Authors: Elizabeth Thornton
Jo was shaking her head. “But it has been almost two months since Chloë went missing. Why is she still there? Why haven’t you gone to the authorities?”
Her ladyship’s gaze shifted to Jo. “Because Chloë has not completely recovered yet. I told you she was in a bad way. She suffered a concussion that was so severe, she was unconscious for two weeks. She had broken ribs and a broken arm. And there is something else. She has no memory of that night. The last thing she remembers before waking up in the hospice is driving to the Hall in Lord Skene’s carriage. The convent doctor says that she may never remember what happened to her.”
“How much have you told her?” asked Waldo.
“I gave her her notebook, and it seemed to jog her into remembering odd moments of that house party. She knows someone tried to kill her—well, I had to tell her that to explain why we were keeping her sequestered in the hospice. But I didn’t tell her that I suspected Victor. The doctor doesn’t think we should put ideas into her head. He thinks we should wait until she remembers by herself. Besides, until you came here tonight, there was always a niggling doubt in my mind. After all, I was not there. I did not see Victor attack Chloë. But now I have no doubts.”
She smiled at Jo. “She told me to expect you. She said that you would move heaven and earth to find her. She wanted to write to you, but I advised against it. Of course, I didn’t suspect you of being implicated in the attack. But until her memory had returned, well, I thought it best not to let anyone know where she was.” Tears glistened in her eyes. “But I must say, she is very fortunate to have you for a friend, Mrs. Chesney.”
Waldo said carefully, almost too carefully, “Chloë is fortunate to have you as her friend also, Lady Brinsley. What you did was quite extraordinary.”
Her ladyship’s head lifted. Her gaze was as direct as his. “Thank you, Mr. Bowman,” she said. “Chloë is very dear to me. I think of her as the daughter I always wanted but never had.”
He smiled. “I’m sure you do.”
When they were in the corridor and Waldo was escorting her to her own chamber, Jo said, “What was that last exchange all about?”
“What exchange?”
“Don’t pull that innocent face with me. You practically accused Lady Brinsley of being Chloë’s mother.”
“No. All I did was raise a question that was puzzling me. Why would she go to such lengths for someone she hardly knows? All they have in common is a love of gardening. It was Lady Brinsley who mentioned mother and daughter. But you know Chloë better than anyone. Could it be possible?”
“Not as far as I know. I mean, I don’t know much about her early life. Like me, she was an only child. She was happy. That’s all I know.”
They were at her door. He fixed her with his steady gaze. “It’s Lady Brinsley’s secret, Jo. Don’t pry. You may do more harm than good.”
“I’m not prying. I’m just speculating, and I picked up that habit from you.”
He laughed.
“Still,” said Jo, “she didn’t waste much sympathy on her son, did she?”
“Ah, but he’s not her son. Not only that, but she was never allowed to get close to him. His father saw to that. I’m not surprised she was stricken with bouts of dementia. They closed her out. She was nothing but a cipher to them. And these last two months must have been a torment. I think there was more to the delay in calling in the authorities than Chloë’s loss of memory. I think she was hoping that she was wrong and Morden was not a killer.”
“Some hope.”
He shrugged. “You never gave up hope that you’d find Chloë. Sometimes hope is all we have. Look at me.”
She pretended she hadn’t heard that last remark. “Why were you so hard on her, at the beginning, I mean, when you told her Morden was dead?”
He shrugged. “I wanted to see her reaction. For all we knew, she could have aided and abetted him. After all, it’s her secret too.”
“Chloë was lucky to have her on hand. Which reminds me. When are we going to see Chloë?”
“Not for some time. No, don’t argue. There are a number of things I have to do before we can go.”
“Such as?”
“Such as concoct a plausible story to explain a body in a bedchamber and a valet locked up in a cellar. After the magistrate and his constables have come and gone, then we’ll go see Chloë.”
“How long will it take you to arrange that?”
