A Clandestine Courtship Read online

  But he must watch his step.

  Isaac’s unwillingness to look close to home was going to be a problem. Was it laziness? If the killer lived elsewhere, the responsibility for finding him was out of Isaac’s hands. Or was Isaac protecting someone? The squire might know the culprit’s identity. The evidence for an outsider was sparse. In fact, it was less than sparse. A group could have overpowered John even faster than a large, powerful assailant.

  “I suspect the tale started with Turnby.”

  “Father’s head groom?”

  Isaac nodded. “John turned him off with the others. He works at Carworth Lodge now, which is less prestigious than Ridgeway – whatever your father’s weaknesses, he kept a fine stable. But Turnby has a history of exaggeration and outright falsity. He never forgave John, so I cannot trust him. He was the most vocal of John’s detractors ten years ago.”

  James sighed. “We can determine veracity later. What does he say?”

  “He blames the murder on an affair gone sour, though he did not name the lady. Personally, I have trouble believing it.”

  “John did have numerous affairs.”

  “True, but he rarely kept them secret. I have spoken with some of his former inamoratas. Few of them remember him fondly, describing him as selfish and arrogant. But he has been involved with no one here in at least three years – which merely makes the story more scandalous. The gossip-mongers are avidly trying to identify the lady in question. Their list of candidates grows daily, as does the list of proposed killers – a furious father, an incensed brother, a cuckolded husband, the lady herself – but I’ve found no evidence to support any of it.”

  “So you believe there is nothing to it?”

  He nodded, sighing. “Turnby hated John. He also hates you. I think he started the rumors that you killed John, just as he exaggerated those accusing you of killing your father.”

  Turnby hated him? That was news. Turnby had been one of the few servants whose support he had counted on throughout childhood – which would have drawn John’s malice, he realized on a new wave of guilt. Turnby must have discovered that supporting James brought painful consequences. Who could blame the man for publicly condemning him? He might even believe it by now.

  “Could Turnby have killed John himself?”

  “I doubt it. He isn’t strong enough – he must be all of sixty – and he has always retaliated by using lurid accusations. He may have killed a few reputations, but I’ve never known him to raise a hand to anyone.”

  “Then why bring this tale up at all?”

  “That is the problem with Turnby. Many of his tales contain elements of truth. Only a fierce hatred could survive for months. Debauching the wrong woman might do it. Or John may have betrayed a partner in some business venture. Or cheated a competitor.”

  And he did not know that Turnby had started the tale, James reminded himself sharply. That was Isaac’s assumption, and he was already questioning Isaac’s impressions. He had never known Turnby to lie, though the man had a knack for learning truths others wanted to deny. “So where does your investigation stand?”

  “Nowhere. I have no evidence and no suspects. Your brother made enemies. Many enemies. Rumors abound – that he fleeced people through cheating and fraudulent investments; that he worked hand in glove with smugglers; that he abused servants and tenants; that he injured girls in some of the less reputable brothels in Birmingham and London. His supposed crimes are countless, but most take place elsewhere, so I have no way of confirming the truth. No one here admits to being a victim. Even those who swear they’ve witnessed misdeeds will not provide names. Most folks consider his killer a hero, for no one deserved death more than John Underwood, earl though he was.”

  Dear God. If even half the charges were true, John’s vices were worse than he had thought. Gaining the earldom must have removed the last restraints on his behavior.

  Goose bumps trailed down his arms. Here was yet another reason for the locals to distrust him. Most people expected identical twins to have identical characters. Facing his own past had been intimidating enough. Now he had to face his brother’s and try to repair the damage. How low had John sunk?

  An affair. Mary had been one of John’s inamoratas – and not one whose identity was generally known. James would have sworn she was not the jealous sort, but then he had not known her as well as he had thought. When had the liaison ended? If it had been before her marriage, John might have threatened to expose her.

  But that did not fit the facts. Her husband had died long before John.

  “Did John have any friends?” he asked suddenly. A friend might know who had the strongest grievances, and might reveal the information to John’s brother. People often spoke more freely to those who were not officially investigating crimes.

  “Very few. His closest was Lord Northrup, but he died more than a year ago.”

  “How?”

  “Stumbled over a cliff after imbibing a little too freely at the Lusty Maiden,” Isaac said dryly, naming the local inn. “I suspect his wife was not the only one relieved by his death.”

  James raised his brows.

  “Northrup was unwelcome in area drawing rooms. He shared most of John’s vices but none of his charm. Lady Northrup had the entire responsibility of raising his siblings and seeing after his estate. At least her mourning is now complete so she can reenter local society. And her next husband will treat her better.”

  “Is she planning to remarry?” The question was not as idle as he made it sound. If she had despised her husband, she might already have a replacement in mind. If John had known, he might have tried to blackmail her. That was a lot of ifs, but it fit her reaction on meeting him in the forest. In retrospect, her eyes had contained more fear than shock. Whatever her feelings for John ten years ago, at the time of his death she had hated him.

