CHAPTER 8

Oh, dear God, he knows about the letter. The shock took the fight and the breath right out of Victoria. She clutched at the wrought-iron edge of the bench seat under her and stared wide-eyed up at him.

“It’s all there on your face, Victoria. You did not think I knew about that, nor did you wish for me to know about it. We both know why, too.”

“No you don’t … Spencer. You really don’t.”

“Then enlighten me.”

Though she expected the angry fire in his dark, dark eyes to burn her to a cinder at any second, Victoria raised her chin a proud notch. “I cannot.”

She saw a muscle in his jaw working. “Under normal circumstances, Victoria, I would not inquire as to your personal correspondence. However, this situation is not the normal one. That said, the letter you received at Wetherington’s Point two days before you left: Who wrote it and what did it say? I cannot put it more plainly than that.”

“How do you know so much about this letter, Spencer? I really cannot fathom—”

“For God’s sake, Victoria—servants gossip. You know that. You’ve had them all your life.”

He was right. How stupid of me. Angry now, more with herself than the servants, but nevertheless like any timid creature, cornered and frightened, Victoria jumped up, prepared to fight back. “Why did you come after me? Why? You care nothing—”

“This has nothing to do with caring, madam.” Spencer glared at her. “This has to do with my heir. You are still with child, are you not?”

Embarrassed heat suffused Victoria’s face. She purposely kept her voice down because of the proximity of neighbors on both sides. “Yes, I am. I told you the ocean crossing would not harm me or the baby.”

“Yes, you did. But you also took a great risk with that undertaking. Tell me why. What—or who—was so important, Victoria, that you would take that risk upon yourself?”

Clutching her hands together, she turned away. “I cannot tell you.”

Behind her, Spencer said: “You mean you will not.”

“I mean I cannot.” Gripping her long, full skirt, she pivoted sharply about to face him. “And you’re right—I will not.”

Disdain capped Spencer’s expression and glittered his black eyes. “Answer enough, then, isn’t it?”

With her gaze locked with his, Victoria firmed her lips together against the urge to tell him the truth. She yearned for an ally, yearned for Spencer’s strong shoulder to rely on. But the letter she’d received in England had been specific: If she enlisted aid, or told anyone why she was here, that person would be killed. And they had spies everywhere. They watched her every move. She knew that much from having found that anonymous note on her pillow last night. Spencer exhaled a dispirited sound and said: “Your silence damns you and condemns us both, Victoria.”

Unable to look him in the eye any longer, so guilty did she feel and on so many levels, Victoria looked down and away, staring toward the back gate. “I’m sorry, Spencer, I truly am, but this is how it must be.”

When he made no reply, curiosity got the better of Victoria. She looked up at him. Once again he was not focused on her. Instead, a puzzled expression bracketed his eyes and mouth as he concentrated his attention on the back gate.

Fear that they were being watched by interested parties jolted through Victoria. She trained her attention on the gate, and though she saw nothing alarming, wariness still crept over her skin like night falling on a landscape. “What is it, Spencer?”

“I’m not certain,” he said, frowning, “but I could swear I saw…”

As his voice trailed off, Victoria took up the lead. “Saw what?”

He shook his head and looked down at her. “Nothing. Never mind.” He smiled and shifted his weight as if signaling a change in subject. “I find there’s such beauty in this city, like I’ve never seen before. Absolutely astounding.”

Victoria stared at him. What was he up to? What had he seen? And why had he so quickly discounted it? However … “Yes, there is,” she said, politely responding to his comment regarding Savannah’s beauty.

Spencer gazed warmly at her, causing her heart to take an irrational leap of joyful awareness. “One would never expect something so … delicate and lovely could be found out here in this garden.”

His gaze was so intimate, and his stern British demeanor so relaxed, that Victoria had to move away from him and sit down again on the delicately scrollworked bench. “And yet every Savannah house of any presence or reputation has a garden, one peculiar to its owner’s tastes.”

Spencer’s unexpected chuckle treated Victoria to a dazzling display of his white and even teeth. Something inside her quickened. All she could think was she knew how it felt to be kissed by his mouth. But telling herself such thoughts would never do, not when she couldn’t trust him, Victoria feigned insult. “Did I say something that amused you, sir?”

