Could her art speak to him in the same way his poetry spoke to her? Such a truth would indicate that they were kindred spirits in a way she had never considered possible. Supporting this theory was the second sketch for ‘The Siege.’ He admitted its veracity, yet claimed that he had not himself realized it. Such rapport with someone she knew only through the written word was frightening.
Bridgeport’s sudden trust may have arisen from any or all of those reasons. Or he may have sensed a safe way to experience direct acclaim for Thornton’s work. He knew how much she loved his poetry. Had the accolades paid to Byron made Bridgeport yearn to receive praise himself? Or did he specifically need
her
praise, perhaps even for ideas beyond the world of literature?
But that led her wayward mind into new channels. The overwhelming truth of their cottage confrontation was the safety, security, and excitement she had felt in his arms. Despite the rein he had held on himself – unlike the day before – his touch had ignited feelings she had never before experienced. No wonder he was so successful a rake!
And her reactions called into question some of her own decisions. Was marriage really such an intolerable estate? It had always seemed incompatible with her need to do illustrating, for few men approved of women in any serious role, and most considered female artists immoral. But Bridgeport might empathize with her compulsion to share her talent with the world – at least, he would if he truly cared. Though he had twice offered for her, she was not convinced his reasons were sound. Marriage would only work for her if there was equal commitment by both partners, but she could hardly identify her own feelings, let alone his.
She climbed down and drew on her gown. This was not the time to think of marriage. First she must recover from the recent shocks. And there was much to be done. Someone was trying to kill Bridgeport. Whatever the future held, she could not stand idly by and allow a murderer to roam free.
An hour later, she entered the breakfast room to find the earl already seated at the table. No one else had yet come down.
“Good morning, my lord,” she said a trifle grimly.
“You look like you could use some more sleep,” he commented irritably.
“As could you. Your charm and address got left in bed this morning.” She blushed as she heard the words, for her own manner was sadly lacking. “Forgive me. That was presumptuous.”
A hint of a smile appeared on his face. “Certainly, but true nonetheless. I take it you slept no better than I.”
She nodded. “I have been making inquiries. Several recent events have puzzled me. After last night, I decided to do more than shrug.”
“This is hardly the place to discuss it,” he interrupted, and she had to agree. They stuck to neutral subjects until both had reluctantly eaten as much as they could manage, then he escorted her to the library.
“I suppose you are still convinced that last night’s accident was no prank,” he said with a sigh.
“Do you honestly believe that it was?”
“No.”
“Well, that is something. We both know who is determined to put an end to your existence.”
“Hardwicke would never go that far!” he exclaimed.
“Did you think he was responsible?”
“He was both drunk and abusive yesterday.” He described the scene by the stables. "After refusing his challenge, I ordered him to meet me here this morning. It seemed logical that he might further annoy me.”
“You are deliberately obfuscating the facts,” she charged. “The culprit can be none other than your odious cousin. And you know why.”
“Fustian. Harold hasn’t the courage to kill anyone.”
“He is precisely the type to arrange an accident and leave the consequences to Fate. He has done it before. There was a tenant boy on his estate who infuriated him when I was ten. Within a day, the lad suffered a freak accident that left him with a broken leg. When Anne was my governess, she rebuffed Harold’s advances. The next morning she narrowly avoided serious injury when a previously sturdy footbridge collapsed as she walked to the village. She only told me about it recently, along with similar tales that she had heard from her cousin. Harold is evil. In addition to arranging accidents, he revels in creating ill will – you need look no further than Mr. Hardwicke. I’ve seen and heard evidence of that often enough. Harold has goaded people into provoking fisticuffs, fighting duels, and creating permanent rifts in previously close relationships. It is a talent he undoubtedly inherited from his mother. She was a manipulator worse than Lady Macbeth, motivated by malice rather than ambition. She was never quite right in the head, as you must know.”
“You exaggerate,” Mark protested. “And he would never try that on me anyway. He may be annoying, but he is also my cousin.”
