The Bride's Necklace (18 page)

“Perhaps I could go with you,” Tory offered, determined not to let their relationship slide back to where it had been before.

“Lemming Grove is a mill town. There isn’t much to see. I’ll be leaving late in the day, staying only one night. While I’m there, I’ll be busy, and I’ll be home again the next morning. Perhaps next time…”

Tory reluctantly gave in. It was only one night, after all. Besides, she had been thinking about what Greta had said about the property her family had
once owned in Greenbower Street, just six or seven blocks away.

She had quietly made inquiries of Sir Winifred Manning, the man who had purchased the residence from her stepfather, and discovered he and his family were at present in the country. The house was closed up for the few weeks Sir Winifred would be gone. If she could find a way inside…

A memory arose of her husband’s furious face when he had discovered her trip to Harwood Hall. Cord would be even angrier this time. Still, the house was nearby. She would only be gone a couple of hours.

She wasn’t sure what she would find, but the baron had sold the house just as it was, so all of the furniture remained. She would recognize the pieces that had been in her mother’s bedchamber and those in her sewing room, two of her favorite places. This time Cord wouldn’t find out and even though he might, she had to take the risk.

As he had planned, Cord left for Lemming Grove late in the afternoon of the following day. Immediately after supper, Tory retired upstairs to her bedchamber. She changed into a simple rust-colored gown, removed her kidskin slippers and put on a pair of sturdy shoes.

She paced the floor for a while, waiting for the house to quiet, listening to the maddening tick of the clock and wishing the minutes would hurry past. Just before midnight, she opened the door, checked to be certain no one was about and headed down the servants’ stairs at the back of the house.

Instead of hiring a hackney, she had decided to walk the seven blocks to the town house. Mayfair was the most elegant section of London, and as far as she was concerned, perfectly safe.

She was only a block from Greenbower Street when she heard the whir of carriage wheels behind her. She adjusted the shawl around her shoulders, lowered her head and kept on walking as the carriage drew near. Then she heard the crisp tones of authority, instructing the driver to pull over to the edge of the paving stones.

“For heaven’s sake, Victoria, is that really you?” She recognized Julian’s familiar voice floating toward her through the window of his very fashionable carriage, glossy black with yellow stripes round the fenders, pulled by matching gray horses. “What on earth are you doing out here all by yourself?”

With a sigh of resignation, she turned to face him. She had so hoped no one would see her.

“Good evening, Julian.” She knew he lived in Mayfair, though not exactly where. It was just her luck to run into him. “I haven’t time to explain. I’m on a rather important errand. I hope you won’t mention you saw me.”

One of his black eyebrows lifted in interest. “Of course I won’t…as long as you tell me where you are going. I’m not about to leave you out here at this hour on your own.”

Sweet Lord, just what she needed, another complication. “It’s a long story, Julian.”

The door of the carriage swung open, beckoning her in. “I have plenty of time. Your sister and Percy would have my head if I were to leave you unprotected at this hour of the evening and something untoward happened. You may as well tell me what sort of an errand takes a young woman into the streets in the middle of the night and accept the fact you are stuck with me until said errand is completed and you are safely returned to your home.”

She could tell by the look on his face he wasn’t going to change his mind. And she trusted Julian. He would keep his silence, no matter what she told him.

Lifting her skirt, she climbed into the carriage and settled herself on the seat across from him. Very concisely, she explained how her father had been murdered and conveyed her suspicions that the man to blame was his heir, Miles Whiting, Baron Harwood.

“I believe my mother may have uncovered the truth before she fell ill, but she died before she could do anything about it. If that is what happened, she would have written about it in her journal. All I have to do is find it.”

“I see. And you think this journal might be somewhere in Sir Winifred’s town house?”

“Yes.”

Julian rapped on the roof with his silver-headed cane and instructed his driver to point the carriage toward Greenbower Street, then the coach turned down the alley at the rear.

Once they reached their destination, they departed the carriage together, made their way past the mews and began to search the back of the narrow two-story brick house for a way to get inside.

“Here,” Julian said softly. “There’s a window left unlatched. I’ll go in, then come round and open the door for you.”

She nodded, grateful he was willing to risk his reputation to help her, equally glad he was the one climbing over the sill and feeling only a trifle guilty when she heard the rip of fabric and Julian’s soft-muttered curse.

A few minutes later she was standing inside the house, a small brass lamp burning to help light their
way. The place looked much the same as she remembered, a cozy residence less concerned with fashion than comfort, with overstuffed chairs and glass-fronted cabinets filled with books. Julian held up the lamp and she followed him up the stairs.