“Not long. Why?”
She looped her arms around his neck. “Hurry back. I don’t want to be alone. I want to be with you.”
Her flippant tone lacked conviction. He understood only too well. After a battle, the soldiers who survived experienced some of the same emotions she was experiencing now. She had faced her own death. Now she wanted life in all its abundance. And so did he.
A slow smile touched his lips. “Ruggles can handle things,” he said, and with that, he swept her into her room and shut the door on the world.
Lady Brinsley was standing by the window, gazing at her own reflection in the dark glass. She wasn’t sure what she was feeling—guilt, remorse, and, if she were honest with herself, a sense of relief that it was finally over and she hadn’t had to betray her son to the authorities.
That’s what had tortured her for these many weeks. Victor wasn’t the only guilty party here. If anyone should go to trial, it should be his parents for raising a son who thought he was the center of the universe.
Tears dampened her lashes, but she wouldn’t give in to them. If she started to cry, she would never stop.
She turned as Miss Dunn entered the room, and smiled when she saw the teapot her companion was holding. Harriet was a firm believer in the efficacy of tea to solve all problems.
When they were drinking their tea, Miss Dunn said, “Are you going to tell Chloë the truth now?”
“That I’m her mother? What would be the point? She has many fond memories of her own mother. I would only be an interloper. I don’t want to change things between us. I won’t risk losing her altogether. Besides, once she knows who attacked her, she may decide that she doesn’t want to know me at all.”
Miss Dunn stirred her tea. “I see,” she said. “That’s to be your penance, is it, for what Victor did to her?”
“No. That’s to be my penance for Victor.”
“You didn’t make him the way he was. He made his own choices, chose his own path.”
“Harriet . . . pass the sugar.”
Miss Dunn sighed. The conversation was closed, at least for the present. She said, “We had better rehearse what we’re going to say to the magistrate when he gets here.”
“Yes, and to the earl. He’ll never get over the loss of his son.”
“What will you say to him?”
“Exactly what we tell the magistrate.”
The magistrate had only one constable with him, and they accepted the evidence that was presented to them without demur. The valet, who feared the hangman’s noose, was only too eager to verify that he found the body when he came to wake his master with his morning cup of coffee. The police doctor was satisfied and so he would tell the coroner. After expressing their condolences to her ladyship, they left.
There were other arrangements to make, but those were left in Ruggles’s capable hands, and Waldo and Jo set off for the hospice late in the afternoon. Jo had a note from Lady Brinsley, which she gave to the porter at the door. If they hadn’t had the note, they wouldn’t have been allowed in.
When Jo walked into Chloë’s room, she caught back a gasp. Her friend was in an invalid chair, as pale as chalk, and looking as though she hadn’t eaten in weeks. But that wasn’t what made Jo’s eyes hot with tears. Chloë’s beautiful hair had been shorn and was no more than a cap of soft down, like a nestling’s feathers.
She must have made a sound, because Chloë turned. She looked at Jo blankly, then, as recognition dawned, gave a tremulous smile. “Jo,” she said, her voice unsteady, “why are you wearing my best walking dress?” and she dissolved into tears.
They both laughed, they both wept and hugged, but gradually emotion was spent and they began to talk.
Chloë said, “Is Lady Brinsley with you?”
“No. Waldo Bowman brought me here. He’s waiting outside the door. Lady Brinsley is at the Hall.” She took her friend’s hands. “Something dreadful happened. Lord Morden died this morning—”
Chloë’s whole body jerked. She seemed to have trouble breathing, then her words came out in a rush. “I’m not sorry he’s dead. He’s the one who did this to me. I didn’t know how I was going to tell Elinor. She has been so kind, so generous.” Emotion overcame her and she couldn’t go on.
Jo said slowly, “I was told you’d lost your memory.”
