The Suspect's Daughter (15 page)

Amesbury’s gaze flicked to her face and traveled down the lines of her habit. His handsome but hard face remained as impassive as stone. No recognition, no appreciation, no emotion of any kind. Perhaps she’d been wrong, and he had no heart and therefore no emotions.

She lifted her chin. She would prove her father’s innocence and remove all doubt. If the Amesbury bounder wouldn’t listen to reason, she’d take the matter to the magistrate of Bow Street and make him see the truth before it went as far as any formal questioning. She would do whatever it took to remove all doubt from Grant Amesbury’s mind as to her father’s innocence.

Stepping off the bottom stair, she gathered her riding habit’s short train and draped it over her left arm. As she approached her father standing next to Lady Everett, he turned.

He pressed a kiss to the back of her gloved hand. “You look as lovely as ever, my princess.”

She smiled, locking away all her troubles. “Today is an ideal day for a ride.”

“The weather wouldn’t dare ruin your plans for our guests.”

She sniffed with mock snobbishness. “Certainly not. Today will be perfect.” With her hand looped through her father’s arm, she smiled with false sweetness at Amesbury—the scoundrel!—and walked past without speaking to him.

She felt rather than heard him sigh behind her. Good. Let him stew, the unfeeling cad.

The guests mounted horses that grooms and stable hands held ready for them, and they set off as a group.

Amesbury rode next to Lord St. Cyr, engaging him in conversation. Jocelyn had to admit that even so focused and serious, Grant Amesbury was a handsome man. But she’d do well to think of him as the enemy. Well, no, perhaps not the enemy. After all, he was trying to protect the prime minister against any possible threat. With King George III dead and the prince not yet officially crowned king, the murder of the prime minister during such a transitional phase could cause panic.

Very well. Not her enemy. Instead of fighting against Amesbury, she’d help him—help him understand that if any such threat truly existed, her father was not involved. There. That helped. Now she didn’t have to expend so much energy disliking Mr. Amesbury.

In fact, perhaps she should do all she could to help win his confidence in her father and prove to Amesbury what a good man her father was. She’d kill Amesbury with kindness, even help him find a direction to focus his investigation so he could find the real conspirators.

With a lighter heart, she chatted with her guests and enjoyed the gorgeous day. The clear sky arched overhead like a canopy, turning fields to a glorious emerald. The river crossing the land sparkled like a thousand diamonds. Yes, today was perfect. She’d win over Mr. Amesbury somehow. As they rode, the distant song of the sea serenaded them.

Jocelyn reined her mount and pointed to the ruins crowning the hill. “Over there we see the ruins of Westbrook Castle, built during the time of King Richard the Second.”

“It looks like it’s haunted,” Lady St. Cyr said with a shiver.

“Oh, indeed it is,” Jocelyn said with an exaggeratedly solemn tone of authority she normally reserved for playing make-believe with a child. “But I have it on good authority that these ghosts only come out at night. We are safe as long as we are gone before the sun sets.”

The lady took her words at face value, nodded her head, and relaxed her posture. “Oh, good.”

“But the pixies come out during the day and cause all manner of trouble.” Jocelyn just couldn’t help herself.

Lady St. Cyr gave her a motherly smile. “Pixies aren’t real.”

Jocelyn kept a solemn expression. “I assure you, pixies are as real as ghosts. I’ve seen evidence of their mischief.”

Lady St. Cyr peered more carefully around her. “Really?”

Jocelyn glanced at Mr. Amesbury whose mouth tugged off to one side in a smothered smile. Her father’s gaze slid her way, and he let out a suppressed laugh, shaking his head over her harmless prank.

They passed under a crumbling arch where a portcullis had once stood and entered the courtyard. Stones the size of carriages lay strewn about with matching gaps in the stone walls which stretched heavenward. Grasses and flowers carpeted the enclosed area. Silence reigned in this fallen castle.

Jocelyn dismounted and patted Indigo’s neck. Her horse
wuffed
in her ear, the long whiskers on his nose tickling her skin. She let the reins fall so he could graze where he wished and sauntered to her father’s side. Guests began exploring the ruins. Grant Amesbury watched everyone with the same quiet, restrained energy that he used to visually examine the ruins. Remembering her vow to make peace with him so he would see reason where her father was concerned, she sidled up to him.

“Shall we explore the upper tower?” She motioned to the one tower that had stood against the ravages of time and neglect.

