Chapter Eighteen

The rumble of male voices in the great subscription room of White’s was not unlike the sound of idlers below deck on a frigate. The dim lighting and wood panelling felt comfortably familiar to Michael. Only the comfortable chairs and fine brandy at his elbow and the attentive servants were different.

That and the four finely clothed gentlemen around the table. Three peers of the realm and Fulton.

The pile of guineas and vowels at his elbow were evidence of smiling fortune. Michael scooped the pot towards him. ‘Thank you, gentlemen.’

‘That’s me done for the night.’ Cargrew, a lanky viscount with fine light-brown receding hair, stretched and pushed to his feet. ‘I’ve a session to attend in the Lords tomorrow. Congratulations, Hawkhurst, on your call to the House, by the way.’

Michael nodded his thanks.

The brawny Sir Paxton also rose. ‘If I stay any longer I’ll be signing away my firstborn’s inheritance and my wife will have my head. You are a lucky bastard, Hawkhurst.’

The other men laughed.

‘Then we’ll call it a night.’ The dandified Lord Dalrymple had almost as big a pile of winnings as Michael. ‘Will I see you at Lady Brandon’s rout tomorrow?’

Michael flicked a glance at the sweating Fulton and shook his head. ‘I have to go out of town for a while.’ His plans were set. The executioner’s axe would fall tonight, and Jaimie must be told.

And besides, he did not want to run into Lady Selina again. The woman was worse than the Spanish Inquisition with her questions.

Fulton reached for his glass, his hand shaking wildly. He forced a smile, a baring of teeth. ‘I bid you goodnight, gentlemen.’

The three men bowed their farewells and walked off arm in arm.

Fulton drained his glass. He gazed at the pile of vowels, most of them his. ‘It is time I left also.’

‘Not yet,’ Michael said. ‘There is something we need to discuss. In private.’ He signalled to a waiter. ‘A private room, if you please.’

The man gestured them to a room across the hallway. Michael palmed him a guinea.

‘Too generous, my boy,’ Fulton said as he went ahead into the small antechamber. He must have caught the flash of gold. ‘I told you, servants need only be given silver.’

Fulton had taken Michael’s introduction to society very seriously, everything from proposing him for membership in White’s to finding him a dancing master.

The servant followed them in with the brandy decanter and the two glasses on a silver tray. When he left, Michael dumped the vowels on the table.

Fulton eyed them askance when Michael added a pile from previous evenings’ play. He swallowed. ‘Not all mine, surely?’

A week. It had taken a week of playing the dutiful but green-as-grass son-in-law to bring Fulton to this point, to put him completely at Michael’s mercy.

Deep in drink most of the time, the old man hadn’t seen it coming.

Fulton wiped the sweat from his brow and grabbed for a glass. His skin had a liverish cast, a yellow tinge that had nothing to do with the lamplight. The man was drinking himself to an early grave without Alice to keep an eye on him.

Michael didn’t want him to die. Not yet. Not before he received his full measure of punishment.

Michael leaned forwards and twisted the glass from Fulton’s weak grasp. ‘You’ve had enough, old man.’

‘What! A little more respect, if you please.’ He lunged for the glass.

Michael held it out of reach. ‘We need to talk.’

‘I’ve told you everything about the business. What more do you need to know?’

Michael rose, turned the key in the lock and pocketed it. ‘I want to know when you are going to pay your debts. All of them.’

‘W-what?’ Fulton choked out and tugged at his collar. ‘We are family, dear boy. We don’t dun family members.’

Michael watched the old man squirm in his seat with savage pleasure.

He let his face show puzzlement. ‘I thought it was a debt of honour?’

‘Well, yes, of course. But—but…’ He spluttered into silence, staring at the brandy decanter.

‘Tell me about the night of the fire.’

Fulton raised his gaze, a blank look in his eyes. He was so far gone, he was barely processing Michael’s words.

‘The night my family died,’ Michael enunciated slowly. The night you murdered them, you bastard. He held the accusation inside him. It would be too easy for a simple denial.

The bleary eyes misted. ‘It was so long ago. I don’t remember much. I’d been drinking.’

No excuse for murder. Michael’s stomach churned. He kept his expression calm, his voice cool. ‘You and my father argued that night. Over money. You were heard.’

Fulton squeezed his eyes shut. ‘I don’t recall. Doesn’t matter now anyway,’ he mumbled.

‘You did get your money, though, didn’t you? From the estate?’

‘I…’ He tugged at his collar. ‘My claim was proven, yes.’

‘Some say you were the only one who profited from the fire. And rightly so, of course. It was your money, after all.’

‘It was all done through the courts,’ Fulton said, gripping his hands together. ‘All legal.’ His gaze shifted away, but not before Michael saw shame and guilt.

‘There was no one left to contest the claim.’

Indignation shone through the bleariness. ‘What are you suggesting?’

‘Nothing,’ Michael said. ‘I don’t need to suggest anything. You were seen.’