“My mother’s room was down at the end of the hall,” she said softly. Though mostly Lady Harwood slept in the same room with Tory’s father. She wished she and Cord shared that kind of closeness. “Her sewing room was right next door.”

Memories flooded her: the warmth of her parents’ laughter, she and Claire playing in front of the hearth, her father reading and her mother dabbling at writing poetry or making entries in her journal.

“Things might have changed since then,” Julian said.

Yes, things were very different now, she thought, her mind running over the vast changes that had taken place in her life since her parents had died and she and Claire had been left at the mercy of her stepfather.

But as luck would have it, with the exception of new striped damask bed hangings, a new counterpane and thick Persian carpets, the room looked mostly as it had when last she was there.

Hurriedly, Tory searched each familiar piece of furniture, looking for a place that might hide something the size of the journal and not be discovered.

“Perhaps one of them found it,” Julian said.

“I’m sure if they did, they would have returned it.”

“Perhaps.”

Whatever had happened to the diary, a very thorough search that expanded to possible places downstairs turned up nothing.

“It’s time to go,” Julian said gently. “Every moment
we remain increases the risk of being discovered. I would prefer not to be arrested as a common thief.”

She hated to leave without finding the journal, but they had covered the house fairly well and there was still the very real possibility the diary was somewhere at Windmere.

Shoving aside her disappointment, Tory followed Julian out of the house and back to the carriage. The conveyance returned her to Berkeley Square and she made her way back home, sneaking in the rear door and being careful not to be seen.

She was tired as she undressed without Emma’s help and climbed up in bed, disappointed but not discouraged.

Windmere.
The word whispered softly through her head. The beautiful Cotswold manor house on a hundred glorious acres of rolling hills and tumbling streams might still hold the key. The place she and her mother had loved—an estate that should have belonged to her and Claire.

Now that she had told Cord about the murder, perhaps he would help her find some way to search the house.

She sighed at the notion. Stealing into Windmere was scarcely something her husband would be willing to do.

Tory shuddered to think how furious he would be if he discovered she had broken into Sir Winifred’s town house—accompanied by none other than Julian Fox—and prayed he would never find out.

C
ord returned to London later than he meant to. The cotton mill needed more work than he had guessed, and the conditions the employees worked under bothered him.

Making money was important, but so were people’s lives. He didn’t want to increase his wealth at the expense of those less fortunate than he. In the end he decided against buying the business, and though he would have to work harder to make up for lost profits, he felt good about his decision.

And he was eager to get back home. Fortunately, this time when he arrived at the house, Victoria was waiting. She greeted him with a warm smile that turned into a look of surprise as he caught her round the waist and very thoroughly kissed her.

She responded with her usual abandon, pressing herself against him, leaving him hard when the long kiss ended and impatient to get her upstairs.

He had missed her, dammit. He should have taken her with him.

“I’m so glad you’re home,” she said, smiling up at him.

His gaze moved over her breasts and he noticed that her nipples had tightened. “Why don’t you come upstairs and you can show me how much?”

She blushed and glanced toward the stairs. For a moment, she looked tempted, then she shook her head. “Grace is coming over. She’ll be here any minute.”

Cord nodded, but he wasn’t happy about it. He noticed an errant dark curl at the nape of her neck and desire licked through him. He bent his head and kissed the spot. Perhaps once Grace had left…

His arousal still throbbed as he started up the stairs. If he couldn’t have Victoria, he would change out of his wrinkled traveling clothes, then take a long, hot bath and relax. He tried not to think of his wife’s luscious breasts and nicely curved bottom, but the image nagged him all the way to his bedchamber.

He was soaking in the copper bathing tub in his dressing room, trying to focus his thoughts on something other than his wife’s delectable body, when he heard the sound of voices in the room next to his. Mrs. Rathbone conversing with one of the chambermaids. He settled himself more deeply in the tub he’d had made especially to fit his long frame, rested his head against the rim and closed his eyes.

He didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but when he heard his wife’s name, his eyes popped open and he sat up in the tub.

“I was gettin’ ready for bed when I saw her slippin’ down the back stairs,” Mrs. Rathbone said, her rusty voice loud enough to carry through the walls. “Went out the back door, she did, must have been just afore mid
night. ’Twas some past two in the mornin’ when I heard her come back in.”

The pressure was building in his chest. Cord couldn’t seem to breathe for the lead weight that had settled there.

The chambermaid’s voice was softer, harder to hear. “Ye don’t think ’er ladyship were meetin’ another man?”

“His lordship found her on the street, didn’t he? Who knows what kinda woman she is.”

The women said more, but he couldn’t hear. They finished their cleaning and left the room, closing the door behind them. Cord sat in the tub unable to move, his mind numbed by the things he had heard. Eventually, the water turned cold enough to pierce his stunned senses and he abandoned the tub, dripping water on the floor as he toweled himself dry, all the while thinking of Victoria.

