Shady Lady (26 page)

“And how did she leave Brinsley Hall?”

The question brought her up short.
Tread carefully
, she told herself. Aloud, she said, “By chaise, I presume. She didn’t say.”

“There never was a chaise!” Spit was flying from his mouth, and she cringed from the fury in his face. “She asked me to send a servant to Henley to order one for the next morning, but I didn’t do it. I knew she wouldn’t be going anywhere.”

She could see Chloë’s last moments as if she’d been there. He’d invited her in here, maybe to talk things over. Chloë was frightened. Jo knew that from the letter. But what choice would she have had if he insisted? As for him—what had he told her? Chloë’s grave was already waiting for her. All he had to do was, as he said,
knock Chloë on the head and toss her into the drain.

Her fear was suddenly engulfed by a stronger emotion, a white-hot fury to match his own. She rose to her feet and faced him without flinching. Her voice was shaking, her breathing was labored. “There was someone here who helped her. I don’t know who. She refused to tell me. And if Chloë didn’t go to Stratford by hired chaise, you may be sure that same someone helped her get away from here. Go on. Move the stone and tell me that Chloë is still there.”

Color charged into his face, then slowly receded. “No,” he said, “my mother wouldn’t go that far.”

He dropped to his knees and heaved the base of the sundial to the side. She watched him in a daze, her mind in a whirl. His mother? What did he mean by that?

Her thoughts scattered as he let out a roar and turned on her. His face was twisted with fury. “Where is she?” he yelled. “Where have you hidden her body?”

She flinched when he grabbed her by the shoulders. He shook her so roughly that her teeth rattled. Then his words registered, and nothing could quell the wild leap of joy. Chloë wasn’t in that drain! It was quite possible that she was alive! Hope cleared her brain and renewed her strength.

She butted his nose with her head, then shoved at his shoulders like a madwoman. He howled in pain and stumbled back. She didn’t wait to see more. Picking up her skirts, she bolted down the aisle to the exit.

She knew she couldn’t outrun him, so she didn’t make for the house. The ruined refectory was hard by the conservatory. She turned aside and made for it. There were no lights to guide her here, so she crouched down behind one of the broken-down walls, ears straining to catch the sounds of pursuit.

He wasn’t running, but she could hear him breathing. He must be very close. At any moment, she expected to feel his hands on her as he dragged her into the light. She had stopped breathing.
Breathe
, she told herself, and she inhaled a quick breath.

She heard the crunch of leather on gravel and spun round to look the other way. A huge shadow was looming over her. She shrank back against the wall, her hands searching for something, anything to use as a weapon. The rocks were too big, slabs from the wall. She could never lift them.

His voice was savage. “You bitch! You’ll pay for all the trouble you’ve caused me.”

Powerful hands hauled her to her feet. She opened her mouth to scream, but the scream died to a whimper when he sent her staggering to the ground with a vicious blow from his hand. She shook her head, trying to clear it. He hauled her to her feet again.

“Now, bitch,” he said, “tell me where Chloë is or I’ll break every bone in your body before I put you in the drain and close it up again.”

Waldo went first to the coach where he’d left Jo. When he found it empty, he was numb with fear. He’d underestimated an enemy, and that was inexcusable. Calmer thoughts took hold. He mustn’t jump to conclusions. Jo could have grown impatient and gone back to the house. She might have done any number of things. He must hope for the best but act as though the worst might have happened. That’s how he’d been trained to think as an agent.

His eyes were accustomed to the dark and he could make out shapes within shadows. The conservatory was in darkness. His gaze shifted to the refectory. There wasn’t much left of the refectory where the monks once dined. Only a few broken-down walls and the stone pulpit. He almost missed it. A shadow moved. Now he was completely focused. He was moving before he heard what sounded like a kitten mewling, before he heard a man’s voice raised in anger.

When he got to the outer wall of the refectory, he stopped and listened. Morden was threatening to break every bone in Jo’s body. His pistol was useless in the dark. He pocketed it and vaulted over the wall.

