Secrets of the Heart

 

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

R
achel leaned back against the soft velvet squabs of the carriage seat and stifled a sigh. She glanced across at Gabriela, who was curled up in a corner of her seat, asleep. She envied the girl the easy sleep of youth.

Rachel had not been able to fall asleep, despite the monotonous rumbling of the coach. She could not dismiss the odd feeling of ennui, even sorrow, that had plagued her ever since they'd left Westhampton yesterday morning. When Michael had handed her into the carriage, she had felt a distinct urge to turn back and say that she had decided to delay her trip for a few more days. But, of course, that had been impossible. She had already put it off three days longer than she had planned. She had to get Gabriela back to her guardians; they were waiting for her at Darkwater.

A shout outside the carriage startled Rachel from her reverie, and she lifted a corner of the curtain to look out. She could see nothing but the dusk of evening, the branches of the nearby trees a darker shape against the grayness. Then there was a shout from the coachman, and the carriage lurched forward. In the next moment, Rachel heard the sharp report of a gun. She dropped the curtain with a gasp.

The coachman's voice rang out, calling to his horses, and the carriage jerked and jolted to a halt. Rachel grabbed the leather loop beside her seat and held on. Across from her, Gabriela let out a squeak of surprise as she tumbled unceremoniously to the floor. The girl scrambled back up onto the seat and turned to look at Rachel, wide eyed.

“What is it?” Gabriela whispered. “What happened?”

“I don't know.” Rachel tried not to let her fear show. She could think of no good reason for the sound of gunfire or the coachman yanking his animals to a stop. What came to her mind was highwaymen, although it seemed bizarre to find them this far from London.

She heard voices and turned toward the door, her fingers curling into the palms of her hands. She would be brave, she thought, reminding herself that she had Gabriela now to look out for, and she tried to envision what her redoubtable sister-in-law Miranda would do—or her friend Jessica, with her soldier's daughter's courage. But she could not help a brief, desperate wish that Michael had decided to accompany them to Darkwater.

The door opened, and a black-clad figure stepped inside. Rachel struggled to keep her expression neutral. He was a smallish man, she told herself, and it was only the black attire and the scarf across the bottom of his face that made him seem sinister. She would give him her money and he would leave, and the incident would be over with no harm to anyone.

The man's eyes above his mask looked startled, and he glanced around the carriage, then returned his gaze to Rachel. He looked, she thought with some astonishment, puzzled.

“'Ere, now,” he said somewhat plaintively and jerked down the scarf to reveal his entire face. “Where's the guv'nor?”

Rachel's fear subsided dramatically as she looked at his face, almost comical in its dismay. “I beg your pardon?” she asked, pleased at how calm her voice came out.

“The lord,” the man went on. “This is 'is carriage, ain't it? I saw the sign on the door.”

“This is Lord Westhampton's carriage,” Rachel replied, rather puzzled herself now. “His coat of arms is on the door, if that is what you mean.”

“Aye, that's the one. Westhampton. It's 'im I'm wanting.”

“I am afraid that you are in the wrong place, then. Westhampton is back at his estate.”

Their visitor was silent for a moment, digesting this news. Finally he asked, “Are you the missus, then?”

“I am Lady Westhampton,” Rachel admitted.

“Right. Well, I'm thinkin' you can deliver the message to the guv'nor, then.”

“The message?” Rachel felt as if she had stepped bizarrely into a scene from a play, one where everyone knew the lines except her.

“Aye. Tell 'im Red Geordie sent it. Tell 'im he needs to watch 'is back. There's some 'un wishes 'im ill.”

Rachel stared at the man. “Excuse me?”

“'E's gettin' too close, I'm thinkin' and there's them as don't like it. Word's out that there's those as wants 'im taken care of.” He stopped, then gave a short nod, seemingly satisfied with his words.

Rachel blinked, unable to think of an adequate reply.

The man grinned then and said, “Sorry. I'll be needin' to take somemat—you know, for the boys.” He nodded toward Rachel. “Them earbobs'd do nicely.”

Rachel gasped, her hands flying up to cover the emerald studs in her earlobes. “No! Not these. Michael gave them to me. It was a wedding present.”

He paused, considering this information. “Oh. Well, I wouldn't want to cross the guv'nor, that's a fact.”

“How about money?” Rachel offered, digging into her reticule and pulling out a small purse of coins, which she offered him.

The small man grinned and took the purse, opening it to peer inside. “Aye, that'll do it, my lady.”

He gave a respectful tug of his cap toward her, still grinning. “I can see you're a cool 'un, just like his lordship. Pleasure doin' business with ye.” He nodded toward Gabriela. “Miss. Good evenin' to ye both.”

He pulled up his scarf to cover his face again and turned, opening the door and springing lightly down from the carriage.

Behind him, Gabriela and Rachel gazed at each other in stunned silence. There was the muffled sound of voices outside the carriage, then the whinny of a horse, followed by the noise of hoofbeats.

“What in the world—” Gabriela began, her eyes round as saucers in her face.

“I have no idea,” Rachel replied frankly.

The door was jerked open again, but this time it revealed the worried face of her coachman, who peered up into the carriage. “Are you all right, my lady?”

“Yes, we are fine, Daniels. No harm done.”

“There were four of them, ma'am, with pistols. Jenks and I thought it best not to challenge them, what with you and the young miss in the carriage. His Lordship'd have my hide if anything happened to you.”

“You were quite right,” Rachel reassured him, though she knew that his statement was more hyperbole than fact. Michael was the most reasonable of men, not one to blame his servants for something out of their control. “Westhampton would not want you to risk your lives or ours that way. You did well. Let us drive on to Darkwater, if you please.”