“Yes, you always do, Victoria. Now, keep smiling, pretend we are having a polite conversation, and stay here. I saw something in the alley I feel I should investigate. And I don’t wish to alert our visitors that we are aware of them.”

With that, and leaving her sitting there to process all he’d said, he turned and walked away from her, being careful to avoid the gravel pathway. Victoria stupidly stared after him, but then it struck her: Spencer! He’s unarmed and unaware. She jumped up and hurried toward him, calling out: “Wait, Spencer.” He turned sharply in her direction. She forced a cheerful note into her voice, already laden with urgency. “Allow me to come—”

“No.” He punctuated his answer with a cautionary hand held out to stop her—and smiled like death itself. “I will have a simple stroll through the garden … my dear. Don’t trouble yourself. Please … go back to the bench and wait there for me.”

An eyebrow raised in ominous warning, he waited for her to comply. Frustration ate at Victoria. What should she do? Rush over to him and tell him the truth, thereby signing his death warrant if their visitors in the alley were the men who followed her? Or go back to the bench and hope it wasn’t them and Spencer would be fine?

“Victoria … the bench.”

He was giving her no choice. Heartsick with worry, she hurried back to the bench, sat down and nervously held her lower lip between her teeth as she watched her husband walk away. Maybe, if nothing else, her calling out to Spencer had alerted whoever was out there of his approach, and they would leave in haste.

Victoria’s gaze remained riveted on her husband’s form. A purely feminine part of her mind, one not impressed by intrigue and lies and danger, remarked that he carried himself with such natural athletic grace. A tall, imposing figure of a man, he was. He’d removed his coat and collar at some point inside and had come out here in his white shirt, open at the strong column of his throat. He’d rolled his shirtsleeves up a few turns, exposing his muscled forearms, which were tanned a light brown.

Popping into Victoria’s immediate consciousness now was the remembrance of that bone-melting, staggering shock of a feeling she’d experienced when she’d first walked into the front parlor at River’s End this morning and had looked into her husband’s eyes. Seeing him had produced a tiny explosion inside her heart and mind that had left her momentarily disoriented. It had been as if her soul had only then recognized him as the man with whom she’d spend the remainder of her life. She’d wondered all day if he’d felt it, too. But there was no way on God’s green earth she could ask him, now was there? He’d think her insane. Or bewitched.

Victoria watched Spencer’s deliberately meandering stroll through the garden. Every few steps, he stopped to examine a flower or a shrub. A smile came unbidden to Victoria’s lips. What would it have been like, her wondering mind asked her, to have met him under other, more innocent, circumstances and have him pursue me for the sole reason that he wished to do so? Oh, so delicious, the thought.

At that moment, Spencer stopped at the wooden gate at the back of the property. Holding on to the top of it with both hands, he hauled himself up as if he meant to have a quick look up and down the alley. But he couldn’t quite get a toehold and pitched backward, almost falling down. Victoria grinned at his curious-little-boy antics.

Apparently deciding on a different tactic, he simply unlatched the gate. Victoria held her breath, praying hard for the alley to be empty of danger. She fisted her hands around her skirt’s folds and sat forward, her breaths coming in tight little gasps as Spencer stepped back to allow the gate to swing inward. Victoria feared hordes of awful men would rush him and kill him right in front of her. A mewling cry escaped her … Spencer stepped out into the alley and stood in the middle of the rough thoroughfare, his hands planted at his waist, looking first one way and then the other.

When nothing happened, when he simply stood there unharmed moment after moment, Victoria relaxed and breathed deeply—and treated herself to the masculine vision Spencer was. His long and strong muscled legs, and those narrow hips. His trim waist. That broad back and those shoulders. Despite all the tensions between them and her fervent wish not to be affected by her husband, Victoria heaved a sigh of purely feminine appreciation. Heaven help her, John Spencer Whitfield was one powerfully attractive man.

Troubled by the power of her attraction to him, she looked away from him, settling her unfocused gaze instead on a low, green shrub across the way. Why, oh why, didn’t Daddy marry me off to one of those narrow-shouldered, chinless dandies who’d come sniffing around in England? They would have been much easier, given the pickle she found herself in now, to defend her heart against than Spencer was. Could it be worse? Here she sat, expecting one man’s child—if only she knew which man’s—while trying to save another man’s child—a child he could not acknowledge and maybe did not even want saved.