‘What? Yes. I was there.’ The confusion was back.

‘You left the ballroom with a lad under your arm.’

Fulton frowned. ‘The little boy,’ he said. Gnarled fingers rubbed at the back of his neck. ‘Yes. Yes. I took him away.’

The admission, so callous and uncaring, hit Michael like a blow to the kidneys. Excruciating pain. Nausea. The faint hope he’d harboured of Fulton’s innocence, for Alice’s sake, winked out. Cold fury filled his veins as he stared at the shrunken old man. No longer could he bear to be in the same room and not kill the murdering bastard who had callously left him at the dockside in the hands of the press gang. There was a time he’d have gladly hanged to see the light go from Fulton’s eyes, but now Michael wanted the life Fulton had stolen. The last night he spent with Alice had made him realise he wanted a home and a wife. He wanted Alice and he’d never be able to face her with her father’s blood on his hands.

He dropped his gaze to the table. ‘About these debts.’

‘You have to give me time. The Conchita is still in Lisbon, before the prize courts. Once it is established that there was no reason for that cursed privateer to take her, I’ll be dibs in tune.’

Fulton had no idea Michael was the privateer to whom he referred. ‘And if the prize court doesn’t find in your favour?’

‘It will.’ He swallowed. ‘It has to.’

‘I need the money now,’ Michael said, his voice cold. Implacable.

Fulton rubbed a finger across his lips, staring at the pile. ‘How much is it?’ he croaked.

‘After tonight? A cool five thousand.’

‘So much? Surely you can wait a week or two?’ He poked one finger under his cravat and tugged, stretching his neck like a turtle.

‘You play deep, old man.’ Michael pursed his lips and furrowed his brow, pretending to think it over, when all the time his blood beat in time to the words You are mine. Finally, he met Fulton’s hopeful gaze. ‘I’d be willing to take the other half of Fulton’s in lieu.’

Fulton shifted back in his chair, opened his mouth to accept, knowing full well it was worth nowhere near that amount.

‘And the house in Oxford.’

The old man recoiled. ‘That is my son’s inheritance.’

‘All he will inherit is a pile of debts the sale of the house won’t cover. Come now, Fulton. This is a generous offer. More than you deserve. If you weren’t family, believe me, I would see you in the Fleet, along with that boy of yours.’

‘Richard?’ His jaw dropped. ‘I can’t give up Westerly,’ Fulton wailed and shook his head. ‘Without the revenues, I can’t pay for Richard to remain at school. I’ve already let the town house go. Where will I live? You are a member of this family now. You can’t do this.’

Michael watched the man disintegrate before his eyes. It was what he had always wanted for this man. A living death.

The same as he’d given to Michael and Jaimie.

‘As a family member,’ he said, not hiding the sneer in his voice, ‘I’m willing to pay for your son’s education and give him a place in the business.’

Fulton slumped in the chair; he seemed to age twenty years. His skin turned the colour of parchment. Michael found himself feeling sorry for the old man. Something he hadn’t expected. Didn’t want.

He snatched the agreement from the pocket inside his coat. ‘Sign here, and no more will be said about the debt.’

‘Please,’ Fulton said. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘Sign,’ Michael shouted, clenching his fists, ‘or face the consequences.’

Fulton’s chin bobbled. ‘I don’t have a pen.’

Silently, coldly, Michael strode to the writing desk and brought back a pen and inkwell. He unrolled the document, holding it flat. ‘Sign it and I’ll tear up the vowels. You’ll owe me nothing and your daughter and son will be cared for. Sign it and no one else need know.’ Alice need not know.

Fulton looked confused and fearful. In his drunken panic, he read not one word of the confession Michael had drawn up. Hand shaking and tears bright in his eyes, he simply scrawled his name.

Michael had seen the signature often enough over the past two weeks to know he’d signed true. He blew the ink dry and rolled document in hand, headed for the door.

Fulton was finished. Not dead. Worse than dead. Living in hell. He’d never see either of his children again, unless he wanted to end upon the gallows.

He had expected triumph, perhaps even joy, but instead he felt empty. Joyless.

‘What about me?’ Fulton croaked. ‘Where shall I go?’

‘I’d leave town if I were you, before I change my mind,’ Michael said cruelly. ‘Before your other debtors find you’ve nothing left.’

The old man gasped. ‘You devil.’

Michael smiled. ‘No more devil than you.’

‘Alice. I should go to Alice. She’ll advise me.’

He delivered the final blow without emotion. ‘Alice is where you will never find her. I’ll make sure you never see her again. Or your son. You’ve brought them nothing but shame.’

Fulton let out a strangled cry, but Michael could see his acceptance in the way he crumpled.

He unlocked the door.

‘What have you done with Alice?’ Fulton whispered. He spoke her name like an invocation to a goddess. But the goddess was Michael’s now.

And if she ever learned what he’d done, she’d never forgive him.