“Aye, my lady.” The coachman gave her a respectful nod and shut the door.

They could hear him climb back onto his high perch, and a moment later the carriage started forward again. Rachel looked over at her charge.

“Are you all right, Gabriela?”

“Oh, yes!” The girl nodded emphatically. “But it was terribly exciting, wasn't it?”

“Rather too exciting, I'd say,” Rachel replied dryly.

“Yes, I suppose,” Gabriela said, sounding unconvinced. “But I've never seen an actual highwayman before.”

“Nor I.”

“Did you not know him? He seemed to know Uncle Michael. Isn't that strange?”

“Very,” Rachel agreed. “I cannot imagine how he could know Michael….”

Michael was not the sort of man who had a passing acquaintance with highwaymen. Now, if it had been her brother Dev the fellow had claimed to know, Rachel would have had little trouble believing it. Until he had married Miranda and settled down, Devin had known his share of unsavory characters. But Michael? The idea was absurd.

Michael was a quiet, scholarly man, kind, responsible, reliable and generous—the very epitome of a gentleman. His title was one of the oldest and most respected in the land, and, unlike his father, Michael had never done anything to tarnish it. He was happiest on his estate in the country, overseeing the various renovations of the house and outbuildings, and experimenting with the newest innovations in agriculture and land management. He corresponded with men of like nature and interests, ranging from gentleman farmers on vast plantations in the United States to men of science and letters at universities here and on the Continent. He was hardly the sort of man to have met a highwayman, let alone have one deliver vague warnings about danger to him.

What was it the man had said? That Michael was “getting too close.” That some vague personage “wished him ill.” Too close to what? And who was this enemy?

Rachel could not imagine Michael having an enemy. Whatever disagreements he might have with anyone, they were courteous and usually concerned some scholarly subject that few people had even heard of. The worst that she had ever heard anyone say about him was that he was too respectable, bordering on dull. Hardly the stuff of threats to do him bodily harm.

“It's ridiculous,” Rachel told her companion firmly. “Michael doesn't have an enemy in the world. The man must have made some sort of mistake.”

She looked at Gabriela, who was still looking a little troubled. The poor child had experienced too much death for such an early age. Gabriela's parents had died when she was only eight years old, and she had been raised by her great uncle until he, too, had died last year, leaving her in the care of a guardian who had been friends with her father many years before. It was through this guardian, the Duke of Cleybourne, that Rachel had come to meet the fourteen-year-old girl. The duke had been married to Rachel's older sister, Caroline, who had died, along with their daughter, in a tragic carriage accident. Rachel had remained close friends with Cleybourne and often worried about his descent into a black pit of grief in the years after their deaths.

Then Gabriela had come to Castle Cleybourne last Christmas, and with her, her governess, Jessica Maitland, a flame-haired beauty with a tragic scandal in her own past. Jessica and Cleybourne had fallen deeply in love, but even that happy time and the security it brought Gabriela had been marred by the ugliness of violent death. A killer had struck at the castle, doing away with one of the other guests and even almost murdering Jessica herself.

It was little wonder that Gabriela's fears would be roused by the stranger's threats, however vague and absurd they were. Gabriela had spent the past two months with Michael and Rachel, for they had taken her home with them after the wedding in order to give the duke and his new duchess a honeymoon, and she had grown quite fond of them both.

Rachel reached across the carriage to take one of Gabriela's hands in hers and squeeze it gently. “Don't worry, Gaby. I am sure that it is all some silly mix-up. He can't have meant Westhampton. No one would wish Michael ill. It's clearly a mistake, this talk about his getting ‘too close' to something. To what? A political theory? A scientific discovery? Some new method of crop rotation? Those are scarcely the sort of things one kills over.”

Gabriela had to smile, and the worry receded from her eyes. “You are right. Who could have anything against Uncle Michael?” She squeezed Rachel's hand in return. “You must be very glad to be married to him.”

There were many, Rachel knew, who would say the same thing to her. Her husband was titled and wealthy, the descendent of one of the best families in England. That in itself was enough for her marriage to be considered a success. But Michael was also thoughtful and kind. He provided her with a generous clothing and household allowance. Though he preferred life in the country, he did not try to impose it upon her. She was free to live as she chose, to spend her time in their elegant house in London, giving the parties she was justly known for, paying calls and in general living the life of a Society hostess. She had a large circle of friends and admirers, and was adjudged one of the reigning beauties of the
Ton.
In short, her life was perfect…as long as one did not mind the fact that her marriage was a sham.

There was no love in their marriage. They lived apart, had never shared a bedroom, never even spoken words of love or passion. And it did not help matters a bit to know that it was all entirely her own fault.

Rachel gave her young companion a smile, hoping the girl would not notice the brittleness of it. “Yes,” she agreed, settling back into her seat. “I am very lucky to be Lady Westhampton.”

 

Torches burned in front of Darkwater. It was a beautiful house, named for a nearby tarn that was black as night, not for the house's limestone walls, which were pale, almost golden in the Derbyshire sunlight. At night one could not see its graceful lines or centuries-old mullioned windows, only grasp the vague outline of its considerable hulk. But Rachel had grown up here, and she knew it without having to see it. She flung open the carriage door as soon as the vehicle rolled to a stop and leaned out to look at the house.

Jenks scrambled down from the top of the carriage to pull down the steps and help Rachel and Gabriela out. Even as they emerged, the front door of the house opened, and two footmen came out carrying candles to light the ladies' way into the house.

“Lady Westhampton!” A middle-aged man, dressed in the formal attire of a butler, hastened out the front door, smiling broadly. “I am happy to welcome you to Darkwater again! We have been expecting your arrival any time this past day.”