Victoria’s heart sank. Men. How could they be so impossibly heartless? Not for the first time was she aware of how this other awful situation mirrored her own predicament. The timing, of course, was merely coincidence and one thing hadn’t anything to do with the other. But, still, it was odd, the lessons life chose to teach one—and at the worst possible moment in a person’s life. Wasn’t her own burden enough right now for her to bear? Why did she have to take on this one, as well?

Instantly, Victoria felt ashamed for having harbored such selfish thoughts. How could she think only of herself? Guilt had her looking down at her hands folded together in her lap. She carried a tiny life inside her that needed her to be safe and healthy for its sake. She shouldn’t be taking risks on another’s behalf right now. But she had to. No one else would. Victoria thought of the awful, awful people who had an innocent child held helplessly in their grasp. She feared what they had already done to the child’s mother.

Anger hardened Victoria’s expression, but she quickly blanked it and forced herself to relax. It couldn’t be good for her baby for her to be so upset all the time. Victoria pressed her hand against her still flat abdomen. We’ll be fine, don’t you worry.

Just as she did this, a very close and deafening sound rang out. Jumping and exclaiming with fright, Victoria realized she was on her feet, though she didn’t remember standing. In that same instant, she recognized the sound—a gun being fired—and pivoted in the direction of the sound. Out in the alley. “Oh, dear God … no.”

Spencer. Victoria staggered, grabbing on to the bench for support. She thought first she’d be ill, that she would faint dead away. But from somewhere deep inside her, from a well of strength she hadn’t known she possessed, she managed to straighten up and start running, running. “Spencer!”

The gate seemed to get no closer and her legs felt so heavy. The very air surrounding her thickened, became her enemy, slowed her down and dragged her footsteps. Then, from behind her, seemingly coming from out of nowhere, men rushed past her and someone was grabbing her by her arms, telling her something, stopping her, holding her. The men’s voices sounded warped, as if they were yelling and speaking through a wall of water.

Perhaps it was the shock, but Victoria felt the sting of tears in her eyes and heard her own voice, like that of a child’s, asking: “What’s happened? I don’t understand.”

No one answered her. Then suddenly she realized she had at last made it to the alley—but someone was holding her tightly, trying to force her away. Who? She concentrated on who this person was, fighting his hold on her and looking into his face. Hornsby. Spencer’s elderly valet. His stricken expression told its own story. Befuddled, in shock, Victoria shook her head, but the man tightened his hold on her, one arm around her back and his other hand pressed against the back of her head as he forced her cheek to his shoulder. “Don’t look, Your Grace. Don’t look.”

“No! I will look!” Only by sheer dint of will, and pushing and shoving, did Victoria manage to overcome Hornsby’s hold on her and look around his considerable bulk. Not more than ten feet away were two men, kneeling on the ground, their backs to her. One was Edward, Spencer’s cousin. The other one was her father’s man, a big blond man whose name she didn’t know. They knelt on either side of a third man, who was down on the ground. Victoria blinked but could make no connections. Then, it hit her. This was what Hornsby didn’t want her to see. This was what all the shouting was about.

Spencer lay on his back on the muddy and rutted ground of the well-traveled alleyway … and blood stained the front of his white shirt.

*   *   *

“Here, Victoria, drink this.” Edward Sparrow, the Right Honorable the Earl of Roxley, handed her a small glass filled with an amber liquid. “This should restore you.”

Numb, obedient, Victoria took it and put it to her lips, tipping it up. She swallowed, immediately gagged, and shoved the glass back into his hand. Choking, coughing, she helplessly leaned forward and covered her mouth with her hands.

“There’s the girl, now. Effective medicine, isn’t it, my dear?” The earl soundly patted her back, which did nothing to help.

Her breath would not come and tears seeped from the corners of her eyes. Since her pregnancy, liquor of any kind, even a taste of it, made her instantly ill, as did cigar smoke. But, finally, her symptoms eased and she thought she might live.

Inhaling deeply, she sat up as Edward squatted down in front of her. Silently, she watched him down the remainder of the whisky he’d first offered her. “There. Much better.” He smacked his lips in satisfaction as he admiringly eyed the empty glass. Then he caught her staring at him. “Fine stuff, this.” He hefted the shot glass by way of definition. “Found it across the way in the bar service. And you? How are you doing?”