He passed a cool gaze over her. “Oh, now you’re speaking to me?”

“I forgive offenses easily.” She gave him an overly bright, somewhat mocking smile. By the narrowing of his gaze, he clearly saw her true opinion of him in her expression.

She reminded herself he was a good man whose efforts were misguided, not evil. “The tower?” she repeated.

His eyes flicked briefly at her father before he nodded. “As you wish.”

“Jocelyn, I’m not certain it’s as solid as it appears,” her father called.

Amesbury paused, and his gaze passed over the tower. “I’ll go first, and test each step to ensure it holds.”

Papa held his lip between his teeth, clearly torn.

Quietly, Mr. Amesbury said to him, “Perhaps you’d like to go with us to be sure it’s safe.”

A brief, apologetic smile twitched Papa’s lips. “It’s not that I question your judgment, Mr. Amesbury, but I fear where my daughter is concerned I am perhaps a bit overprotective.”

“Of course. We must protect those we love.”

Hearing the word “love” on Grant Amesbury’s lips sent a shiver through her. She had the distinct impression he seldom used the word, and never lightly. A guarded man like him probably chose carefully those he let into his heart, and no doubt loved them with a power she could only guess he possessed.

Mr. Amesbury’s focused, intense stare passed over her father again, and from the minuscule relaxing of the man’s shoulders, Jocelyn suspected he’d just made some sort of decision about her father—not a grand decision, but perhaps a tally on the side of his being a good man unworthy of the accusation against him.

Mr. Amesbury stepped into the doorway of the tower, and the darkness swallowed him up as if it found him a familiar companion. Papa followed, leaving Jocelyn to trail behind. The stone tower’s uneven, winding stairs took all her attention. Her companions’ soft footfalls and breathing echoed in the narrow space. They moved cautiously, and she pictured Mr. Amesbury testing each step before he put his weight upon it. Jocelyn passed a tiny window carved in the stone walls and took a moment to catch her breath as she gazed over the landscape already far below. At the edge of the horizon, a cloud-bank puffed up like a mound of Devonshire cream.

Returning her attention to her task, she continued climbing in darkness. As she reached the top of the stairs, she stepped out into the sunshine, blinking against the brilliance. Both men stood waiting. Her father held out a hand to lead her out of the dark. Mr. Amesbury held back. His hand twitched as if to offer aid to her, but he held himself in check, no doubt unwilling to have unnecessary contact with the daughter of a man he suspected capable of great evil. His eyes met hers and something akin to pain passed over his expression. He flicked his gaze away from her to flit around their surroundings, and the moment passed.

He stepped to the crenellated edge and braced his arms on it, gazing out. “Nice view.”

“This castle survived wars,” her father said. “Assaults, sieges, battles…but lack of a living heir made the land revert back to the king who never saw fit to bestow it upon another lord, so it stood forgotten for generations.” He toed the stone brick. “And now it crumbles, not because it wasn’t strong enough to withstand an enemy assault, but because it had no defense against neglect.”

Mr. Amesbury said nothing, merely studied his surroundings. Whether he pictured it in its former glory, or mourned its unnecessary fall, or even engaged in idle curiosity, she couldn’t say.

She folded her arms on top of the wall and leaned on them, admiring the view. A cool breeze tugged at her hat. “Nothing will last if it’s unloved.”

The enigmatic gentleman eyed her as one corner of his mouth lifted in mocking smile. “Stone walls only need a mason to keep them in repair.”

She stood resolute. “A master won’t spend money required to keep up a home he doesn’t love.”

“Anyone with half a brain will maintain his house if he doesn’t want the walls to crumble,” he said.

His grim denial of the need for human love left her poised between pity and contempt. She waved her hand in frustration. “Yes, but he takes care of his property in order to protect those he loves.”

Amesbury shook his head. “You’re speaking of two different matters. Men can love their homes and lands without loving their families.”

She folded her arms. “Then it is a misplaced love.”

Her father said from behind her, “It is, indeed. Power and money are empty without a loving family to share it.”

Amesbury’s gaze flitted to Papa. “Some believe power and money are all that matters.”

Her father seemed to take Amesbury’s measure. “It is a counterfeit happiness. I would give all my wealth and power if it would make my family happy.” He added quietly, “Or bring back my wife. And my son.” His voice hushed.

