The Handmaiden's Necklace (16 page)

“We are all so happy to meet you at last!” Grace said, coming forward and enveloping her in a hug she didn’t expect. “I knew the moment I saw you that you were the perfect woman for Rafael.”

Dani’s russet eyebrows went up. “How could you possibly know that?”

Grace just smiled. “Because I have never seen the duke look at a woman the way he looked at you. For an instant, I thought he might end up a pile of cinders.”

Dani laughed. She couldn’t help it. Whatever other problems they faced, in the marriage bed they burned.

“I think I am going to like you, Grace Sharpe.”

“We’re going to be great friends—all of us. Just wait and see.”

Dani hoped so. She liked Victoria Easton—Tory, she called herself, and with her sweet naïveté, there wasn’t a person alive who could dislike Claire.

They were enjoying tea and biscuits in the China Room, a high-ceilinged chamber with great columns of black-and-gold marble. With its thick Persian carpets, cinnabar vases and Oriental-style gilt-and-lacquer furnishings, it was the most elegant room in the house.

Tory took a sip from her gold-rimmed porcelain teacup and set it back down in its saucer. “Rafe’s mother says she is going to host a ball—a very lavish ball—in celebration of your wedding. She has asked for our help in planning it. She wants us to make certain she doesn’t leave out any of your friends.”

The smile on Dani’s face slid away. “I’m afraid I don’t have many friends…not after The Scandal. Even if they are willing to claim me now that I am married to the duke, I am no longer interested in claiming them.”

“I don’t blame you,” Tory said, sitting a little straighter on the sofa. “There is a difference between a true friend and an acquaintance. We will include your acquaintances and make them wish they had been wise enough to appreciate the friendship they so easily discarded.”

Claire’s amazing blue eyes widened. “Oh, dear—what about your husbands? They didn’t believe Danielle, either.”

Both Grace and Tory looked at each other and Tory bit back a grin. “Leave it to my sister to baldly tell the truth.”

“They are both extremely sorry, Danielle,” Grace said. “They just felt so awful for Rafael. He suffered terribly, you know. According to Ethan, it changed him completely.”

He
was
different. But Danielle did not believe for a mo
ment it had anything to do with her. “He is older, that is all. A bit more reserved.” She didn’t believe Rafe had suffered. If he had cared for her in the least, he would have read her letters, would have listened when she tried to explain.

“If the earl and marquess are sorry,” Claire continued, picking up her train of thought, “perhaps other of your friends will feel the same.”

“Claire is right,” Grace said. “Perhaps you should consider forgiving them, as you did Rafael.”

But she hadn’t truly forgiven Rafe. Not completely. He had said back then that he loved her. If that had been true, he would have believed in her innocence, would have defended her against her accusers.

She did not, however, say that to her newly made friends.

“There is no need to consider any of that now,” Tory said gently. “At the moment, Danielle needs a chance to get used to being Rafael’s wife.”

“It is rather daunting,” Dani admitted. “Now that we’re back in London, I am expected to play the role of duchess. There was a time I was prepared, but that is no longer true.”

“Things will fall into place,” Grace assured her. “It is only a matter of time.”

“And I’m sure you have a great deal to do,” Tory said, setting her teacup and saucer down on the black lacquered table in front of her. “Which is our cue, ladies, to leave.”

Grace and Claire both rose from their seats. “There is just one last thing….” Grace said.

“Yes…?”

“We were wondering… You see, once a week, the three of us meet at my house to do a bit of stargazing. We were hoping you might join us. I have the most marvelous tele
scope for viewing the heavens, a recent gift from Ethan, and another that is smaller but also very good. Studying the stars is a longtime hobby of mine.”

“Grace has been teaching us the names of the constellations,” Claire said brightly, “and the ancient Greek myths that go with them. You can’t believe how beautiful the sky is through Grace’s wondrous lens.”

“You don’t have to feel obligated,” Grace hurriedly added. “We just thought…well, we hoped you might be interested.”

Dani felt a curl of warmth spread out inside her. As she had said, since The Scandal, she had very few friends. “I should love to join you. Thank you so much for asking me.”