He hesitated. For some reason he couldn’t quite fathom, he reached into his pocket. ‘Go to the Mermaid in Portsmouth. There’s a man there, name of Bones. He’ll give you a berth, some work at the inn if you mention my name.’ He tossed Fulton a half-guinea. ‘Use this for the stage. But mark my words well, never let me catch you in town, or anywhere near Alice, or your life won’t be worth living.’

Alice looked up from her weeding. Almost midday and still no sign of Simpson. He’d be too late to go to the post office if he didn’t come soon. After three weeks, she was sure there would be a letter today.

Out of sight, out of mind.

No. Selina had promised to write and Alice had walked to the post office in the village the day Michael left and sent word of her address. There had to be a reply soon. She rose to her feet, feeling the pull of muscles and the stiffness in her legs and back. A walk would be good after working in the garden all morning. With no hospital nearby and nothing else to keep her mind off worrying about Michael, the overgrown garden had become her project. The neat rows of herbs, parsley, rosemary, thyme and sage, mint and hissop, gave her a feeling of something accomplished, as well as some supplies for her medicine chest. The fruit from the apple tree would make wonderful pies in the autumn and go with the blackberries on the brambles hanging over the wall.

It wasn’t much, but it would help save a few pennies on food. She pressed her fingers into the centre of her back and stretched. After lunch, she usually walked up to the derelict house. Pulling weeds up there seemed almost futile, yet she felt it brought Michael closer for all that it was a mere drop in a gargantuan bucket. And she’d found a few treasures amid the debris. A child’s coloured marble that might have belonged to him as a lad. A statue of Venus, with only one small chip. She was keeping them as a surprise.

She opened the gate and stared down the road. Where was Simpson? No sense in waiting any longer for luncheon. She went inside, cut some bread and a hunk of cheese and, as she munched, watched rain clouds gather. No weeding up at Hawkhurst Place today. But a little bit of rain needn’t prevent her from walking to the post office. She cleared the table, put on her coat and picked up her umbrella. She tucked the letter for Selina in her reticule.

The two-mile walk to the village took close to an hour and because Simpson had taken a room above the stables at the local inn, he’d taken to bringing all their needed supplies each morning. Every day he’d also checked for letters.

Today he had gone further afield, to the market in the nearest town, because Alice had decided she needed fabric for chair cushions. He hadn’t been very happy about going, but in the end he’d agreed.

Sometimes Simpson had a mind of his own.

The post office, a charming thatched cottage in the middle of a row of three, sat at the edge of the village. Farther along, beside the village green, lay the King’s Arms where Simpson boarded and on the other side of the green the village shop, which fulfilled most of their day-to-day needs.

She pushed open the post-office door. A bell tinkled above her head. A grey-haired woman of about fifty, with gimlet eyes and spectacles on the end of a sharp nose, looked up from behind the official-looking counter. ‘Lady Hawkhurst.’ She dipped a curtsy. ‘May I help you?’

‘Good day,’ Alice said with a smile, fearing she looked more like a vagrant than a peer’s wife with dust on her shoes and clinging to her hem. ‘Do you have any post for me today?’

The woman made a show of checking an array of five pigeonholes behind her. ‘Not today, my lady,’ she said brightly. ‘Unusual for you not to have a letter or two.’

A tremble started low in Alice’s stomach, an odd little quiver. She swallowed. ‘Have there been letters for me over the past few weeks?’

The woman’s iron grey brows drew together. ‘Your man picked them up. He brought a letter from his lordship giving him permission.’

The woman must be confused. ‘But none addressed to me personally?’

The red in the woman’s cheeks deepened. ‘Do you mean that man of yours hasn’t been giving you your post?’

Apparently so. A hot buzz sounded in her ears. Anger. She took a deep calming breath and smiled at the woman. ‘Mr Simpson is sometimes forgetful. May I borrow a letter opener, and a pen? I have just thought of a postscript I wish to add to my missive.’

The postmistress proferred a pen and sealing wax. Alice took them to a table against the wall and pulled out the note for Selina. She dashed off a few lines across those already written and returned to the now very suspicious woman.

Pretending unconcern, despite the hot fury in her veins, she handed over the letter and the woman dropped it into a canvas bag at her feet. ‘Please keep any post addressed to me here until I call for it personally,’ Alice said.

The woman sniffed. ‘Interfering with other people’s post. Ain’t right.’ She pressed her thin lips together, as if to keep from saying more.

Alice gave her what she hoped was a not-to-worry smile and headed for the door. ‘I am sure it is a simple mistake.’

The woman jerked a disapproving chin. ‘As you wish, my lady.’

Outside, low clouds now covered the sky, releasing their burden in the form of a light drizzle. Alice put up her umbrella. Her gaze lingered on the inn just a few yards down the road. Might Simpson be there? He had some explaining to do. And she wanted her letters.