  “No, but she is a beautiful woman who will hardly remain alone for long. I am considering offering for her. Constance has been gone for two years now, and I still need an heir.”

  “Is she capable of producing one? No one has mentioned any children, and I understand she was wed for several years.”

  “Seven, but Northrup was rarely at home, so that means little.” He sighed. “As to John’s death, are you sure you want to pursue it?”

  He nodded.

  “Then perhaps you can help me. You look more like John than ever. People’s reaction on seeing you might show how they felt about him. Stay alert. Perhaps you can find something that will point us in a more productive direction.”

  James took his leave.

  He had not expected to find himself in danger, but now he had to consider the possibility. John’s death had not resulted from a sudden fit of passion. He had been deliberately murdered. If it had been done in reprisal or because of a quarrel, the killer would have no reason to bother James. But that was not guaranteed.

  What if the killer had suffered continuous mistreatment until he broke under the pressure? Faced with an exact replica of his nemesis, would such a man strike again? By poking into John’s life, he might become a target. Thus he must remain alert at all times. It was not a comfortable idea, but justice demanded action.

  An affair gone sour. He could disprove one theory immediately. Isaac would never consider offering for Mary if he knew about her affair with John, so it must not be common knowledge. How far might she go to protect her secret now that she was seeking a husband?

  If she had arranged John’s death, then threatening to expose her affair should trigger an attack on him. And not just because of Isaac. She had much to lose if society learned of it. A tarnished reputation was doubly serious for a girl who had not been born to the aristocracy. Marrying up had left her vulnerable. The truth would destroy her social standing and keep her from attracting a new husband.

  If it is the truth, whispered a voice in his head.

  But if the tale was false, she had an even better motive for murder. John’s claims could have ruined her.


  Stupid! This was getting him nowhere. No evidence connected Mary to John’s death. He was as bad as Isaac, chasing after phantoms – and with even less cause. Imagining her guilt was a way to dissipate the lust that had gripped him from the moment she had ridden around the corner.

  He did not want her to be guilty, he realized with a sigh. But he could not ignore the possibility until he had disproved it. The uncertainty was already eating holes in his stomach.

  * * * *

  Mary set aside her mending as Justin crossed the drawing room. He had grown four inches since she had last seen him. His shoulders were broader and his face shockingly tanned. But every remnant of childhood was gone, leaving him too much like Frederick despite their difference in coloring. The length of his hair, the pallid blue eyes, the square chin, the oversized hands – all the same.

  She shivered.

  There were differences, of course. His nose was longer, his face narrower. His light brown hair had been bleached nearly blond by the tropical sun. He was muscular instead of paunchy, and smelled of horses and sandalwood rather than stale wine.

  But the most obvious difference was demeanor. Justin exuded a confidence Frederick had never managed. He knew what he was doing and why, with neither the dithering nor the arrogance Frederick had employed. Justin would never need a mentor to point the way. Then there was expression. Frederick’s face had always been furtive, as if it concealed vast stores of secrets. Justin’s face was open.

  Or seemed to be. Some men hid secrets behind charm. Others were cordial in public but brutal in private. So she must tread warily. He was Frederick’s brother, which already gave him one black mark. And after years in the military, he would be accustomed to rough company and gruesome sights.

  He also controlled her future. If he chose, he could turn her off or demand she remain here as a virtual slave. Even the jointure her father had negotiated as part of the marriage contract was worthless if the estate had no funds. All her hopes rested on him. A reasonable man would find a way to buy that cottage she wanted so badly.

  “You look wonderful, Mary,” he said, bowing over her hand.

  “As do you. India obviously agreed with you.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far, but I survived with my health intact. How are the girls?”

  “Charming, as you will see for yourself. They are in town just now but should be back shortly.”

  They discussed his trip and his relief at having escaped India’s sultry heat. But he skirted all topics of import. Was he trying to gauge her reaction to his return, or did he believe she was of no account? He would have to accept at least a temporary alliance, though. Even the steward did not know everything about the barony and the estate. But that could wait.

  “I have scheduled a dinner party tomorrow, in honor of your return,” she finally said. “The Earl of Ridgeway and two of his friends are visiting the Court, and the Holcolmes are entertaining an unmarried cousin. Perhaps one of them will find Amelia interesting. She is rapidly approaching the shelf.”

  He frowned. “I had not considered that. How is it that she is twenty and still unwed? Is there a problem?”

  “Only money. She has no dowry and no means of staging a come-out. You know your father left little beyond the estate.”

  “So Frederick always claimed.”

  “It’s true, as the banker will confirm when you meet with him.”

  He snorted. “Frederick lied to everyone, may he roast in hell. He had several accounts in London and investments unknown to the local banker. Remember Uncle Horace?”

  “His guardian?” And Justin’s, she recalled. “The man never cared a whit for how the estate was run.”

  “Lazy.”

  “I know that well enough. He forced Frederick into wedding me so he could wash his hands of the lot of you.”