The viscount caught the movement and threw Jo violently to the side to face this greater menace. Waldo feinted to the side, then lashed out with his foot and caught the viscount in the stomach. Morden’s breath tore out of his throat and he sank to his knees, doubled over. When Waldo’s foot lashed out again, the viscount was ready. As though galvanized by sheer animal instinct that told him this would be a fight to the death, he blocked the blow and brought Waldo crashing down. Locked together, each trying to gain a stranglehold, they went rolling over the rocky ground.

“Jo,” Waldo panted, “get Harper. Just get away from here! Go!”

She didn’t obey. She hovered like a cursed hummingbird. He wanted her to be safe, because if things went badly for him, Morden would turn on her.

He was distracted by his fears for Jo, and that was fatal. The viscount twisted away and suddenly kneed Waldo in the groin. Pain exploded through his body and he relaxed his grip. Morden seized his advantage and heaved himself to his feet. Panting, sucking air into his lungs, he felt on the ground and came up with a block of stone that had once formed part of the wall.

This was what Jo had feared might happen. Waldo was down and this monster was going to kill him. That’s why she had disobeyed Waldo’s command.

Her heart was in her mouth as she watched Morden lift the stone slab over his head. He didn’t see her coming. She launched herself at him, and her momentum sent them both flying back. Morden hit the ground with a sickening thud. She landed on top of him. He made a feeble attempt to rise, then he was still. She scrambled off and ran to Waldo.

He was still groaning when she helped him to sit up. “I think I’ve knocked him senseless,” she said.

“Get a lantern and let’s have a look at him.”

“Will you be all right? What if he wakes up?”

“I have my pistol,” Waldo responded dryly. In fact, his pistol was already in his hand, and he would have blown a hole in the viscount if Jo hadn’t taken a flying leap at him.

When she returned with the lantern, it was obvious that the viscount would never wake up again. He was on his back, staring up at them with unseeing eyes. He looked mildly surprised. Waldo examined the body, then straightened.

“His neck is broken. Now how are we going to find Chloë?”

A shudder ran over Jo, but she didn’t waste time in analyzing what she was feeling. That would come later. She looked at Waldo. “I know where he put Chloë, but she’s not there. Come, I’ll show you. Put your arm around my shoulders. I’ll help you.”

Though Waldo didn’t need her help, he meekly followed her orders. He rather enjoyed being fussed over. It made him feel cherished. A man could be too capable.

When they entered the conservatory, Jo had the eerie feeling that they were walking through a petrified jungle. There was no breeze. Nothing stirred. She knew one thing. Conservatories would not figure prominently in her future. She wanted no part of them. They were bad luck all round.

She led him to the Roman drain and told him about the sundial and how Morden had found this place. He lowered the lantern into the gaping hole. “At one time,” he said, “a Roman slave would have cleaned this drain out. That’s why it’s so wide and deep.”

“What about Chloë? Morden said she wasn’t there, but I didn’t see with my own eyes.”

“She’s not there, Jo.” He got up and came to stand beside her. “But at least we’ve solved the puzzle of her boxes. They’re in the drain.”

She said dully, “There was another bag of her toiletries and so on. He said he gave it to his valet to dispose of.”

“Yes. He was very thorough. But not thorough enough. He missed the letter and he missed the diary.”

Weary beyond bearing, she pressed a hand to her eyes and swayed into him. He felt so good and solid and clean. She was turning into a watering pot and she couldn’t seem to stop herself. “Where is she? What’s happened to her?”

He dried her tears. “We’re going to talk to the one person who could possibly know where Chloë is.”

“Who?”

“The one person who knows every nook and cranny in the conservatory.”

“Lady Brinsley,” she said.

“Yes, Lady Brinsley.”

C
hapter
26

T
hey didn’t meet with Lady Brinsley for another hour. Waldo needed the delay to arrange things to make Morden’s death look like an accident. He was thinking mainly of Jo. He didn’t want her to come under suspicion of murder. Lord Brinsley was well connected. He could make a great deal of trouble for her if he wanted to.