“We are meeting Thursday next,” Grace said. “Quite often, the men come as well, though they usually spirit themselves off to Ethan’s study for a brandy or two. Rafe is more than welcome to come with you.”

“Thank you. I’ll tell him.”

The women left the house, and at last Danielle was alone. It seemed her life was gaining some semblance of normality. Perhaps in time, things would work out.

At least so she thought until three weeks later—the day Cord Easton showed up at the house carrying her wedding gift in one of his big hands.

The dazzling string of diamonds and pearls called the Bride’s Necklace.

A
fire burned in the dark green marble hearth in the corner of the big two-story library that also served as Rafe’s study. Rafe had been standing with his back to the blaze when his silver-haired butler, Wooster, arrived to announce a visitor, and Cord had walked into the room.

His friend had joined him in front of the fire and both men stood there now, warming themselves against the chill outside the house, Rafe holding the incredible strand of pearls interspersed with diamonds Cord had draped across his palm.

“I never thought I’d see it again,” Rafe said, admiring the perfection of the exquisite piece of jewelry.

“Amazing, isn’t it?”

“Incredible. Tell me again how you found it.”

“I didn’t find it. It found me. A moneylender in Liverpool sent me a message. As you know, from time to time, I collect exceptional items, mostly art and sculpture, but occasionally a piece of jewelry, something I think Victoria might like. I’ve made purchases from this particular dealer
before. He has a very good reputation in the antiquities trade.”

Rafe kept a tight rein on the emotions rolling through him, the doubts that kept creeping in. “So he sent you a note describing the necklace.”

Cord nodded. “It wasn’t actually for sale. The man who borrowed against it would, of course, have thirty days in which to redeem his merchandise, but the dealer didn’t really believe he would be back. You’d told me the piece was stolen, so my interest was piqued. As I had some business dealings in that part of the country, I traveled there last week.”

“And the dealer was willing to sell?”

“Once I convinced him the necklace was stolen property, he was happy to take the very large sum that I paid him for it. I knew you would want it, no matter the cost.”

“I’ll have my solicitor send you a bank draft.”

“Which I’ll gladly accept as I’ve already purchased the damned thing two times before.”

Recalling the journey on which the necklace had led his friend, and the wife Cord had acquired because of it, Rafe almost smiled. Instead, he continued to stare at the necklace, watching the way it seemed to glow with an odd light in the blaze of the fire.

“Danielle believed the thief stole it the day we left Philadelphia. She thought it must have been one of the servants in the house where she and her aunt were living. But if you found it in Liverpool, it must have disappeared after she boarded the ship.”

“Perhaps one of the crewmen took it from Danielle’s baggage before it reached your cabin.”

His fingers smoothed over the pearls. “If that is so, how did it wind up in Liverpool when the ship docked in London?” He glanced up. “Did the antiquities dealer give you a description of the man?”

Cord drew a folded piece of paper from the pocket of his waistcoat. “I figured you’d want to know. I wrote down what he said.”

Rafe opened the paper and read the description aloud. “Brown hair, brown eyes, slightly taller than average.” He glanced up. “It says here that by the way the man was dressed and his manner of speaking, the dealer believed he was a member of the upper classes.”

“That’s what he said.”

“Not a crewman, then.”

“Apparently not.” Cord looked uncomfortable.

“Now tell me what you have left out.”

Cord muttered something beneath his breath. They’d been friends too long to try to keep secrets. “The shopkeeper said his female employees were in a dither over the fellow. Apparently he was extremely good-looking.”

Rafe fought to ignore a thread of doubt and an unwelcome surge of jealousy. His long fingers closed around the pearls. “I want this man found. I want to know how he got hold of the necklace and I want him punished for stealing it.”

“Then I take it you intend to hire McPhee.”

He nodded. “If anyone can find him, Jonas can.” Rafe walked over and sat down behind his desk.

Replacing the pearls in their satin pouch, he set them down gently on the polished surface, then pulled out a piece of foolscap. Reaching for the white-plumed pen, he dipped
it in the crystal inkwell and scratched out a note to Jonas, dried it with the help of the sand shaker, then sealed it with a drop of wax.