Chloë nodded. “I did, but it came back to me in odd snatches. And when Elinor gave me my notebook and I read the last entry, I remembered everything, how he’d forced me to go to the conservatory, the choking fear in my throat because I knew he was going to kill me”—she drew in a shallow breath—“and that’s where my memory ends, until I woke here one night with Elinor by my bedside. The pain in my head was excruciating. I couldn’t talk. I couldn’t see clearly. I couldn’t move. I was bound like one of those Egyptian mummies. But Elinor was there, that night and every night those first few weeks, anticipating my needs. How could I tell her, when I finally got my memory back, that her son had tried to murder me?”
“I think she must have known.”
“Because she read my notebook? I don’t know. Mothers are always the last to see the bad in their children.” She looked out the window onto a small, sunlit courtyard. “And there’s nothing in that last entry that indicates Victor might try to murder me. All I wrote about was the wager.”
Jo was puzzled. “Then why did you run from him?”
Chloë plucked at a loose thread on the blanket that covered her legs. “It was only as I thought about it that I realized what it meant. Victor could not possibly be the legitimate heir. If there’s one thing he prizes above all others, it’s his heritage. I could well believe that he’d kill to keep his secret.
“He was already at my door. I hadn’t time to do more than write you a few lines. . . . I don’t know what I was thinking. I just wanted someone to know what was happening to me.”
Jo put out her hand and squeezed her friend’s arm. “Thank God you had the presence of mind to leave your notebook in Lady Brinsley’s room. That’s what saved you.”
Chloë shook her head. “I had to go back for it. I left it in the writing table with some idea that one of the maids might find it. But I changed my mind. I really was in a panic. I had no idea I was leaving my notebook in Lady Brinsley’s room or I might not have done it. She is, after all, his mother. I just wanted to make sure that if anything happened to me, someone would read my last entry and make the connection.” She gave a teary sniff. “As it was, I wasted precious moments, and when I finally ran outside, he was there, waiting for me.”
The thought was too awful to dwell on, so Jo tried to distract her friend. She said lightly, “You should have sent word to me, telling me where you were.”
“Jo, I couldn’t write, even if I wanted to. My arm was broken. I was as weak as a kitten. And I was afraid that you might lead him straight to me. He knows—knew—you are my closest friend. I was beginning to be sorry that I’d penned those few lines to you. Did you ever receive them?”
“Yes. That’s what got me all fired up. I’m practically a member of Special Branch. If it hadn’t been for Waldo Bowman, Morden would have got off scot-free.”
“I always liked Waldo. One day I’d like to thank him, but not looking like this.” She touched a hand to the down on her head and smiled wryly. “Not until I get myself a wig. You know me, Jo. I always was vain.”
Why Chloë’s attempt at humor should bring tears to her eyes baffled Jo. She groped in her reticule, found her handkerchief, and blew her nose.
Chloë said, “You haven’t told me what happened to Victor.”
“I killed him,” said Jo.
Chloë’s mouth was a round
O
. “Are you serious?”
Jo nodded. She was still sniffing back tears.
“In that case, I’m not going to say one word about my best walking dress. You may keep it.”
Jo gave a watery chuckle. “All the clothes I’ve been wearing in town are yours. I had to borrow them to catch a murderer.”
“Now, this I must hear. Start at the beginning and tell me all about it.”
Jo took the chair beside the window and did as Chloë asked.
C
hapter
27
C
hloë went home to convalesce with Jo, not to her own house in town but to Stratford, so that Jo could catch up on what had been happening with the
Journal
in her absence. Leastways, that was the reason she gave the Bowmans, and nothing they said could persuade her to stay on. Waldo made it easy for her. He let her take Eric on the clear understanding that this was only a temporary arrangement. After Cecy’s ball, he would join them and they could decide then on Eric’s future as well as their own.
He seemed to understand that she needed time alone. So much had happened to her in the last two months. So much had changed. Sometimes she felt like a stranger to herself. She had to find out who Jo Chesney was and what she really wanted to do with her life.