His wife had gone out of the house late last night, using the back stairs to avoid being seen. She had been absent several hours before returning home. The last time he had left town, she had also gone out—had traveled to Harwood Hall, she had said.

But had she actually gone in search of her mother’s diary? Or had she gone off with Julian Fox for a lovers’ tryst?

His stomach knotted. The pressure on his chest turned almost painful. He had tried to keep his feelings in control where Victoria was concerned.

It was obvious how miserably he had failed.

Cord dressed to go out and summoned his carriage. He left word for Victoria that he had an errand to run and made his way down the front porch stairs, passing the
seated lions on his way to the carriage. He instructed his driver to head for Bow Street, then leaned back in the seat, hoping Jonas McPhee would be working in his office.

Cord had to know the truth, and confronting Victoria wouldn’t help him find it. She had lied to him before, lied to him since the moment she had met him. If she hadn’t lied about who she was, he never would have made love to her. He never would have taken her innocence and never been forced to marry her. She had deceived him again and again. How could he believe her now?

Anger swelled inside him. If Victoria had betrayed him with Fox… He forced himself to stay calm. McPhee would sort through the facts and ferret out the truth. He would discover if Victoria had actually gone to Harwood Hall, perhaps even find out where she had been last night.

In the meantime, as difficult as it might prove to be, he would pretend that nothing was wrong. He would treat her with the courtesy she deserved as his wife and pray that his fears proved false.

Should his physical need of her arise, he would not deny himself. But he would be careful to distance himself from his feelings, protect himself and insulate his heart.

As he now painfully realized he had utterly failed to do.

Tory sighed as she moved through the house on her way to a meeting with Mrs. Gray to go over the menus for the week. Except for the night she had sneaked out of the house, lately her life had been so boring she almost envied Mrs. Gray her housekeeping job.

Last night was the third evening in a row that Cord had left the house on some sort of business matter. Afterward, he had stopped by his club for a hand or two of cards, or so he said this morning. Days like today, he rarely came out of his study unless he had somewhere to go, and he had come to her bed only once. Their coupling had been brief and unsatisfying and he hadn’t joined her there again.

Tory paused outside the door to the kitchen, enjoying the smell of fresh-baked bread seeping into the hallway. After their return from the country, for a time her relationship with Cord had improved. But since his return from Lemming Grove, he had become more remote than ever, and even their occasional lovemaking felt distant and empty, as if he kept himself carefully apart from her.

It was growing more and more difficult to believe his affections might ever deepen into love.

“I’ve a list of suggestions for the week, my lady,” Mrs. Gray said, bustling toward her. “Perhaps we could use the breakfast room to go over them.” It was a gentle reminder. Mrs. Gray ran the world downstairs. She didn’t think a countess should lower herself by becoming involved in such menial affairs.

Tory didn’t tell her she often felt more comfortable below stairs than she did in the lonely world she lived in with the earl.

Still, she made her way to the main floor of the house, Mrs. Gray close behind her. Beginning to believe her marriage would forever be a loveless one, she had started to think of children to fill the emptiness inside her.

If she couldn’t have Cord’s love, perhaps she could
have his child. She prayed a son or daughter would soon be growing in her womb.

Then she thought again how remote he had become, how he had even begun to stay away from her bed, and sighed to think that even the gift of a child might be denied her.

Cord stared out the window of his carriage as it rolled through the crowded streets. An hour ago, he had received a message from Jonas McPhee, requesting a meeting at his earliest convenience. Cord had replied that he would be there at eleven o’clock.

More than a week had passed since his journey to Lemming Grove and his wife’s midnight rendezvous, if that was what it had been. Time enough, apparently, for McPhee to have done his job.

Anxious to reach the runner’s office, Cord swore at some sort of delay. Turning his gaze to the window, he saw a regiment of soldiers marching past, decked out in scarlet-and-white uniforms. A dozen cavalry officers, mounted on high-stepping blacks, accompanied them, temporarily blocking the street. Watching them pass, Cord couldn’t help thinking of Ethan, wondering if he had been returned to the prison he had escaped from or been moved somewhere else, wondering if his cousin even still lived.

And if he did, would they ever find a way to free him before this long, bloody war was over?

But Ethan slipped to the back of his mind as the carriage again rolled toward Bow Street. Cord had prepared himself for his meeting with Jonas McPhee. Still, he was filled with dread as McPhee opened the door to his small, cluttered office and invited Cord to take a seat in front of his desk.