“I’ll have one of the footmen deliver it,” he said, holding up the note as he returned to where Cord stood by the fire. “I want McPhee to get started as soon as possible.”

“What will Danielle say?” Cord asked.

Rafe felt a tightening in his chest. “I’m not telling her just yet. Not until I know how all of this came about.”

Having had his own marital problems in the past, Cord made no reply.

Rafe just prayed his instincts were wrong and Danielle had told him the truth. But uncertainty gnawed at his insides as he carried the note out of the study, and his worry continued to build.

A chill December wind whipped the naked branches on the trees and stirred dry leaves against the plaster walls of the white-washed cottage. Beneath the heavy thatched roof, a fire crackled in the hearth, warming the cozy, low-ceilinged interior.

Seated in a comfortable chair not far from the blaze, Robert McKay sipped a glass of whisky. On the sofa across from him, his cousin, Stephen Lawrence, finished his drink and stood up to retrieve another.

“Shall I freshen yours, as well?”

Robert shook his head. He swirled the amber liquid in his glass. “I still can’t believe it. It’s so entirely incredible.”

Stephen refilled his drink, replaced the stopper on the bottle and returned to his seat. He was five years older than Robert, average in height with a solid, compact body. He
had the same brown hair, but the hazel eyes were a legacy of his mother, Robert’s aunt.

“Incredible, but true,” Stephen said. “It took a year after you left the country for my mother to come forward. Once she did, eventually it all became clear.”

“In your letter, you said a man named Clifford Nash murdered the Earl of Leighton—the man I was supposed to have killed.”

“That’s right.”

“And you believe the earl was my father.”

“Not just your father, my friend. Your
legitimate
father. Nigel Truman married your mother in old St. Margaret’s Church in the village of Fenwick-on-Hand, six months before you were born. My mother stood witness to the event. According to her, Nigel and Joan had been seeing each other for several years, whenever he spent time at his father’s country estate. They fell in love and when he got her with child, he married her. Of course, his father was still alive, so he wasn’t yet earl at the time.”

“My mother was always so secretive about my father. She told me his name was also Robert McKay and that he was dead, killed in the war. She said his family sent the money we lived on, that they paid for my education. I never met any of them, though. My mother said they hadn’t approved of her marriage.”

“Robert McKay, the man you were named for, was a former suitor who remained your mother’s friend even after she wed the earl, a marriage which was recognized only briefly. The earl and countess were extremely unhappy with their son’s choice of bride, your mother being a commoner, so they paid her to keep silent in the matter.”

“I never thought of my mother as particularly interested in money.”

“According to what
my
mother said, it wasn’t just the money. Any number of threats were made against her, including your possible disappearance, I gather. The Earl of Leighton was an extremely powerful man. He forced his son to return to London, and eventually he married a woman acceptable to the family.”

“But according to Aunt Charlotte, they never had children.”

“Correct. Which, as long as you remained out of the picture, put Clifford Nash, a distant cousin, in line for the title.”

“Which clearly explains his motive in the murder and also the reason he wanted it to appear as if I were the one who killed the earl.”

“Exactly so,” Stephen said. “As I recall, you received a note, supposedly from Molly Jameson, the widow you had been seeing.”

“That’s right.”

“I don’t know what part Molly played in the affair, but it is now apparent Clifford Nash was behind the note.”

Robert remembered the intended rendezvous only too well. He had received a message from the young widow he had been involved with for nearly a year, asking him to meet her at a coaching inn called the Boar and Hen on the road to London. It was farther away than the usual places she chose for their assignations, but he figured perhaps she had been in the city and was staying there on her way home.

Even after he opened the door to the chamber above the taproom that should have been hers and heard the sound of a pistol being fired, it didn’t occur to him that he would be accused of murder.

The dead man—who turned out to be the Earl of Leighton—had clutched his bloody chest and crumpled at Robert’s feet.

“What the hell…?” Robert had stared dumbfounded, the acrid smell of gunpowder burning his nose. He looked up to see a man emerging from the shadows, felt the butt of the still-smoking pistol pressed into his hand. The man turned and fled through the window, out onto the roof, and a dozen people surged up the outside stairs.