She set her steps for the inn, avoiding the puddles that were already forming in the rutted lane. The cottages on either side of the road hunched beneath their sodden thatch with nary a sign of their occupants. At the green, she glanced up at the sign, the King’s Arms, an overly grand name for a one-storey thatched and half-timbered building boasting one taproom.

The idea of bearding Simpson in his den no longer seemed quite so attractive. After a moment’s hesitation, she straightened her spine and marched around the back to the stables.

A down-at-heel groom forking hay looked up at her entry.

‘Is Mr Simpson here?’ she asked, closing her umbrella and giving it a shake.

His eyebrows shot up. ‘Mr Simpson, is it?’ He chewed on the straw sticking out of his mouth.

‘George,’ she said, remembering. She smiled. ‘He’s expecting me.’

‘Aaar,’ he said, somewhat mysteriously. ‘He’s not in.’

She gulped a quick breath. ‘He said to wait.’

He chewed his straw, then jerked his head to the back wall. ‘Up them stairs, then. Key’s under the mat. Don’t steal ought or he’ll have your guts. Not a man to cross, our Mr Simpson.’

Apparently female visitors were not an unusual occurrence for Simpson. Lucky for her. She climbed the wooden steps to the landing, a half-loft really, found the key and opened the door. The smell of stale smoke hit the back of her throat.

Simpson’s quarters were spartan. A hammock hung across one corner, a neatly made cot against one wall and a table and chair beneath the window. A row of hooks held two shirts and an overcoat behind the door. Breathless, not from climbing the stairs, but from the press of her rapidly beating heart against her lungs, Alice ran to the window. She peered up and down what little she could see of the lane. A workman hurried past on foot. A woman scurried along beneath her umbrella. No Simpson.

But he could return at any moment.

She whirled around. If he had stolen her letters, would he keep them or destroy them?

Only a pipe in a stand inhabited the rough wooden table. A sea chest had been pushed beneath the cot. She dragged it out. Dash it. It was locked.

She lifted the ticking mattress. A document fluttered to the floor. A letter. She lifted the mattress higher and discovered another caught in the bedropes. She scooped them up and walked to the window. Each was addressed to her. Both from Selina.

She wasn’t forgotten.

She glanced outside. The inn courtyard was empty.

She opened the one dated first. ‘Glad to get your note…Mrs Bixby’s rout a disaster…Father still absent from town…’

The second was along the same lines, but began with a querulous question about why there had been no reply to her last missive. And then Michael’s name jumped off the page. ‘…taken London by storm. There are even whispers of his adventures at sea…ladies swooning at his every glance.’

She frowned. Michael? In London? There had to be some mistake. He was at sea repairing their fortunes.

Alice’s hand shook.

She steadied the paper and continued reading. ‘They say he’s won a fortune at White’s. When I saw him in Bond Street and asked after you, he said you preferred the country and, if I may say so, was really quite rude, wandering off while I was speaking. Now I hear he has left town to visit a cousin. I made enquiries about your father, but no one has seen him recently.’

She couldn’t breathe. It was as if some great weight had landed on her chest and was restricting the air. Michael was in London, enjoying himself. And Father had disappeared?

Surely not.

She pressed her fingertips to her temples and gazed unseeing out of the window.

Michael had lied about going to sea.

The bottom fell out of her stomach and it hit the ground with a sickening jolt.

She’d trusted him and he’d lied.

An ache in her chest rose up in a hot hard lump to scour her throat and scald the backs of her eyes. She clutched her arms around her waist. Something tender and small, the seedling of hope she’d nurtured after their last night together, a hope for more than a marriage of convenience, seemed to wither inside her.

No. She would not believe the worst of him, not without proof. She’d been sure he meant to treat her honestly. So hopeful for the future. But the recollection of the way he’d left ground away at her defences.

And where was Father?

A cold chill ran down her back.

Only Michael could explain. And she needed to tell him about Simpson’s odd behavior. She skimmed Selina’s note. Michael had left town to visit a cousin. Jaimie. Then why would he not have come to Hawkhurst Place only a few miles away? She forced the nagging question aside. She would have her answers directly from Michael, not spend time in useless conjecture.

The distance to Sandford’s was less than ten miles. The letter was dated three days ago. Michael might still be there. If not, she would travel to London.

Michael. How could you? The thought whirled around in her head. A maelstrom of emotions. Hurt. Anger. Worry. Fear that she’d trusted the wrong man. Again. Let her passions rule her head. She felt sick.

She took a deep breath. And another. If she left now she could be with Sandford before dark.

And Simpson? Let him worry when he found her gone, the rotten thief.

She stuffed Selina’s letters into her reticule, made sure everything looked undisturbed and deposited the key back under the mat. If she was lucky, Simpson wouldn’t realise where she’d gone until it was far too late to follow.

Michael handed his hat and gloves to the Sandford butler and raised a brow. ‘Garden room?’

The butler must have seen something of his mood in his face because he stepped back smartly. ‘Yes, my lord. You know your way.’