“Blood means nothing, especially to the greedy,” she countered. “Even offspring of the same parents can turn out quite differently. You are fortunate, for you inherited the best of both your parents – your mother’s determination and energy; your father’s intelligence and sensitivity. But Harold got the worst from his – his father’s weak character and his mother’s selfish, unstable mind. Even your appearances are different. Your fathers were identical, and your mothers very similar, yet you and Harold look nothing alike. You must accept the probability that he is trying to kill you.”
Mark stared at her in shock.
She pressed on relentlessly. “Look at all the odd things that have happened since he arrived. I never did understand how the cliff path became so suddenly unsafe when there had not even been a mild rainstorm. I talked to Freddie this morning, and he admitted that he had been on that path not two hours before Tom Bennett and saw no sign of instability. Tom is smaller, yet the path collapsed. That was the day after you arrived and three days after your cousin reached Bodmin. I doubt he realized that it is a public thoroughfare that happens to cross your property.”
“That is too long a shot to be believable,” he objected. “Why would he expect me to wander out along the cliffs?”
“Where did we meet the following day?”
“Touché. But Harold does not know me that well.”
“I wonder. I suspect he knows you better than you think. Thornton must spend considerable time wandering the countryside alone.” He blinked, and she knew her supposition was correct. “But all speculation aside, his failures have probably made him more determined and less inclined to leave things to chance. I saw a flash of red on the roof that day the coping fell. It could not have been a bird. Harold was wearing a dark rose jacket that afternoon. And I also had an interesting talk with Cook this morning.”
“What has she to do with anything?”
“Your cousin refused to partake of the mushrooms at dinner two nights ago, claiming that he was not partial to them. Understandable given his experience last week, but he was so pointed about it that he drew attention to himself. It struck me at the time as being odd, but only after your fall did I begin to understand why. Cook verified my suspicions. Someone replaced the mushrooms she had obtained for dinner with a nearly identical, but very poisonous, variety. She noticed the change when she was preparing them and was able to get others, but she insists the ones that were delivered were good.”
Mark had blanched during her recital. “She is sure that they were tampered with?”
“Positive. She always checks mushrooms very carefully – something your cousin would not know, of course. Her sister died from carelessly ingesting the wrong sort.”
“I cannot believe that he could wish to kill me.”
“How well do you know him?”
“Not very. Our respective mothers never got on, and our respective fathers lacked the fortitude to insist on visits.”
“I do not know him personally, except by sight, but I grew up on tales of his exploits. He is evil and sneaky, a man who has never balked at underhanded and outright illegal means to achieve his ends. His parents’ deaths were quite odd, though there was insufficient evidence to support formal inquiries.”
“What? I never heard a word of that.”
“Your father would have been the one to deal with the authorities. Then there is his fortune. Even eight years ago there were rumors that he had squandered all his own assets and a good portion of his father’s at the tables. Have you seen any sign that he has recouped?”
“No,” he admitted. “He has tried to talk me into bailing him out more than once.”
“How does he support himself?”
“I don’t know.”
“But you suspect,” she stated, reading his eyes clearly enough to shock them both.
He nodded. “Rumors have circulated for months accusing me of fleecing various gentlemen, including some strangers. I have accepted wagers from none of them, but Harold might be doing so in my name.”
“It sounds like him. I suppose Wainright was one of his victims.”
“That was behind his challenge.” He snapped his mouth closed and stared at the ceiling. “Devil take it! You did it again – crawled inside my head and opened doors I had firmly nailed shut.”
“So there
was
a duel.”
“But I did not kill him.”
“I never suggested you did. Why do you feel guilty?”
He sighed. “I chose swords since we were evenly matched at fencing – he was awful with a pistol. His pretext for the challenge left me in the wrong, so I could not kill him, but I had no intention of giving him a shot at me.”
“I see.”
“I’m sure you do.” His eyes danced. “But the bout lasted all of half an hour before I managed to pink his shoulder. I expect the exertion was too much for his heart. He died a week later.”
“Stuff and nonsense! He would have died that day if there was any connection. But back to business. If Harold has been using your name, it is bound to get out sooner or later. He must know that – for all his faults, he is perceptive about anything that might threaten his interests. He probably decided to strike while he is still your heir.”