“Two months ago, I had my life all mapped out,” she told Chloë. “I knew exactly who I was and where I was going. I was happy. Now . . .” She shook her head. “It’s not the same. I’m not the same person.”
They were in the garden, sunning themselves over tea and scones. Mrs. Daventry had taken Eric to feed the swans on the river to keep him occupied. This was supposed to be a holiday, but he missed Waldo and he missed the girls, or “his cousins” as he was now calling them. He couldn’t understand why they couldn’t all be together.
Only Chloë seemed to be thriving. In the last little while, she had filled out and got her color back. She was wearing a wig and could walk unaided. At the moment, she was content just to soak up the sun.
She opened her eyes and looked at Jo. “What about the
Journal
? I thought that became your life after John died.”
“It did, but it’s lost its appeal. I thought I was indispensable, but it turns out I’m not. I was away for two months and they managed quite well without me. Now Mac is talking about bringing the
Journal
out twice a week. He has all sorts of plans he is eager to get started on. I was once like that.”
“Ah,” said Chloë.
“What does that mean?”
“It means that you’ve finally come to accept that John is gone and your life is no longer tied to his. If you go on with the
Journal
, it must be because it’s what you want to do, not because it’s what you think John would want.”
“I’ve already accepted that my life is no longer tied to John’s.” She batted away a fly as she bit into a scone. “But the
Journal
is important to me. It’s part of who and what I am.”
“Yes, change is always difficult, isn’t it? And when there’s no going back, it can be quite frightening. Doubly so for someone like you.”
Jo almost took umbrage but thought better of it. “You’re right. I don’t like change. I like stability.”
“Change is inevitable. You can’t stop the clock or turn it back. Life moves on.”
“I’m aware of that, but I am what I am.” She gave a helpless shrug. “I don’t want to start something new unless I know I can succeed or unless the odds are in my favor. I don’t want to end up with nothing.”
There was a moment of silence, then Chloë said, “I see what you mean. John was a safe bet; Waldo is a gamble.”
Jo’s voice cooled. “We were talking about the
Journal
.”
Chloë laughed. “I don’t think so. We were talking about what you should do with your life. Of course, I’m the last person to give advice—”
“At least we agree on something!”
“But as your friend, I feel duty-bound to help you know your own mind. We already know your heart is taken.”
Jo stared at her friend long and hard. Finally, when it was evident that she couldn’t stare Chloë down, she capitulated. “So, I’ve lost my heart. But I refuse to lose my self-respect. I know Waldo loves me
now
, but how long will it last? How long before he becomes bored with me? I’ve read your columns. I know of his reputation with women.”
“There you are, then. He’s a scoundrel, so you shouldn’t marry him.”
“I didn’t say he was a scoundrel. In fact, he’s the opposite.”
“There you are, then. Marry him.”
“You’re no help at all.”
Chloë laughed. “What do you want me to say? That there’s no risk involved? There’s always a risk, as you should know. Look at John. No, I won’t belabor that point, but I will say this. It could be that Waldo is going through the same kind of soul-searching, and if I were him, I would have a few qualms about taking on a lady like you. Who knows what you’ll get up to next? You’ve led him a merry dance these last two months, have you not, risking life and limb for both me and Eric? Not that I’m objecting, of course. I’ll be enternally grateful for what you did. However, Waldo’s case is different. If he wants a safe, quiet life, then my advice is that he should steer clear of you.”
Jo chuckled. “Point taken,” she said.
She spent the next few minutes putting the teapot and crockery on the tray and generally tidying up. She looked at Chloë, hesitated, then said, “He said that you exaggerated, that he wasn’t anything like the rake Lady Tellall made him out to be.”
“Well, he would, wouldn’t he?” Chloë’s eyes twinkled. “That’s what all men say when their pasts catch up to them. No, Jo. If you’re going to take a chance on Waldo, you’ll have to take the bad with the good.”