Mr. Amesbury leaned on one elbow and eyed Jocelyn’s father more intently. “I’m sure your wife would be proud if you became the next prime minister.”

“Perhaps.” Papa’s expression shuttered to block the pain that must have been churning in his heart.

“How likely, truly, do you think your chances are of convincing Prinny--er, the new king--you’re the best man for that position?” Mr. Amesbury asked.

Her father straightened and Jocelyn held her breath. His answer would weigh heavily in Mr. Amesbury’s determination as to whether her father could be involved in the conspiracy.

“I have many supporters in both Houses.” He shrugged. “Whether or not it’s enough for him to choose me is anyone’s guess.”

“But you’re confident,” Mr. Amesbury pressed.

“I’m confident.”

Jocelyn put her arm through her father’s. “Of course he’s confident. Any man of ambition ought to be. And I’m sure time will prove him to be the one best suited for that position.”

Mild irritation shadowed Mr. Amesbury’s eyes that she’d interfered. “So all that remains to be seen is to remove Liverpool.”

Footsteps and voices rang out from the stairway. A moment later, Lady Everett arrived, followed by several others.

Lady Everett checked her step, her gaze darting between them as if asking if she were interrupting. “Oh, we didn’t realize others were up here.”

Papa held out a hand to her. “This is the best place to enjoy the view.”

While other guests leaned over the edge exclaiming over the view, Papa tucked Lady Everett’s hand into the crook of his arm and led her to the opposite corner to point out something in the landscape below.

Left to stand with Mr. Amesbury, Jocelyn resisted the urge to lift her chin and shoot him a challenging smile. Her task was to win him over with kindness, not gloat every time she thwarted his attempt to find something incriminating. Still, the man could be infuriating the way he kept trying to set verbal traps for her father.

She lowered her voice. “I apologize if I have been uncooperative, Mr. Amesbury. My goal is not so much to throw off your investigation as to help you find the real criminals involved.”

A hint of a derisive smile lifted one corner of his mouth. “You still want to help me.”

“Of course. If we can figure out who is really involved, then you’ll have no doubt about my father’s innocence.”

“There is no ‘we’ in this. You shouldn’t even know about it.”

“Oh, pish, I won’t tell anyone.” She waved away his words.

“Perhaps, but the more people know of this, the more likely someone might destroy evidence. Or even plant evidence against someone innocent.”

As the implications of his words sank in, she let out a gasp and only at the last second remembered to keep her voice low. “Destroy or plant evidence? Are you suggesting that I would be dishonest enough to actually try to throw suspicion on an innocent man to throw off your investigation?”

He spoke softly but in flat lines. “It’s clear you would do anything for your father.”

She pressed a hand over her tightening stomach. How dare he accuse her of being so underhanded? “I would never stoop so low as to deliberately use someone like that, and I can’t believe you’d think that of me. Only a scoundrel would say such a thing.”

Blindly, she whirled around and ran. The narrow stone stairs of the winding tower came sooner than she expected. As she plunged into the darkness, she put out a hand to guide herself down the stairs. Her foot slipped. She reached out to catch herself but met only empty space. With a scream, she pitched forward, bracing for a fall.

Grant moved without thinking. He leaped, his hands outstretched into the inky stairwell where Jocelyn disappeared, her scream reverberating in the stone passageway. As his fingers brushed cloth, he made a frantic grab and fisted his hands. A weight jerked his arms, and he yanked inward to his chest. A soft body met his. In the dark, he landed hard on his knees but his forward momentum and the weight of her body pulled him down the stairs further. Still falling, he twisted to shield the girl in his arms from the unyielding stone. Pain exploded from his shoulder as he landed. A second explosion on the side of his head left him stunned. How much time passed, he could not say, but he lay dazed, unable to think or move.

The image of Jocelyn Fairley tumbling down repeated in his mind. Another, older, infinitely more painful memory superimposed itself over the memory of her fall—his brother Jason falling down, down, down, away from him, more slowly in his recollection than it had really happened. Jason, standing on a tree limb far from the ground, had tried to jump from one limb to another far above the ground. But he’d missed the limb. He’d fallen. Grant had sat on a branch higher up, helplessly watching his brother’s body plunge downward and disappear through the leaves. A sickening thud from below had shot through him. He’d known from that sound, even though he’d tried to deny it, that his brother, his closest friend, the only one who’d ever understood him, was dead. Consuming grief chipped at what was left of his soul.