“You are the one who is perceptive,” murmured Mark, sliding his arms around her to pull her close. “You see so much it frightens me. I need to think, and you must leave. I expect Hardwicke to arrive any minute. But we will talk later. In the meantime, please do not indulge in any more probing. If Harold is guilty of plotting against me, you put yourself in danger by investigating his activities.”
“The servants would never expose me,” she objected, looking deep into his eyes.
“Promise me, Elaine.” His voice was implacable and his arms tightened. “Do not add to my problems.”
“Very well.” She lightly touched his cheek before slipping out of his arms and the room.
Mark hardly had time to ponder her disturbing revelations before Hardwicke appeared.
“My apologies,” he mumbled as soon as he was seated. “The wine got the better of me.”
“Wine has that effect. Apologies accepted.”
“I should have known better than to suspect you of cheating, even in my cups,” he continued.
“Someone must have goaded you to produce such uncharacteristic behavior,” suggested Mark. “My cousin, at a guess.”
His eyes widened. “How did you know?”
“You are not his first victim. Wainright was another – and infuriated himself into fatal apoplexy.”
“Then the rumors about that are false?”
“Absolutely. What exactly did he say?”
Hardwicke spent half an hour recounting Harold’s charges, describing the sly innuendo that raised so much fury, and reliving the drinking session the day before, when Parrish plied him with brandy and played on his sense of ill usage to bring his rage to a boil.
“As I expected. He would make the perfect Iago.” Hardwicke stared in incomprehension, and Mark mentally shrugged. Elaine would have understood. “Enough of that. Are you willing to put this disagreement to rest?”
“Yes. I know that it was my own fault I lost so badly. I hope you can also forgive me for a childish plot to embarrass you.”
“The barb under my saddle. I thought that was you.” Mark tossed the wicked piece into Peter’s lap. “The potential injury to Ranger is far more serious than anything it could have done to me.”
Hardwicke blanched. “I did not consider that. And I had not seen the piece until now. Thank God you were called away.”
“What about this?” He pulled out the cord.
Hardwicke frowned. “I have no idea.”
“Good. I had not thought you responsible, but had to make sure.”
“What is it?”
“Someone stretched it across the stairs last night, knowing I would soon be along.”
Peter blanched. “I know nothing of it. Perhaps it was Parrish. He despises you.”
“Any idea why?”
“No.”
Mark collected the cord and barb, returning them to his desk.
Hardwicke sighed. “If you are under siege by your cousin, I feel even worse for the trouble I have caused. He is not someone I would want as an enemy. He took Graylock for every shilling the man had. When Graylock sobered up and cried foul, Parrish laughed in his face.”
Mark paled. “Was that the day before his fatal carriage accident?”
“Precisely, though there is no way to connect them. But I would never wish to be classed with Parrish. Forgive me.”
“It is forgotten,” agreed Mark. “But it is more than time you started acting like a man.”
“Yes, seven-and-twenty no longer qualifies as a green cub. And reaping revenge cannot be considered a wild oat.”
They shared a drink before Hardwicke left Mark to his unproductive thoughts. He was even less a green cub, yet he had also sought revenge – with more devastating results.
* * * *
After leaving the library, Elaine wandered toward the moor beyond the stables, her thoughts in deeper turmoil than before. It did not seem reasonable to do nothing in the face of such obvious plotting, yet she had given her word.
Even more disturbing was that unmistakable flash of mind-reading. She could feel herself being pulled under his spell, and that was not something she wanted. Her future had been carefully planned, and it did not include Bridgeport.
Yet that future suddenly stretched as a long, lonely eternity. She had recognized Thornton’s loneliness – which she now knew was inherent to his secretive life – because she was in the same position. Though admitting it intellectually, she had never allowed the actual emotion to surface – until now. And it would get worse. It was unlikely that she would form close friendships in whatever new home she chose. Even if she stayed at Treselyan, she would be alone, for Anne would marry and devote most of her attention to Julius and the duties that attached to a vicar’s wife.