Midsummer Moon (33 page)

On the fireplace mantel a clock struck, and another across the room echoed it—nine deep-toned peals in tandem. He put his elbows on the tea table that graced the center of the Godolphin Saloon, resting his forehead in his hands. “A hint. One God damned place to start."

"Yes, our esteemed friend the major here has been a bit backward in his investigations, hasn't he?"

"By the powers,” Quin exclaimed. “Just what do you mean by that, sir?"

Shelby gave him a malicious, sidelong glance. “Take it any way you please.
Sir."

"Shelby.” Blythe stood up. She bit her lip and walked in small, agitated steps across the floor. As she came within a few feet of where Quin stood by the bookcase, Mr. Peale stood up in ponderous formality, bowing as she passed. She hesitated, and turned back, putting her hand to her temple. “Shelby, I wish you would not start a quarrel. It gives me the headache."

"My profound apologies!” Shelby said unrepentantly.

Quin took a deep breath. There was a light flush above his collar. “You might be givin’ your sister some support at a difficult time, Your Lordship—if I could be bold enough to suggest it."

"Oh, of course. If you're bold enough to hang about this house at all, you might as well."

Blythe pursed her lips. “Please—"

"Please what, Blythe?” Shelby flung himself out of his chair. “Please sit here quietly and watch Ransom go to pieces waiting for someone to find his wife's body at the bottom of a well?"

"Shelby."
Duchess May's voice was soft steel. “That's enough of that."

"Is it?” Shelby turned on her. “What
are
we waiting for? Search parties organized by this—this—” He waved his hand toward Quin in disgust, and then looked at Ransom. “Why O'Shaughnessy, damn it? Some half-pay major—for all we know of it, he's been cashiered for graft! Why him? I've offered. I know the country; I know the men.
He can't find her,
Ransom. For God's sake, let me try."

"It doesn't need your help,” Ransom said. “I've organized the search—Quin's only carried out my orders."

"Aye.” There was bitterness in Shelby's voice. “No orders for me, of course."

Ransom looked at his volatile brother. Shelby was primed to go off like a barrel of gunpowder at the least hint of accusation. “And there won't be,” he said sharply. “There's something odd in this, Shelby. I don't want any of the family to venture outside the park.” He lifted his glance briefly to Shelby's ex-wife where she sat a little distance away with Woodrow, who had adamantly refused to go to bed. “That includes you, Jaqueline."

She inclined her head.

Ransom looked back at Shelby. “And most certainly you."

Shelby opened his mouth to retort, and then closed it. He frowned at Ransom. But the resentful set of his mouth softened a little. “I can take care of myself,” he said.

"This is my failing,” Mr. Peale moumed. “If only God had seen fit to enable me to find the proper words to convince Her Grace of her Christian duty to obey her husband—"

"One might wish that while He was at it, He'd seen fit to give you a particle of sense,” Shelby snapped. “I don't doubt it was your sermonizing that drove her off before I could arrange something suitable to placate her!” He jerked his head in contempt. “Any cocklehead could have seen that she was in no mood to obey anything Ransom had to say after she found out he'd burned her flying machine."

Ransom stared at the decanter of port in front of him. “This cocklehead didn't,” he said brutally.

Shelby picked up the decanter and poured two drinks, shoving one across the table toward Ransom. “So. Give a dog an ill name, and hang him out of the way at once!” He lifted his glass. “Join the ranks of Falconers who can't seem to hold on to their wives."

"Do go to bed, Shelby,” Blythe said. “You make everything worse."

He took a swallow of port and sat down at the table, not even bothering to look at Blythe.

"Perhaps,” Mr. Peale said, “we should engage in a period of prayer and meditation to calm our souls."

Unenthusiastic silence greeted this suggestion. Ransom barely even heard it. Instead he just sat, brooding in his fear and outrage.

Finally, the dowager duchess said, “That may be an excellent idea, Mr. Peale. Will you lead us in a prayer?"