Victoria started to reply and found she could produce nothing more than a raspy croak of sound.

“Easy now. Don’t try to talk. Just give yourself a moment. You’ve had a bit of a shock.”

A bit of a shock? She thought about this, but nothing came to mind. Still, she had to admit a shock would explain her feeling so … empty, so unaware. But what sort of shock? Frowning, she rubbed her hand under her nose as she stared at Edward. An objective and working part of her brain remarked on her hair being all undone and clinging to her damp face. She brushed it away and over her shoulders. As she did, she examined her surroundings, trying to get her bearings.

She and Edward were in a small but stately library, one that smelled pleasantly of furniture polish and books and a warm, richly scented breeze. The light draperies, hanging from several tall, narrow, open windows around the room, fluttered playfully with each breath of the wind. And yet, this room meant nothing to her. She’d never seen it before. What had happened to her? How had she come to be in here? She wanted to voice these concerns, but only one frustrating word could she manage. “What…?”

Like a sympathetic doctor with a patient who’s just come around, Edward smiled and rose effortlessly to his feet. “Good. Your color’s coming back. I expect you’ll live.”

Well, of course she would. She watched Edward cross the room to an ornately carved table and deposit the glass on a silver tray. She frowned, forcing herself to think … but all too soon wished she hadn’t. Sudden and painful memory rushed back, dragging her emotions along with it. Her eyes widened; she inhaled a ragged breath. This was her father’s house in Savannah. His library. She’d been in the garden, sitting there. And then Spencer—

“Spencer!” Gasping, she tried to jump up, but Edward rushed over to her and held her in place with a hand on her shoulder.

“No, my dear duchess, don’t try to stand just yet. You gave us all quite the scare, fainting like that. While I and your father’s man—nice chap, name of Giddens—managed Spencer, Hornsby carried you in here. Thought he’d have a heart attack with the effort. Not that you’re heavy, I’m sure. But this is as far as he could get you. And he is an older man—”

“For God’s sake, Edward,” Victoria cried, hating how thin and crackly her voice sounded. However, it proved to be sufficient enough to have the startled young earl removing his hand from her shoulder and stepping back. Victoria cleared her throat and coughed. “Spencer, Edward. Where is Spencer?”

Edward’s response was a chuckle. Disconcerted, Victoria sat back against the maroon velvet-tufted divan on which she found herself. “Why are you laughing?” Her voice sounded so low and hollow. “He’s your cousin. I thought you cared for him.”

“Oh, but I do. Tremendously. And to answer your question, he is upstairs at the moment.”

“At the moment?” She again tried to get up, only to have Edward again force her to remain. “Stop that, Edward. I must go to him.”

“No, no, no. Not yet. Hornsby will need more time with him.” With that, Edward cheerfully went to pour himself another drink.

Victoria sat there, staring, her gaze blankly following Edward’s every move as she puzzled over what he’d told her. Then, it came to her: Spencer’s valet would be the one to … lay the body out. She blinked against the mental image that wanted to form in her mind of Spencer … dead. No. A witch’s brew of sickening emotion assailed Victoria. She pressed her fingertips to her temples and shook her head against the dawning realization. No, he couldn’t be dead. She wouldn’t allow it. But she knew what she’d seen in the alley. The evidence spoke for itself.

And now, so did her heart, accusing her of having cared more, so much more, for Spencer than she had realized or would admit. Why else did she think she’d wanted his respect? Why did she think she’d wanted him to care … to just care? Because his indifference was the opposite of love. Indifference was not caring. It had nearly crushed her, and she knew why: Because she cared—and deeply—for him. If she hadn’t, then his behavior toward her wouldn’t have mattered. And now? It was too late.

A sudden bone-deep weakness leached the strength from Victoria’s bones. Dear God! Her husband. Her late husband. Only now did she realize that she could not imagine a life, a world, without Spencer in it. This then was her punishment … the knowing, too late, in her mind what her heart had known all along. Victoria swallowed and gritted her teeth as hard as she could, until her jaw ached. I will not fall apart. I will not. She inhaled deeply and willed strength into her bones and her heart. What remained for her to do now was to show respect for Spencer and his memory.