Michael strode for the back of the house. This interview with Jaimie was not the triumphant homecoming he’d planned. The weight of the world bore down on his shoulders as he contemplated his news.

The farther he’d driven from London with the news, the stronger the realisation had become. Alice would never forgive him for what he’d done to her father. Even if he hadn’t physically harmed the man. Even if Fulton was safe with Bones.

If she found out…

How would she not? He was going to have to tell her. He couldn’t pretend he didn’t know what had happened, or why. She’d never stop looking for the old man.

The only reason she’d married him in the first place was to save him from financial ruin. She’d sacrificed herself and then she’d trusted Michael to help him out of his difficulties. When she found out the truth, she’d never trust Michael again. He’d never hear her say I love you again, because she wouldn’t.

He couldn’t go through with it. Not while there was still time to salvage something of his marriage.

As usual, Jaimie lay among his cushions, his gaze hazy from smoke. Michael’s fingers tingled with the desire to knock some sense into his cousin. But brute force never did any good. Either Jaimie would come to it on his own, or he’d fade away to nothing.

‘I have bad news,’ Michael said.

Jaimie paled. The blue of his veins stood out on his pallid face like rivers drawn on parchment. ‘What has happened? Did something happen to Alice?’

‘No. It’s not that. I just came from utterly ruining Fulton—he’s destitute. On the street with nothing to his name, not even his children know where he is, but…’ Chest tight, he dropped to his knees beside his cousin. ‘Jaimie, I’m sorry. I can’t go through with it. I know I swore revenge for the sake of our families, but I can’t do it. I’ll lose Alice. I have to go straight back to London and sort it out.’

Jaimie laughed. High-pitched and hoarse, he sounded hysterical. ‘Why didn’t you come before this? I wrote to you twenty times this past fortnight.’ He sounded so strained, Michael stilled.

‘I told you, I had something to tell you.’

Michael had a strange sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. ‘What is it?’

‘About the fire,’ Jaimie whispered. ‘About what happened.’ His eyes misted.

Michael reached out and clasped his cousin’s thin shoulders. ‘It’s all right. You don’t have to talk about it. I know how it pains you.’

Jaimie shook the hand off, his face agonised. ‘You don’t understand. I did it. I caused the fire.’

The words hung in the air, pungent, hot, dizzying, like opium smoke. Michael shook his head to clear it. ‘No.’ It was the only word he could think of.

Jaimie covered his face with his hands. His bowed shoulders shook. ‘I killed all those people. It was an accident.’ The words frothed forth like wine from a bottle of champagne, except this brew tasted bitter.

Horror erupted in Michael’s chest. ‘You lie,’ he roared. Yet he knew. He’d broken Alice’s trust for a lie.

‘It was l-late.’ Jaimie spoke dully, as if by rote. ‘I could hear music. People laughing and talking. I—I wanted to see the fun. I saw you weren’t in your bed and I thought they’d fetched you down and left me. I crept downstairs and into the ballroom.’ He choked on a sob.

Michael could only stare. Numbed by denial. He’d planned to forgive Fulton and tell Alice what he’d done. She might have forgiven him then, but this? ‘Oh God, Jaimie.’

Jaimie inhaled a shuddering breath and began again. ‘There were so many people. Someone knocked the candle out of my hand. It must have rolled beneath the curtain. I saw smoke. No one else noticed. I ran away.’

‘Are you sure?’ Michael said. ‘This is too important for one of your opium tales.’

Jaimie pressed his shaking hands over his ears. ‘Let me finish.’ His voice dropped to a grating whisper. ‘When I looked back flames were licking up the curtains, spreading across the floor. I couldn’t move. I knew what I had done and I froze. If I had shouted, anything…’

Michael couldn’t look at him. He stared up at the reds and blues of the canopy, unable to watch the agony on his cousin’s face, unable to bear the heavy beating of his own heart, or the taste of bile in his mouth. But he couldn’t stop the words from pounding into his head.

‘All hell broke loose, Michael. Fire raced across the floor. Furniture. Pictures. It took seconds. And hours. I was rooted to the spot. People yelling. Heat.’ His voice broke. He shuddered for a long moment. ‘Someone tossed me over their shoulder. I hid my face. I couldn’t watch.’

Sick, numb, legs as heavy as lead, Michael sank back on the cushions. He felt empty. Sucked dry.

The tears running down his cousin’s face were real. There was no doubt this was the truth.

Dear God. What had he done?

He fought to regain his senses. ‘Why, for God’s sake, didn’t you tell me?’ His voice was rough, as if scarred by the long-ago fire.

Jaimie’s huge brown eyes pleaded for understanding. ‘How could I? For years, I thought you were dead. I’d lived with the guilt, knowing what I’d done and wanting to die. You appeared out of nowhere. A miracle.’ He cracked a bitter laugh. ‘An absolution of sorts. And when we talked about it and you named Fulton, I grabbed for salvation. You were terrifying, Michael. So angry. So hurt. I feared I’d lose you.’