"I would be honored, Your Grace. Most honored.” Mr. Peale cleared his throat. “And if Major O'Shaughnessy would be so kind as to turn to his left and take down a book from the bookcase for me—I believe I know of a text appropriate to this situation. The work of the Reverend Mr. Caldicott ... on the third shelf, Major, that thickest tome with the gold spine. No, no—not that one, I'm afraid! To the right—oh!"

Mr. Peale stood up as the volume Quin had touched slumped over and came crashing down onto the floor, bringing four more along with it. A slip of paper went sailing and landed at Ransom's feet.

He picked it up. In the candlelight he glanced at it briefly, started to hand it to Quin, and then held it back. He frowned down at the set of neat letters and numerals.

5,000
in gold and
55,000
in numbered bank notes received of Mr. Alfred Rule and accrued to the balance of Lord Shelby Falconer this twenty-fifth day of July in the year of Our Lord eighteen hundred and five. Your humble servant, Richard Corliss, clerk to the Bank of England.

Ransom stopped breathing. It froze him. He sat there holding the slip and felt his body grow hot and then cold.

Five thousand in gold. Fifty-five in notes. A date one week old and a betrayal that struck deeper than bright steel through his heart.

For the first time in his adult memory, he had no inkling of what to do. He just felt blank. Helpless. He lifted his eyes and looked at his brother—a long, stupid, baffled look, and then back down at the receipt.

"What is it?” Blythe asked.

Ransom laid the paper on the table. Of a sudden, he did not want to touch it. He stood up. He had to think; he had to get away and think, but Shelby was already leaning across the table to reach for the receipt. With an ugly fascination, Ransom watched his brother lift the slip and glance down to read it.

For an instant nothing happened. Then Shelby's face changed, and Ransom could not tell if it was real or a lie when his brother whispered hoarsely, “My God ... oh, my God. What is this?"

He looked up at Ransom. What emotion showed in his own eyes, Ransom did not know, but the blood left his brother's face. Shelby's throat worked, as if there were words there that would not come out. He crushed the receipt in his hand and started to stand. Ransom didn't wait. He found himself an abrupt coward, unable to face this, unready for a confrontation. He shoved his chair back and strode out the door, yanking it closed behind him.

In the dim corridor, a footman standing in a pool of candlelight came to attention. Ransom hesitated. He had an order to give, but he was afraid that his tongue would not obey him. The stammer hung at the back of his throat. He closed his eyes, gathering himself, trying to collect the pieces of shattered illusion.

"Wake Mr. Collett,” he said finally. “Tell him that he is to place a"—here Ransom had to pause, to force his tongue around a word that nauseated him—"bodyguard ... with Lord Shelby. At all hours. My"—Ransom had to wait again, for the physical mastery of his tongue to speak—"brother,” he managed eventually, “is not to leave the house."

The footman bowed, impassive. “Your Grace,” he said, and turned away.

Ransom walked a few steps down the corridor. Beyond the ring of candlelight, he lost momentum. The shadows beside a marble column made a refuge. Like some mongrel dog he hid in them, leaning his cheek against the stone to suffer a wound that was only just beginning to lose its numbness and turn to agony.

The saloon door slammed. Shelby's boot heels set up an echo in the hall. He passed Ransom, saw him, and stopped.

"It's not true,” Shelby said.

Ransom wanted to believe that. He wanted it so badly that he did not trust himself to speak, or move, or think straight. He simply looked at Shelby.

"I had your bank draft delivered to Rule.” His brother stood stiffly, hands locked behind his back. The faint candlelight picked out his features in perfect profile and turned his hair to sculpted gold. “I got my notes back. I gave them to you. I did what I said I would. This—
thing—
you saw—” He held up the crumpled receipt. “I don't know what it is, or whence it came. I've taken no money from Rule since you told me what he was. Before God, Ransom."

"Yes,” Ransom said softly. “It would be necessary for you to claim so, wouldn't it?"

Shelby's mouth took on a grim curve. “
Claim
so?"

"Either way. Traitor or dupe ... you have to protest your innocence."

The grim curve became murderous. “You don't believe me."

"Shelby.” Ransom let out a slow breath. “I cannot afford to. Not anymore."