Ruggles had returned from the chase after bagging the valet, who was locked up in one of the cellars until they could decide what to do with him. Now Harper and Ruggles had the distasteful task of putting things back together in the conservatory and disposing of Morden’s body to make it appear that his death was an accident brought on by himself. They transferred him to his bedchamber and set the scene to make it look as though he’d tripped over a small hassock and had broken his neck when he fell on the fireplace fender.

Jo had tidied herself, but other than that, she’d had little to occupy her time but her thoughts. When Waldo came for her, she felt as confused as ever. Strangely, she no longer felt tired, though it was very late and the house would soon be stirring. Until she discovered what had happened to Chloë, there would be no rest for her.

Waldo noted her pallor and the dark circles under her eyes, and he cursed himself for being the cause. He should have taken better care of her. He shouldn’t have left her alone to fend for herself.

In his mind’s eye, he was seeing that open grave, picturing how it might have ended if Jo’s luck had run out. Fear tightened his chest, then was swallowed up in anger. He’d told her not to leave the carriage, and she’d disobeyed him. He wanted to shake her. No. He wanted to hold her, just to reassure himself that she was safe.

He settled on a kiss, a long, slow embrace that was far more eloquent than words. She understood. The same feelings pulsed through her. She didn’t want him to be a hero. She just wanted him to be safe.

When they drew apart, he rested his brow on hers. “Are you going to give me those words yet?”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Wrong words. Be careful you don’t run out of chances, Jo. A man can wait only so long.”

“I thought we were going to see Lady Brinsley?”

“Then let’s not keep her waiting.”

Lady Brinsley had been told to expect them. She was fully dressed, as was her companion. They were in a small parlor off her bedchamber. The fire had been lit, and a tray with teapot and crockery was set on a small, round table. They had hardly sat down when Miss Dunn poured the tea, then quietly left.

Lady Brinsley opened the conversation. “Your man said that you had something serious you wished to say to me, Mr. Bowman. What is it?”

“Morden is dead.”

Jo almost gasped. This was no way to break the news of a son’s death to his mother. She looked at Waldo’s stern face, then looked at Lady Brinsley. The shock and grief she expected to see were not there, only a curious kind of acceptance, as though it was what her ladyship expected to hear.

“How did it happen?” asked her ladyship.

As blunt as before, Waldo replied, “He was going to kill Mrs. Chesney and put her body with Chloë’s. Mrs. Chesney fought back. Morden fell and hit his head against a stone. I’ve had the body removed to his own room. When the authorities come calling, they’ll think he fell against the brass fender. So, you see, there won’t be a scandal.”

There was a long silence. “Thank you for that.”

Jo was beginning to feel that she was a spectator at a badly performed play. The actors were saying their lines woodenly, as though they didn’t understand their significance. She had no patience with this.

Leaning forward in her chair, she said forcefully, “I’m sorry for your loss, Lady Brinsley, but you must understand that your son was a bad man. But I’m warning you now, I don’t care whether there is a scandal or not. All I’m interested in is my friend Chloë. You seem to know that your son put her in that dreadful hole in the conservatory. She’s not there now. So where is she?”

The harsh lines on the older woman’s face softened. A ghost of a smile touched her lips. “I wanted to tell you,” she said, “because you’ve been such a good friend to Chloë. But I was afraid of what Victor would do. I hid her at the hospice. She’s not herself yet, but she is improving every day.”

“What hospice?”

“The one that’s in the Convent of the Sacred Heart on the outskirts of Henley.”

Jo slumped back in her chair. This was too easy. She couldn’t believe it. She looked at Waldo. “Can this be true?”

The answer she wanted was in his eyes. “Yes, thank God,” he said. “You can believe it.”

All the emotions she had suppressed these last weeks suddenly swamped her. There were no tears, but her shoulders began to heave as she fought to draw air into her lungs. Then she was in Waldo’s arms, looking into his stricken face. She struggled to get the words out, to tell him what she was feeling, but all she could say coherently was his name.