Robert stood dazed as the door flew open and a big, bearded man rushed in.

“Look! The bastard’s murdered the earl!”

Robert dropped the gun.

“Get him!” yelled a smaller man wielding a knife.

There was bloodlust in their eyes and Robert did the only thing he could think of—bolted for the window and disappeared over the rooftop, just as the killer had done.

In the chaos that followed, he was able to retrieve his horse, swing himself up on the animal’s back and ride like a madman off into the darkness.

His only possessions were the few shillings in his pocket and the horse beneath him. If they caught him, he was certain to hang. Robert headed for London, desperate to find a means of escape.

Now, sitting in front of the fire, he shifted in his seat and the memory faded. He took a swallow of his brandy. “So Nash killed the earl for his title and fortune. How do you suppose he found out about me?”

“I’m not quite certain. The vicar and his wife have both passed away. My mother knew the truth, of course, but she had also received money from Lord Leighton and been
threatened if she should speak. My guess is that your father told Nash.”

Robert set up a little straighter in his chair. “Why would he do that?”

“I imagine because Nash believed he was the heir. Perhaps Leighton felt he owed the man the truth.”

“An unfortunate move, it would seem.”

“Indeed. I think there is a very good chance the earl was on his way to find you when he was killed.”

Robert snorted a laugh. “And he had waited but twenty-seven years.”

“He was married to the daughter of a peer, an illegal marriage to be sure, but one he apparently felt obliged to uphold. From what I could discover, Elizabeth Truman died four years ago. I think that is the reason the earl decided to find you.”

Robert mulled over his cousin’s words. Stephen had been a friend to him in his youth. Over the years, that friendship had slipped away, but after the murder, after Robert had arrived safely in America, he had written to his cousin, explaining what had happened, professing his innocence and asking him for help.

Stephen had immediately set to work. Once his mother came forward, he began to turn up other bits of information that had finally led to the truth of Robert’s birth and the reason for Clifford Nash’s attempt to see him hanged.

“It would have all been so neat and tidy,” Stephen said, “if you had not escaped from the inn that night. You would have been hanged for certain, and there would have been no chance of the fact ever coming to light that you were the earl’s rightful heir.”

I am an earl.
And not just any earl, but the powerful Earl of Leighton. “If they find me, I may yet hang.”

“You must be careful, Robert.”

“You’re certain there is proof I’m the earl’s legitimate son?”

“My mother is still alive and apparently the records at St. Margaret’s still exist. I don’t think Nash knows where the marriage took place, or by now they would probably have disappeared.”

Robert stretched his long legs out in front of him. He was an earl, not merely a solicitor working for wealthy squires who owned property near Guildford, where he had lived. As the Earl of Leighton, he would have plenty of money—more than enough to pay off his indenture contract and the debt he owed on the necklace.

Even if he couldn’t retrieve the valuable pearls from the moneylender within the grace period, he could buy them from whoever might purchase them. He could return the necklace to the duchess with his head held high.

And he could see Caro again.

The thought filled him with a painful longing. Robert had known any number of women. He liked them, felt comfortable with them. But he had never known a woman with the sweet, gentle nature he had discovered in Caroline Loon. From the start, she had compelled him to confide in her, then sincerely believed in his innocence.

Caro had a way of seeing inside a man, of uncovering the person he really was. Her goodness spilled onto the people around her, touched them as it had touched him. He had missed her more than he could have imagined and he desperately wanted to see her again.

He glanced over at his cousin, whose hazel eyes reflected the light of the fire. “So how do we prove Clifford Nash is the man who killed the earl?”

Stephen peered at him over his whisky glass. “Nash or whomever he hired. And finding proof won’t be easy.”

“You said Nash is living in London. Perhaps I should travel there—”

“You must stay away from the city at all costs, Robert. You’ve been gone three years. Nash must continue to believe you have either died or left the country. If he has the slightest suspicion that you are in England, that you have even an inkling of what he has done, you are truly a dead man.”

Robert’s jaw tightened. He wasn’t a fool. He didn’t want to die, but Caro was in London. If he could just see her one more time… Perhaps he would discover he was wrong, that she was no different from any other woman, that his feelings for her had changed.