Edward, having downed a quick shot at the bar, came toward her. Victoria inhaled a ragged breath and spoke quietly but with authority to the earl. “I wish to go up and help Hornsby with him. It’s the least I can do.”

Edward shouted a guffawing laugh that startled Victoria terribly. “Oh, I daresay the shock of your doing so would put Hornsby in his grave. No, no, my dear, instead give the old man a few more moments to get your husband bathed and tenderly laid up in bed,” Edward blithely, madly, continued. “You can see him then. In the meantime, you and I can have a nice chat in here.”

Edward was quite insane, and she had to get out of this library. Making every effort to appear not to be doing so, Victoria cut her gaze around the room. Any sharp or heavy object with which to defend herself would do. Until she found one and had it in her grasp, though, she should humor the man. “All right, Edward,” she said, speaking in a placating tone, “I’ll wait here with you. Can you … can you tell me how he died?”

Edward frowned. “How who died? Oh, of course, you mean—Well, he was shot. Right in the chest. Terrible thing, that. But no more than he deserved.”

This was too much, insane or not. “Edward, for God’s sake, what are you saying—‘no more than he deserved’? How can you say such a thing? How?”

The earl’s expression pinched with obvious confusion. “How can I not is a better question. The man did try to kill my cousin—your husband, madam—after all. I say he got exactly what he deserved.”

The man? “Edward, what man? Are you saying it wasn’t Spencer who was—”

“Good God, no! No, of course it wasn’t. Oh, I say, Victoria—”

“Edward, please! Is Spencer alive?”

“Well, of course he is. Do you think I’d be standing here if—”

Victoria burst into relieved tears and covered her face with her hands. Almost immediately she felt strong and comforting arms going around her. Her intellect told her Edward had squatted in front of her on the floor. Hot, sick, relieved, embarrassed, she sobbed and sobbed.

After a bit, when the emotional storm abated, she became aware of Edward’s cooing and comforting sounds as he smoothed her hair away from her face and patted her back. “You poor thing. I am so sorry, Victoria. No, no, no. Spencer is fine. Why, I’d bet Hornsby’s had to tie him to the bed to keep him from coming down here to see about you. And knowing my cousin as I do, he is still roundly cursing whatever ruffian it was who socked him in the jaw and knocked him out.”

Victoria pulled back in Edward’s embrace and stared at him. “But the blood, Edward,” she burbled. “I saw blood. There was … blood.”

“Yes, there was quite a bit of blood, wasn’t there? Ghastly stuff. Here, my dear. Use this. Your nose…” Edward pulled a substantial-sized, clean handkerchief from a pocket and handed it to her.

“Oh. Sorry. Thank you.” Victoria self-consciously dabbed at her eyes and blew her nose.

Watching her sympathetically, Edward smiled, saying, “You’re welcome. Now, about the blood: None of it, happily, was Spencer’s.”

Victoria eyed him suspiciously. “Are you telling me the truth?”

“I am.”

She folded his handkerchief, held on to it, and looked up at him. “Then Spencer is alive and upstairs and not wounded mortally? You swear it?”

“I do, and he isn’t. Actually, he’s not wounded at all. Only bruised and knocked about a bit. He’ll be fine by tomorrow, I expect. And very, very sore.”

“Oh, thank God.” Intense relief robbed Victoria of bone and muscle. Experiencing a sudden fainting feeling, she sank sideways onto the reclining couch, a hand tucked under her cheek.

Edward tenderly smoothed her hair back from her face. “My dear, are you quite all right?”

“Yes. I just suddenly felt weak. Oh, Edward, I thought he’d been killed, and it was all my fault—”

“Your fault?” His voice sharp, Edward leaned over until he stared intently into her eyes. Under any other circumstances, his posture would have been comical. “How was any of this your fault?”

Victoria froze, knowing she’d said too much. With Edward’s face mere inches from hers, she was forced to stare into his brown eyes. “I didn’t mean directly. I meant … Savannah is my city, and I feel awful that he was … welcomed here in such a manner.”

“Welcomed? I say, my dear, that’s rather a rough welcome-to-town. You will understand, then, if I wish to remain unannounced?”