Jo was all for going to the convent at once to see with her own eyes that Chloë was all right, but this wasn’t feasible. No one would let her into the hospice at this time of night. As Waldo pointed out, it was still pitch-black outside and unsafe to travel. Besides, he had a great many questions he wanted to put to her ladyship.

After replenishing their teacups, Waldo asked Lady Brinsley to tell him exactly what happened the night Chloë disappeared.

After a long silence, her ladyship said, “I think you know what happened, Mr. Bowman, or you’ve worked everything out.”

Jo looked at Waldo, who was nodding his agreement, then she returned her gaze to Lady Brinsley. Slightly aggrieved, she said, “Well, I haven’t worked everything out, so please go on, Lady Brinsley.”

“Where shall I begin? There’s so much to tell.”

Waldo said gently, “Begin with the conversation after dinner. What was said that last night that incited your son to try to murder Chloë? We know that Chloë was panicked, because she wrote a note that later came into our hands. What happened? What was said?”

She said bitterly, “Nothing of any importance! It was all in Victor’s mind. Chloë didn’t care whether he was the legitimate heir or not.” She took several shallow breaths before going on, “It was Lydia’s comment that started it. His birthday is next month. She wanted to wish him a happy birthday in case she didn’t see him before the day arrived. Chloë made a comment about Victor having been born the same day his grandfather died. Lydia corrected her. She knew that the old earl died in December, six months before Victor was born. Chloë was puzzled. She thought the two dates were the same, Victor’s birthday and his grandfather’s death. It’s what Victor had told her, but that was before he discovered that she was Lady Tellall.”

“And, of course,” said Waldo, “if he was born the day his grandfather died, he couldn’t be your son.”

“No,” she whispered. “He isn’t my son.”

“Go on.”

“Chloë—or rather, Lady Tellall—wished him a happy birthday in her column, oh, it must be two years ago in December. Victor came to me. That’s how we discovered Chloë wrote for the
Journal
. He hadn’t told anyone else. I told him to leave it in my hands. I wrote to Lady Tellall pointing out her mistake. Victor was born in June. The correction was made, and that, we hoped, was the end of it. Until the last night of the house party, when Lydia made her wager.”

Jo was baffled. “What difference would it make? Even if Chloë broadcast it to the world, it would only be Chloë’s word against his.”

Waldo said, “There are such things as records, Jo, parish records that are kept by the bishop. Forgeries are not that hard to detect.”

Lady Brinsley said, “Apart from that, think of the scandal. But it would never have come to that. Chloë is not vicious, and she would never have done anything to hurt me.”

Waldo said, “So Victor was born in December, the day his grandfather died.”

“Yes, but not to me. I was at his grandfather’s funeral, as was Lydia. There was no baby and no talk of a baby. So when Chloë related what she thought was a nice little anecdote about Victor’s birthday, Lydia corrected her and they made the wager. Not only that, but Lydia made much of the fact that only legitimate heirs could inherit the title and estates.”

Jo asked slowly, “Was Victor adopted, then?”

Her ladyship gave a sad smile. “No. If we had adopted him, he could not have inherited the title, and that would not have suited my husband. He is inordinately proud of his heritage and wanted to pass it on to a son. You see, Mrs. Chesney, Victor
was
his son. His mother, I believe, was quite respectable. She died when he was only a few weeks old. I was childless and likely to remain so. I was more than happy to take the boy and pretend that he was mine. But it had its problems. I had to pretend I was with child. I had to leave the Hall—well, I think you know what I mean.”

Jo nodded. She would have had to leave all her friends and family and go, under an assumed name, where no one would know her. And after a suitable interval, she would have returned home with her husband by her side and a baby in her arms.

“Tell us,” Waldo said gently, “what happened after everyone went to bed that night. Did you go to the chapel?”