“I don’t know why I’m discussing this with you.”
“Neither do I. Your mind is already made up.”
Jo made a harrumphing sound and, with the tray in her arms, stalked back to the house.
Chloë reached for a letter that had arrived earlier, a letter from Lydia Langston, and she read it again. The next meeting of the Horticultural Society was to be at Lydia’s place so that she could show off the improvements to her conservatory. Chloë wasn’t sure she was up to it, not after what had happened with Victor. In fact, she had developed a phobia to hothouses.
There was also news of the Brinsleys. The earl, Lydia wrote, was a sad little man. He’d suffered a stroke and became agitated whenever his wife came near him. As a result, Elinor had left the Hall and taken up residence in the dower house in Knightsbridge. There was talk of Elinor and her companion doing a grand tour of Europe. Her friends, of course, were aghast. Elderly ladies did not go off jaunting all over Europe as though they were young men just out of university.
She wouldn’t try to dissuade Elinor from embarking on a grand tour, thought Chloë. She would applaud. What did age matter? Life was precious. It was a sin to waste a minute of it. That’s one thing she could say of herself. She had tried to live her life to the full. She had learned that from Ralph, and she refused to allow one nasty, horrible specimen of humanity to blight her life.
Of course she would go to the next meeting of the Horticultural Society. Not to do so would be cowardly, and she was no coward. She wasn’t going to let Victor defeat her.
Her thoughts drifted to Jo and Waldo. She wondered what she would give them for a wedding present.
This was Cecy’s night, and Waldo tried to find a measure of satisfaction in his sister’s happiness. He could hardly believe how grown-up she looked, grown-up and beautiful. Only yesterday he’d thought of her as a child. Tonight, she was a woman. Ruggles seemed to have noticed the difference as well. He was paying her too much attention. He’d have a word with Ruggles before the night was out. Cecy was too young for that sort of thing.
He tried to remember himself at Cecy’s age. He and his friends were just out of university. They’d thought they could change the world. A large dose of reality had blunted their hopes. Now he’d be content if he could change the heart of one headstrong, outspoken, unconventional female.
Maybe he should have settled for second best. He could have marshaled enough good reasons to persuade her to marry him. They could make a real home for Eric, she could continue to run her precious newspaper, and she would have unlimited access to his bed.
And vice versa.
That should count for something. His little Puritan had a passionate nature to match his own.
But he wanted more. He wanted her heart, and if he couldn’t have that, it would be an empty victory.
He helped himself to a glass of champagne and wandered out to the terrace. Thomas was there, smoking a cheroot. He found another in his pocket and handed it to Waldo, knowing without asking that it would be accepted. They were close friends as well as cousins.
“What’s bothering you?” Thomas asked. He offered his own cheroot so that Waldo could light his.
Waldo leaned against the balustrade and blew out a stream of smoke. “What makes you think anything is bothering me?”
“Your limp is showing. It always gets worse when you’re upset about something. Is it Mrs. Chesney?”
Close friends or not, Waldo had no intention of discussing Jo with anyone—not his mother, who had been quizzing him, nor his father, who had been suspiciously circumspect, and certainly not an older cousin who hadn’t a tactful bone in his body.
“No,” he said emphatically, “it’s not Mrs. Chesney.”
“Is she still grieving for her late husband?”
“I said it’s not—” Waldo gave up. “I don’t think so. As for my limp, that’s the result of fatigue, not an unquiet mind. I’ve been running around like a packhorse, fetching and carrying for this blasted ball. That’s why my limp is more obvious.”
Thomas took a long swallow from the glass in his hand. He said reflectively, “Then if there’s nothing between you and Mrs. Chesney, I think I may try my luck.” He smiled into Waldo’s eyes. “My girls need a mother, and they’re fond of Jo. I think we would suit very well. What do you think?”
As pleasant as his cousin, Waldo said, “If you go near her, I’ll make you regret it.”