Instead, it was Michael who would lose everything—again.

Jaimie stared at the brightly patterned rug, avoiding Michael’s gaze. ‘You were so angry, Michael. I knew you would never forgive me. Hell, I couldn’t forgive myself.’

It would be hard to forgive, after all this time. Alice’s voice breathed in his inner ear. Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord, a harsh voice followed up with a rather grim chuckle. His own voice. Oh, the Fates had played him cruelly. Made him blind to everything except his self-righteous anger.

Dazed, he stared down at the bowed head with its carefully ordered brown curls. His only living blood. ‘Oh God. If you had only told me last time I visited,’ he whispered.

His cousin lifted his head, the despair in his face painful to see. ‘I wanted to. I saw how you looked at her, Michael, that day after your wedding. I’d never seen such happiness in your eyes. God help me. I wanted to tell you. Before you did anything. I swear it. Why didn’t you come back? I sent messages. Every day. But you never came.’

Michael remembered the messages. But he’d been far too busy destroying Alex Fulton to heed his cousin’s pleas for a visit.

‘Michael, there’s more.’

A cold chill settled in his gut at the fear on Jaimie’s face. ‘Tell me.’

‘It was Fulton who carried me out of the house.’ He hesitated, bit his lip. ‘And you. He carried us both out of the fire and collapsed on the grass. I lay down beside him, but you—you disappeared.’

‘Are you telling me Fulton saved my life?’

Jaimie collapsed and buried his face in the cushions. ‘I should have told you.’

A low ache started at the base of Michael’s skull. He cradled his head in his hands. ‘Then how the hell did I get taken by a press gang?’

‘I don’t know.’ His hoarse voice was muffled. ‘You—you disappeared. People thought you went back inside.’

Bright light speared the backs of Michael’s eyes. The old visions of flames danced in his brain. He squeezed his eyes tight, in an effort to remember. There was nothing there. Nothing but the horrific images he wanted to forget. ‘What are you saying?’

Jaimie looked up then, his eyes and nose red, his cheeks tearstained. ‘Oh God, Michael. I’ve thought and I’ve thought ever since you came back. I think you must have run away.’

‘Like a coward.’

A boy scared witless. It made terrible sense. Somehow he’d ended up at the docks, either carried there by a stranger who found him on the road, or on his own two feet.

He groaned. He should have known the Fates would play him false, that they’d find a way to punish him for seeing a happiness he didn’t deserve.

Alice had given up her life for him. Given him her trust. Opened her generous heart. And he’d betrayed her.

She’d hate him. She couldn’t hate him worse than he hated himself. Because if he’d not left his room, the fire would never have happened.

He deserved to lose Alice.

The emptiness in his soul deepened into a vast cold wasteland.

‘Can you ever forgive me?’ Jaimie asked, his head bowed.

A shudder ran down his spine. He couldn’t forgive himself.

He placed a hand on Jaimie’s shoulder, felt fine bones beneath the silky fabric. ‘There is nothing to forgive. It was an accident.’

‘I should have told you the day you came here with her,’ Jaimie wailed. ‘I’m such a bloody coward.’

A pain, bright and white, stabbed Michael behind the eyes.

The walk in the rain suited Alice’s black mood. By the time she reached Sandford House, she was saturated from hem to knee, and furious. She banged on the front door.

The butler’s jaw dropped.

‘Lady Hawkhurst to see Lord Sandford,’ she said and pushed past him.

‘If you’d care to wait in the drawing room, my lady, I will see if his lordship is at home.’

Alice stripped off her damp gloves. ‘I do not care to wait. Please conduct me to his lordship now.’

The man looked startled, then shrugged. ‘As you wish, my lady,’ he said in one of those on-your-head-be-it tones butlers practised in off-duty hours. He led the way towards the back of the house.

‘Is he in the garden room?’ she asked.

‘Yes, my lady.’

‘Then there is no need to announce me. I know the way.’ She brushed passed him and picked up her pace. She heard him follow for a few steps and then stop with a muffled exclamation. Good. The element of surprise was on her side.

As before, the sound of male voices led her to the far end of the conservatory. As before, two men occupied the cushions, but Michael was bent over his cousin, who seemed to be ill.

The suspicion that her husband had no intention of paying her a visit rose up to choke her. She swallowed her rage and disappointment and put her hands on her hips. ‘Well, here’s a pretty sight. And you told me you were going to sea.’

Michael’s expression of ludicrous shock and horror was almost worth the pain in her chest.

‘Alice?’ He leaped to his feet.

An ashen-faced Jaimie lifted his head. His eyes darted to Michael. ‘Bloody hell.’

Alice shot him a look designed to freeze. She turned her attention to Michael. ‘What are you doing here, Michael? And why is your henchman stealing my letters? More to the point, where are my father and my brother?’ Her voice rose with each question, because all she could see on his face was guilt.

‘Why are you soaked through?’ he asked.

‘It was raining. Don’t change the subject.’