She smiled faintly. “Yes, as I always do. I’d overheard the conversation between Lydia and Chloë and I was on edge, not because I thought Chloë would expose our secret, but because I was afraid Victor might do something foolish—threaten her, I don’t know what. The toruble was, you see, that he knew about his birth, knew that he was his father’s natural son and that I was not his mother.”

When she paused, Waldo said, “You told him?”

“Oh, no. He learned it from his father, quite inadvertently, when he turned twenty-one and my husband had drunk too much champagne. It’s one of the memories that my husband cherishes, that on his father’s deathbed he was able to tell the old earl that a son had been born and their line would continue.” She gave a brittle laugh. “If Victor had been a girl, none of this would have happened. Only sons count when a man has a title and great estates to pass on. Well, Victor knew that his grandfather had died the December before he was born, so he came to me and bullied the whole story out of me. To this day, his father doesn’t know that Victor knows he was illegitimate. He was too drunk to remember, and Victor would do or say nothing to change things between them. He worships his father.”

This picture of the father–son relationship was so pathetic that Jo had to look away. She was beginning to pity them all, but none more than Lady Brinsley.

Waldo said, “So you left the chapel. Then what?”

“I went to Chloë’s room, but the door was locked and she did not answer. I was worried now, so I thought I’d try the servants’ door. I had to go to my own room first to get to the servants’ staircase. I found her notebook just inside the servants’ door.”

Waldo and Jo exchanged a quick glance. This was exactly how they had imagined it.

Her ladyship went on, “I knew she must have put it there for a purpose, so you can imagine how I felt. Her bedroom door was locked from the inside, so it seemed to me that she must have gone down the servants’ stairs either to the kitchens or outside. I sent Harriet—that is, Miss Dunn—to the kitchens while I went outside to look around. That’s when I saw Victor coming out of the conservatory. I hid in the shrubbery until he’d entered the house. Not long after, Harriet joined me. We took one of the lanterns and entered the conservatory.”

There was a long silence as her ladyship tried to compose herself. “We searched everywhere and found nothing. I was on the point of giving up when I remembered the old Roman drain. Victor had fallen into it as a boy, so we had it covered over with the sundial. I knew he had an ungovernable temper, but I couldn’t believe he would go that far.” Her voice grew less steady as the memory came back to her. “When we got to the sundial, however, the plants around its base were completely trampled. I was sure then that he had killed Chloë and put her in the drain.”

Her voice became slower, less distinct as she went on, “I was ready to rouse the house and call in the authorities. The only loyalty I felt to Victor came from my sense of guilt. If he was spoiled and indulged from the day he was born, I had a share in the blame. Not that I had much influence. My husband saw to that. If I’d been a stronger character—” She broke off and shook her head. “But I never believed he was capable of murder until that night.”

“But,” said Waldo, “you didn’t call in the authorities?”

“No. Harriet thought she heard something, that maybe Chloë was still alive, so we worked feverishly to take the sundial apart. And as it turned out, Harriet was right.”

“You
moved
the sundial?” Waldo asked, astonished.

Lady Brinsley gave a shaky laugh. “Even I find it hard to believe, in retrospect. At the time, I seemed to have the strength of a Samson. Panic will do that to a person. And it was sheer panic that gave us the strength to lift Chloë out of that dreadful hole. She was in a very bad way. We didn’t stop to think. How we got her back to my room, I shall never know.”

Tears were now streaming down her face. “If I had accused Victor, no one would have believed me. I had no credit, you see, because I was known to suffer from dementia. That’s how I came to know about the hospice. Over the years, I’ve spent weeks there at a time as a patient. Some people call it an asylum, and I suppose it is. My one thought was to keep Victor away from Chloë until she was well enough to tell the authorities what happened that night.”

She dashed away her tears with the back of her hands. “So we kept her in my room until Victor left for London two days later. Harriet is an accomplished nurse, as good as a physician. She took care of Chloë until we could transfer her to the hospice.”

Waldo said slowly, “The hospice that you generously support and where no questions will be asked?”

Lady Brinsley lifted her proud head and gave him back stare for stare. “I see we understand each other, Mr. Bowman,” she said.