Thomas cocked a brow. “It’s like that, is it?”
“Name your seconds.”
This was greeted by a hoot of laughter. Thomas took a last puff of his cheroot and threw the stub into the shrubbery. “I never thought I’d see this day—Waldo Bowman mooning over a woman. Don’t let her get away, Cousin, because if you do, I’ll go after her. I’m quite serious.” And with another hoot of laughter, he sauntered off.
Waldo took a savage draw on the cheroot between his teeth and succeeded only in bringing on a fit of coughing. He tossed the cheroot away, drained his glass, then he tossed that away too.
He didn’t like the way Thomas had described him, but like it or not, it was the truth. For the first time in his life, he was in love. He hadn’t been looking for love, and if he’d known it was lying in wait for him when he walked into the
Journal
’s offices to confront Jo, he would have given Stratford a wide berth. But he’d met Jo, and he’d found more than a pretty woman to share his bed. Something inside him had shifted and changed him forever. He knew she felt the same way, and he couldn’t understand why she wouldn’t admit it.
Thomas was right. He shouldn’t let her get away. He’d been a fool to give her time to come to things on her own. First thing tomorrow—
“You win. There’s no getting round it. I love you, Waldo Bowman.”
Waldo closed his eyes. When he opened them, she was standing right in front of him. The gown she was wearing was a red silk that shimmered when she moved. The color did wonderful things to her hair and skin. She looked happy and confident and breathtakingly beautiful. He couldn’t help smiling. The picture he’d had in his mind of Jo a moment before was as he’d first seen her, hair tied back with a ragged ribbon, ink on her nose and smock, and green eyes spitting fire. How could he not help loving her?
“Now, that’s an odd smile,” she said. She touched her fingers to his lips. “What are you thinking?”
He kissed her fingers. “You know what I’m thinking. It’s been two weeks.”
“We must be made for each other. We think alike.”
“Why don’t we do something about it?”
“I told you we think alike.”
“What are you thinking about?”
“Mmm?”
She was looking up at the canopy over the bed, floating back to reality. The strains of the orchestra playing a waltz came to them faintly from the terrace. She could feel his heart beating against her palm. His words registered and she looked up at him through her lashes.
She said in a languid tone, “I was thinking about the
Journal
.”
He said dryly, “As I’ve told you before, honesty isn’t always a virtue.”
She thought, at first, he was joking, but he wasn’t smiling and his eyes were intense on hers. She raised herself on one elbow so that she was level with him. “I’ve sold it,” she said, “to Mac Nevin, and I was reveling in this tremendous sense of freedom I feel. I don’t think I could have told you I loved you as long as I was tied to the
Journal
.”
He was appalled. “But you’re the driving force behind the
Journal
. You turned it around and made a success of it. I know how much it means to you.”
“That’s true, up to a point. But it wasn’t my paper, was it? It was John’s. As long as I was tied to it, I was tied to John. Now I’m free to follow my own heart.”
She sat up, plumped up her pillow, and sat back against it. When he did the same, she went on, “Don’t think I’m bitter about John. I made my peace with him yesterday when I took Eric to his grave. I’ve done a lot of thinking and see now that I wasn’t blameless either.”
She smiled faintly. “It will always grieve me that he never thought he could tell me about Eric. For all that, I will always remember that we were happy together.” She combed her fingers through her hair as she thought about it. “I know that you think I put John on a pedestal, but that isn’t entirely true. The truth is, he put
me
on a pedestal, and I tried to be the kind of wife he wanted. That was easy, because I didn’t know who I was, not really. It wasn’t until after I became a widow that I began to think for myself, but, oh, it was a slow, painful journey.”
She looked up at him. “Have I ever told you about my parents?”
“You mentioned them. Why?”
“I’m sure you know all there is to know about them. I never wanted to live like them or be like them, so I went to the other extreme, and that was a mistake too.”