“I am afraid the news isn’t good, my lord.” With his balding head and wire-rimmed spectacles, Jonas McPhee looked little like a man who spent his days hunting criminals, delving into the darker side of London. But his shoulders were muscled and his hands knotted and scarred, reflecting the dangerous work he often did.

“Whatever you have to say, say it.”

Seated behind his battered desk, McPhee glanced down at the sheet of papers in his hand. “In regard to the first incident you asked me to look into, your wife’s supposed visit to Harwood Hall. According to the servants, her ladyship was never there.”

His chest constricted. He had told himself he was prepared for whatever news McPhee had to convey. Now he realized he wasn’t prepared at all. “I take it you spoke to more than just one of them.”

“That is correct.” He looked down at the paper. “Specifically, a housekeeper named Greta Simon and the butler, Samuel Sims. I spoke to one of the chambermaids as well.”

“And the baron? Where was he when you called?”

“Lord Harwood is still in London.”

“Any chance my wife could have been in the house and no one knew she was there?”

“The servants seemed very certain, my lord.”

He told himself to stay calm. He knew how clever Victoria could be. “What else did you find out?”

“You mentioned a man named Julian Fox in connection with your wife. I did some checking. Fox owns a town house in Mayfair. I located his residence and spoke to one of his footmen, greased his palm a bit, you understand. I’m sorry to tell you that the footman said
that sometime round midnight of the night in question, Mr. Fox picked up a lady a few blocks from Berkeley Square, the location of your residence. The woman’s description matched that of Lady Brant.”

Cord’s stomach balled into a painful fist. “Go on.”

“The coachman was instructed to carry the two of them down the alley behind a house in Greenbower Street. Mr. Fox and the lady departed the coach and went in through the rear of the house. They were inside for more than an hour. Afterward, Fox ordered the driver to return them to Berkeley Square. The lady left the carriage and disappeared into one of the houses down the block, presumably yours.”

His chest squeezed. There were other questions he wanted to ask, but he couldn’t bear to hear the answers. “I presume you have all of this down in your report.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“And a bill for your fee is included as well?”

McPhee nodded and handed over the file.

“I’ll have a bank draft sent over first thing in the morning.”

“Thank you, my lord. I wish the news had been better.”

Cord’s fingers tightened around the file. “So do I.”

Turning away from the runner, he forced himself to walk calmly out of the office. As soon as he gained the privacy of his carriage, he dropped down heavily on the seat, his head in his hands. His wife was involved with another man.

She was having an affair with Julian Fox.

Despair and loss washed over him. They had only been married such a very short while and already he had lost her. His eyes burned. He hadn’t understood until
that moment how much she meant to him. How could he have let down his guard? How could he have been such a fool?

Then the anguish and grief he was feeling began to change direction, turn into a simmering rage and a feeling of bitter betrayal.

How dare she! He had been faithful to Victoria since the day they were wed. Bloody hell, since the night he had stormed into her below-stairs bedchamber, he had never had the least desire for another woman.

And she had wanted him, too. Victoria was a vibrant, passionate young woman. He had introduced her to pleasure and she had enjoyed every damned minute.

Then Fox had come along. Cord itched to call him out, to shoot the man for stealing his wife. Victoria was his! She belonged to him, dammit! But Fox had been handsome and charming, flattering her and—

Cord paused mid-thought.
Flattering her and paying her attention.
Squiring her all over London, to the opera, the theater, escorting her to lavish balls. Fox had danced with her and dined with her and laughed with her, while Cord had been holed up in his study, thinking of ways to avoid her. He couldn’t even manage time enough for a single game of chess.

The knot in his stomach twisted. Knowing Victoria as he did, he knew with certainty this wasn’t a casual affair. Her affections had to be involved—Victoria had to be in love with Julian Fox.

He thought of the months since their marriage. Never once had she told him she loved him or said anything that remotely implied she felt that kind of affection for him. Perhaps if he’d had the slightest suspicion how deeply his feelings ran for her….

But he hadn’t known then. At least he hadn’t admitted it to himself. Not until now. Not until it was too late.

For the first time it occurred to him that, in truth, he was the one who had insisted they marry. He had
forced
Victoria to wed him. First he had bullied her, then he had tricked her. He had always had a way with women and he knew Victoria desired him. Aside from that, she needed him to protect her. It never occurred to him that he was pushing her to do something she really didn’t want to do.

All the way back to the town house, he considered his options. Victoria was in love with another man. Fox was Percy’s cousin, nephew to the marquess of Kersey. The family had plenty of money. Fox could take care of her.

Acid swirled in his stomach. Victoria was everything to him. He couldn’t imagine life without her. Still, it wasn’t fair to keep her locked in a marriage she had never really wanted.