Jaimie stared at her. ‘Don’t tell me you walked here, Lady Hawkhurst?’

‘All right,’ she said. ‘I won’t.’

‘You and I need a private discussion,’ Michael said grimly.

‘Take her to the guest room in the east wing,’ Jaimie said. ‘You’ll find some of Cynthia’s clothes there.’

Michael cast his cousin a pained look and took her arm.

As they drew away, Jaimie called out ‘Michael. Please. I’m so sorry.’

While Michael’s touch was gentle, it was clear he would brook no argument about going upstairs. ‘What was Simpson thinking?’ he asked as soon as they were out of earshot of his cousin.

Her anger was the only thing keeping her upright. She clung to its support since she had no intention of collapsing in a heap of tears. ‘Forget Simpson. You owe me an explanation.’

‘We’ll talk upstairs.’ His voice sounded strange, as if he laboured under some strong emotion and was trying to keep it hidden. But what?

‘You need to get out of those wet clothes, first,’ he said. ‘Up you go, unless you want me to carry you.’

Her stomach gave a little jolt. Anger, not desire. It had to be anger. She wouldn’t tolerate anything else. ‘I prefer my own feet.’ Aware of the damp squelching in her shoes, she mounted the stairs with her back rigid and her gaze fixed firmly ahead.

‘This way,’ he said at the top, reaching out to guide her. She shrugged him off. With a sigh he preceded her down the corridor and flung open a door at the far end of the corridor.

She passed by him, aware of his height, his heat. She inhaled a quick breath, sandalwood mixed with sweet smoke and cigars. He must have been here quite some time.

She swung around and lifted her chin, taking note of his frown and his worried gaze. He wrenched open the clothes press and pulled out a towel. ‘Here. Use this.’

She glared at him. ‘I want to know what is going on. I’ve had no word from you and then I find you here!’

He squeezed his eyes shut for a second. ‘There has been a mistake. A misunderstanding.’

‘What are you talking about?’

He rubbed the back of his neck. ‘Perhaps we can talk about this in the morning, when my head is better.’

‘What mistake, Michael?’

An odd expression passed across his face, as if he were being tortured. ‘I was coming to see you.’ He turned away, striding to the window to look out into the evening sky, his profile a beautiful mask.

He must think her such a weak fool. ‘Where is my father?’

He remained silent, still staring out of the window, clearly gathering his thoughts. Planning his lies. The suspicion writhing in her stomach, the fear stabbing at her heart, finally found a voice. ‘Is it another woman?’ She barely got the words through her clenched jaw.

‘You heard from Selina.’

He sounded so calm. So uninvolved. She wanted to claw his face. Make him feel her pain. ‘I found her letters under your henchman’s mattress.’

‘Very enterprising of you, my dear. I hope my henchman wasn’t in it at the time.’

‘Damn you, Michael.’

He cursed vilely and swung around. ‘I didn’t mean that. This has all happened so fast. I don’t know what I am saying. God. I don’t know where to start.’

She sank down on the bed. ‘The beginning is often the best place.’

He cracked a miserable laugh and ran his hands through his hair. ‘I suppose there is no way of keeping it from you.’ He sighed. ‘I hoped to undo the damage before it came to your ears.’

His face was full of resignation. And regret. The dread of what she would learn held her breath captive in her throat. She sat stiffly, ready to spring up and leave if she thought for a moment he was fabricating a tale.

‘I wanted justice for my family,’ he said in a low, hoarse voice.

She stared at him, confused, taken aback.

‘I believed your father burned my family to death.’

The words fell from his mouth like drops of acid. Her ears sizzled, her heart stopped beating. ‘My father would never do such a thing.’ A wave of fear surged through her veins. ‘He wouldn’t.’

‘I know.’ He stared at her. ‘Now, I know.’

‘Now?’

‘My memories of that night are faulty at best.’ He passed his hand over his eyes. ‘I needed someone to blame. Something someone said made me think the fire was deliberately set.’

‘Something Jaimie said?’ she asked, remembering his cousin’s parting words.

‘He was mistaken.’

‘Did you ask my father?’

‘I broached it. He said something damning and I took it for an admission of guilt.’

Her mind raced. ‘You knew this when you captured the Conchita. It had nothing to do with you being a privateer.’ Panic tightened her throat. ‘Where is my father? Where is Richard?’

He held out his hand, palm up. ‘Your brother is all right. He’s with Wishart on the Gryphon.’

She glared at him. ‘And Father? Did you kill him?’

‘God, no!’ He shook his head, but his eyes told another story.

‘Where is he?’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘What have you done?’

‘I did nothing.’

‘Liar!’

‘A week ago, he lost Fulton’s to me at cards. That is the last time I saw him. Alice, I’m sorry. I’ll find him.’ He touched her shoulder. Just that light touch was like a lightning bolt through her body. She could not let him do that to her. She shrugged him off.