  “But that was not all. He transferred most of the cash into Frederick’s own hands so he would not be bothered by requests for more funds. He told Frederick to prove his worth or sink trying.”

  “What?” She slumped against the back of her chair in shock. The estate had been flirting with the River Tick for years.

  “He proved it, all right, despite losing that initial amount and then some. I don’t know how he recouped, though I suspect at least some of his dealings were disreputable.”

  She didn’t doubt it if John had been involved. But she also knew that Frederick had stripped every shilling he could from Northfield.

  Justin shook his head. “Uncle Horace didn’t care. He withdrew onto his estate, refusing any further contact. He died a couple of years ago.”

  “No one told us.”

  “Nor me, though the solicitor swore that Frederick knew. But that is typical. Frederick could easily have afforded Seasons for both girls, but I suspect he did not want any of you in London. It would have forced him to take responsibility for their future and might have interfered with his activities. Even in the few days I was there, I heard more than enough about his affairs to disgust me.”

  “Such as?” she prompted him.

  “Nothing that need concern you now. Suffice it to say that he was neither honorable nor respectable. Nor is Ridgeway. I must request that John and his friends stay away from Northfield. Far away.”

  Her last letter had been the announcement of Frederick’s death, which he would have received six months ago. So he would not know. “James is now the earl.”

  “When did that happen?”

  “Christmas Day. John was murdered, though the identity of his killer remains unknown.”

  Justin’s mouth hung open in surprise.

  “His horse returned to Ridgeway without him. The staff believed he had passed out from drink and fallen off – it would not have been the first time – but they didn’t find his body until the next evening. It took them another month to locate James.” She shrugged.

  “There are no suspects?”

  “None that I know of. But I’m tired of talking about it – the topic dominates every conversation, and has for months. James’s recent arrival at Ridgeway makes the gossip even worse.”

  “Of course. But I am not comfortable about inviting James, either. Twins are too alike.”

  “He was never like John,” she reminded him, then chided herself for jumping to his defense.

  “Not usually, but his temper was just as explosive. He lamed my pony when I cut him off one day by jumping a hedge without first checking the lane for other riders.”

  “How old were you?”

  “Eight. He swore at me, delivered a diatribe about irresponsible children, then struck Rudy across both knees with a whip.”

  “That sounds more like John than James.”

  “It was James. I recognized the horse.” John had always ridden black horses, while James preferred bays. “And I heard some unsavory rumors about him in India.”

  She raised her brows.

  “He ran an export business there for a while – rather questionable in itself, for it was outside the jurisdiction of the East India Company, whose officials were less than pleased. But that was not all. At least one tale claimed he fathered a child on his mistress that he later killed rather than acknowledge.”

  “Surely that would bring prosecution.” Her hand shook. She would have expected such behavior from John, but never of James. Yet they were identical twins. And James had grown much harsher in his years away.

  “Not that I heard of.” He stared at her white face. “He left about the time I arrived and was never part of the English colony, so I cannot vouch for the accuracy of the tale. The East India representatives hated those they considered poachers, reveling in any bit of scandal. But they could do nothing about him because he had the backing of several powerful rajahs and never traded with Europeans.”

  “We will proceed cautiously, then. But I do not wish to exclude him on the basis of unproven rumors and a single incident fifteen years old.” She poured more tea. When he reluctantly nodded, she set herself to b
e chatty. “Lady Carworth was quite ill last winter. Many feared that she would die, but the warmer weather allowed her to recover.”

  “Is she still the harridan I remember?”

  “I would not go so far as to call her a harridan. She has been quite good to us this spring, escorting the girls whenever mourning prevented me from doing so. Perhaps your memories are tinged by youthful escapades?”

  He grinned. “Perhaps. She was less than ecstatic about that foray I made into her orchard. And I managed to steal strawberries out of her hothouse one year.”

  “I know. I was the one to whom she complained. Her gardener had spent weeks forcing berries out of season so she could astound her house guests, and you ruined her surprise.” She had been newly wed to Frederick at the time. The girls had welcomed her attentions, but Justin had resisted accepting the authority of a virtual stranger. “Her current tormentor is Philip Redfield.”

  “Sir Richard’s son? I hadn’t realized he was old enough to run about on his own.”

  “He is nearly eleven.” She laughed at the shock on Justin’s face. “You’ve been gone a long time. People grow, even when you aren’t watching them.”

  He nodded.

  “But the adults have hardly changed. Mrs. Bridwell is as self-righteous as ever, and Vicar Bridwell still puts us to sleep during his Sunday sermons. Young Barnes is gaining a reputation for his ale. Oh, and Tom Ruddy lost his daughter last year. I don’t recall if I mentioned it in my last letter.”

  “No. Does he still run the linen draper’s shop?”

  She nodded. “Alice caught that influenza that swept the shire, but now that I think on it, she died just after I wrote you about Frederick.”

  “He took a tumble into the quarry?”

  “Too much wine. He was on his way to Ridgeway after several hours in the Lusty Maiden.”