at least it wouldn’t be in sinister imitation of his mother’s demise. She’d fight Edgar just to spare Anthony that grief.
Anthony’s horse was spent by the time he slid from its back and abandoned it at the front door to rush into the hall. Hawkins, whose lesser-bred nag was slower but had more stamina, was at his heels.
“Simpson,” Anthony yelled. “Where is Miss de Chastelux?”
“I haven’t seen her this afternoon,” the butler replied stiffly.
Kitty emerged from a drawing room. “Anthony,” she said in a worried voice. “Jacobin has disappeared. She’s not in her room, and we can’t find her anywhere downstairs.”
Barely registering that Walter Thornley stood beside her, holding her hand, Anthony grasped Kitty by the shoulders. “When did you last see her?”
“Several hours ago.” Kitty’s tone was sheepish. “Perhaps she went out for a walk.” She sounded doubtful, as well she might, given that the rain was coming down in sheets, assisted by a growing gale.
He tore into the library and looked out of the window. There was one hope. In the half light he could make out something white clinging damply to the urn.
Thank God.
“The hamlet,” he said. “Have someone follow me with a heavy cloak and order a bath—two baths—for our return.”
His own attire was still sodden from the ride but he gave it no mind. She was likely awaiting him, warm, dry, and safe in the Queen’s House, yet his anxiety wouldn’t be assuaged until he had her in his arms. He ran out of the library door and took the steps from the terrace in leaps.
He could see light in the Queen’s House but the door was swinging, wide open. “Jacobin,” he shouted at the threshold.
He could hear nothing above the wail of the wind, the creak of hinges, and the thudding of his heart. Something—a movement?—off to one side caught his attention, and he peered into the deepening gloom, to the other end of the lake. She couldn’t be out on the bridge, could she?
The bridge, Jacobin thought. It had to be on the bridge. Once they had crossed it, Edgar would push her down the steep slope into the roaring stream. She’d considered her chances of swimming to safety and regretfully dismissed them. She was, at best, a weak swimmer and the water would be icy, the current fierce, and her clothes would weigh her down.
The railing of balusters along the sides of the gently arched structure was low, no more than knee-high at most. If she could distract Edgar as they crossed she might be able to unbalance him and push him into the water. It wasn’t much of a plan but the best she could come up with. She had the advantage of near darkness and knowing the territory.
She could feel Edgar’s breath on her neck each time she hesitated on the rain-soaked path, and he pressed her from behind.
“Keep moving,” he muttered.
They were at the end of the bridge now, and she increased her pace, praying she wouldn’t slip on the three shallow steps that led to the apex of the structure and that Edgar would. At her little spurt of speed, she drew away from the gun barrel that had been nudging her back the whole way from the Queen’s House. She listened intently, desperately waiting for her chance.
It came, she thought. Not sure if she was correct in sensing a hitch in his walk, a booted foot hitting the riser of a step, she swung around with all her strength, slamming her arm against Edgar’s body.
She heard a splash—the gun falling into the water, she hoped—and hurled herself at her cousin. He slumped onto his rear, arms splayed, his head against the railing.
“You bitch,” he shouted, struggling to rise, but she was on him now. She grabbed him by the ears and banged his head against the stone coping, over and over, beyond caring what she did to him.
Afterward she realized she might have killed him had a pair of strong arms not pulled her away.
“You rescued me again,” she muttered.
“I think you rescued yourself,” Anthony replied. His tone was steady, even a little amused. But the way he held her close to his hammering heart and pressed kisses over every inch of her face told her all about the measure of his relief. “It seems to have been Edgar who needed rescuing.”
She twisted her head to see her cousin, blood oozing from his head, being trussed up by Tom Hawkins.
“You knew I was strong.”
“It’s lucky I like strong women.”
“I love you,” she said, and relaxed into his embrace.