It was there in the tilt of his head and his arched eyebrows, as he clearly waited for her to explain herself, that he didn’t quite believe her. But what could she say? Maybe if she knew more about what had actually happened out in the alley. She clutched at Edward’s sleeve. “Please. Tell me what happened. I need to know.”

“Very well.” He righted himself, but remained squatted in front of her and balanced on the balls of his feet. “Spencer said he stepped out into the alley, stood there a moment, and then went off to his left. Apparently, two men of rough character were lying in wait around some barrels and other refuse behind the next house over.”

“Oh, how awful. What were they—common thieves looking for any victim? Could that be it?” She sincerely hoped so.

Edward shrugged. “Possibly. But they certainly had no need to accost him as they did if they meant only to rob him. After all, they were armed, and he wasn’t.” Edward paused, his expression troubled as he absently smoothed a hand over the divan’s soft edge. He appeared to be wrestling with the framing of something he felt reluctant to say. Victoria’s heart beat slowly, dully, with apprehension. Finally, the earl settled his gaze on her. “Victoria, I find I am very concerned, and I mean for you. Should I be?”

Choosing to pretend she’d mistaken his meaning, Victoria slowly sat up, with the young earl’s steadying assistance. “You’re very kind to be concerned. But I’m feeling much better, Edward, thank you. It was just the shock of seeing Spencer … lying there. And the blood. And then thinking he was … dead.”

Edward smiled sympathetically. “I understand. But we must get to the bottom of this. Perhaps if you told me what happened before Spencer stepped into the alley, we can start there.”

She nodded. “I shall certainly try. It’s really quite straightforward, though. Spencer came outside and we conversed. As we were talking, his attention kept straying to the back gate. I asked him what the matter was, and he said he thought he’d seen something.”

“I see.” A teasing smile transformed the earl’s rather plain features into a very attractive whole that explained his luck with the ladies. “He came outside specifically looking for you, my dear. He finds he has trouble keeping you located.”

Victoria smiled self-consciously. “I had told him I would be with Rosanna to supervise the unpacking of my trunks. But she had it well in hand, and clearly did not wish my instruction. So I came outside to catch a breath of fresh air.”

“And that’s where he found you?”

“Yes, as I’ve said.” Victoria made a show of rearranging her skirt’s folds as she also readjusted her opinion of Edward. She’d thought him nothing more than a dandy and a gadabout. But he seemed to know more than he was letting on and he asked very pointed questions, much like a detective would. Clearly, she had best guard her answers. Feeling his waiting stare, she finally asked her own question. “Edward, did Spencer, by chance, tell you what he saw out in the alley that made him think he should investigate?”

“Yes, he told us … rather groggily … as we were bringing him inside. He said he thought he kept seeing—and it sounds comical, though it isn’t—heads bobbing up and down from the other side of the gate. As if they were trying to see over it without being seen themselves, though not very effectively, obviously.”

Fright rushed through Victoria. This was no random attack. “Oh, Edward, I wish I had gone with him. I offered, but he wouldn’t allow me.”

“Well, certainly he wouldn’t, my dear. Forgive me, but I hardly think you could have been much help against two men who got the best of Spencer. But did you hear the struggle? Hear anyone’s voice? Or shouting?”

“Had I, don’t you think I would have raised an alarm myself?”

Edward covered her hand with his. “I didn’t mean to insult you, Victoria. I’m merely looking for answers.”

Answers she could not allow him to pursue. Victoria clasped his hand with hers, giving it a sincere squeeze. “I know, and no one more than I appreciates your efforts. But I think it makes more sense to look upon this as an awful but random incident, one not likely to recur, don’t you?”

“Perhaps. But this deserves looking into as Spencer was very nearly killed. We should report these violent men to the authorities.”

Victoria clasped the earl firmly by his shirtsleeves. “No, Edward, do not do that. We cannot bring in the authorities.”

If whoever was having her watched saw the police here, they would know or suspect she was telling them the little she knew about the threats, the letters and all the rest—and someone would be killed. Someone she loved.

Edward pulled back to stare at her with surprise-widened brown eyes. “I say, Victoria, what’s this? Spencer was very nearly killed! What possible reason could you have for not wanting this incident investigated and the brigands brought to justice?”

Letting go of him, she sat back limply. She could only stare in damning silence at her husband’s cousin and keep her secrets and her fears to herself as she thought: What possible reason, indeed?