He pressed his fingers to his temples. ‘Moments before you arrived, Jaimie told me the truth. I was about to go looking for your father. I’m so sorry.’

He looked sorry. He looked pale and ill. His hand went up to shade his eyes, as if the light pained him.

‘Why did Sandford say nothing of this before?’

He groaned. A terrible sound in the small room, full of self-blame. ‘He was afraid. Afraid of me. Afraid of what I would do.’

Slowly another thought filtered through her pain. ‘You married me to get to my father.’ The realisation was a stab to her heart. It wept the blood of betrayal.

‘No!’ He grimaced. ‘At least, perhaps at first. I wanted information. I wanted justice. I wanted to see him hanged. Don’t you see? He had to be punished. But I couldn’t do it, because of you. I decided he would know the hell of never seeing his family again. It was only fair.’

‘But he didn’t do it,’ she said coldly. ‘He is innocent. Have you no idea where he is?’

‘I last saw him at White’s.’

This cave she found herself in was a cold, echoing, empty place. ‘You married me for revenge.’

He stared at her, his face beautiful and hard and full of shadows. ‘Yes.’ He reached out. ‘Only at first. Not—’

‘How can I believe you?’ she cried out as her heart collapsed in on itself. ‘You’ve done nothing but lie.’

‘Alice, please.’ He covered his eyes. ‘Can we talk about this in the morning? I can’t do it now.’

‘What is it, Michael?’ she said, her voice rising in pitch, disgust dripping from her tongue. ‘Is your conscience giving you a headache? Go, then. But I never want to see your face again.’

He stared at her for a long moment, his eyes narrowed, lines of pain around his mouth. ‘Please, Alice. You are not thinking clearly. Get dry. We’ll talk in the morning when we are both more rational. I will find your father. You’ll see.’ He stepped outside and closed the door behind him. The key turned in the lock.

She flew across the room and pulled on the handle. Futile. Damn him. He expected her to sit here and wait for him like an unwanted parcel, while her father was God knew where?

What a fool she’d been. He’d gulled her every step of the way with his charming lies. Tears spilled over as misery enveloped her soul.

She let them flow unchecked.

Slowly, a blanket of cold settled over her. Accept it, Alice. Their marriage meant nothing.

She was no more to him than a means to an end.

And if she let herself feel, it would hurt past bearing.

She dried her tears on her handkerchief and marched to the casement window. Directly below her chamber lay a square courtyard. A series of slate roofs angled downwards below her window like an uneven staircase of wide, sloped steps, slick with rain, the last of them at least six feet from the ground.

A sickening height from which to fall. Well, she’d managed the rope ladder off the Gryphon. She would manage this. First, dry clothes. And after?

No doubt, there were horses in the stable.

‘Gone?’ A pale Jaimie looked up from his pile of cushions. He looked worse than usual; the shadows around his eyes were purple bruises, his skin tinged grey.

‘Out of the bloody window.’ Michael ground his teeth until they threatened to crack in order to hold back his desire to smash everything in sight. ‘According to your groom, she took a horse.’

Trust Alice to see her chance the moment he was laid low. He should have known she’d take matters into her own small hands. Michael cursed vilely and struck out at the wooden pole supporting the canopy. The structure wobbled. He grabbed the pole and steadied it.

He huffed out a breath. ‘A woman alone, riding around the countryside in the middle of the night? Anything could happen. I have to go after her.’ The little fool. He should have tied her to the bed.

The thought sent a jolt of lust to his groin.

God. These past weeks without her had been hell. He’d missed her. Up there in the bedroom he’d wanted to take her in his arms, kiss her silent, worship her with his body, bend her to his will. Make her forgive him.

Knowing Alice, she would, too. Kind-hearted to a fault, generous, she’d take pity on him. She might, given enough time, learn to love him again. Longing kicked him in the chest with the force of an iron-shod hoof.

He curled his lip.

His parents had loved him and, but for him, they would still be alive. He didn’t want love. It brought too much responsibility, too much pain.

Like the pain gnawing a hole in his chest.

He only wanted to reunite the Fultons, as they deserved. Let them be a family again.

Jaimie observed him from beneath his lashes, his face full of regret. ‘Where would she go?’

‘London. To her friend, no doubt. She’ll be looking for her father. I’m going to try to catch her before she reaches town.’ At least he hadn’t sent her on a wild chase to Portsmouth. He had no idea if Fulton had followed his suggestion, but he would do everything in his power to find the man and return him safely to his daughter.

‘You will come back?’ Jaimie whispered. ‘I will see you again?’

He bent and squeezed the bony shoulder. ‘I will.’ Once he was sure Alice was safe. ‘Will you do something for me?’ He looked at the pipe clutched in Jaimie’s fist. ‘Give it up.’

A wry smile twisted Jaimie’s lips. ‘I wish it was that easy.’

‘Nothing is easy, Jaimie.’ What he had to do now would be the hardest thing of his life. He would put things right and let Alice go before he did her any more damage.