"Because of
this?
” Shelby cried viciously. He flung the paper to the floor and stepped forward. “I ought to kill you. I don't take the lie from man or mortal."

Ransom straightened. He was an inch taller than Shelby, and he used it. In a low, snarling voice he said, “You'll take from me what I hand out, my friend. There's enough suspicion hung around your neck now to drown an ox. Try to press me, and I'll forget family honor and do my task like any other of the King's magistrates—let the evidence swallow you whole."

"Family honor!” Shelby hissed. “Since what century have we concerned ourselves with that?"

Ransom stared into his brother's furious blue eyes. “You tell me. You tell me, Shelby."

His brother's gaze faltered; rose again. “Do you think I'm in Bonaparte's pay, then? Do you think for sixty thousand pounds I sold Merlin to that damned Corsican pirate?"

"He da-da-da ...
didn't!
” Light poured into the corridor from the saloon's open door. Woodrow stood in the portal, his small figure throwing a long shadow across the floor. “Ma-ma-ma ... my pa-pa-papa wouldn't da-da-da ...
do that!
"

"Master Woodrow.” Peale appeared in the doorway behind the boy, sounding flustered. “This won't be any of your concern, my dear child. Forgive my presumption, Your Grace—but shall I ask the boy's mother to take him to his chamber?"

"Unnecessary.” Jaqueline glided into the corridor, taking Woodrow's hand. Instead of turning away toward the stairs, she drew him with her to Shelby's side. “I wish to hear, and Woodrow, too, these accusations against his father."

Ransom glanced down the hall, where the whole party was crowding now into the cool marble corridor. He swore beneath his breath.

"It's none of your affair, ma'am!” Shelby said, equally furious.

Jaqueline lifted her head, her magnificent violet eyes calm. “It is."

"Why?” He moved away from her a step and swept a bow to the others. “Anxious to see me hanged by the neck? State your case, brother—we've judge and jury here to try me!"'

"Shelby,” Ransom said in a warning tone.

"Nay—let's go at it! I'll begin myself. The suit is watertight, Your Grace; the evidence is heavy.” Shelby flung out his arm recklessly. “You said so not a moment past! There's knowledge first—there's knowing what a muddlehead like Merlin is worth and why you brought her here. There's—"

Ransom caught Shelby's arm. “Don't do this."

Shelby jerked away, his fine nostrils flaring with temper. “No, let them hear! They deserve to know what a viper you've held to your bosom. Listen now—the tinker's camp—who took her there? I arranged it. I dangled the bait of a pinion gear, and she fell right into that little trap, didn't she?” His blue eyes glittered. “And I drugged myself, of course! To lull away suspicion. The temple was my triumph, though. Who but you and Blythe and I knew of the temple room till now?"

"No! Papa—” Woodrow tried to reach for his sleeve, but Shelby swung away.

"We took an oath on that, we three. Would I hold to a childhood oath? Look at the progress of my sorry life, ladies and gentleman,” he sneered. “Look at the fact that I sank to the tune of sixty thousand under a gentleman of French connections and make your own conclusions. Oh, yes, and that amazing, incriminating hat! It's mine, you say? Well, how shall I defend against a blow like that? I haven't lost one, nay—but it must be mine. Why, the case must be rested on that point alone!"

"So rest it,” Ransom said darkly.

Shelby turned a scornful look upon him. “Embarrassed now? You only care to assert your accusations in private?"

"I only care to recover my wife. And see that any bastard who put her in danger is drawn and quartered. If you're responsible, then count your days, brother. They have a limited number."

"But he's not!” Woodrow cried. “It wasn't my papa.
Everyone
knew about Miss Merlin's pinion gear and how she wanted it. And he isn't the only one who knew about the temple, either! I saw Aunt Blythe there, and she was showing Major O'Shaughnessy—"

"
Woodrow!
” Blythe hurried forward. “You little beast, you swore to me—"

"I'm not carrying tales! It's important, don't you see? He thinks my papa tricked Miss Merlin and put her in the temple, and he
didn't.
"

"Oh, I feel faint.” Blythe put her hands to her eyes and moaned. “Shelby!"