Regency Historical - Love And The Single Heiress Part 28

"Indeed, threats have been made against Charles Brightmore's life."

His eyes narrowed. "Threats against his life? How do you know this?"

"I overheard Lords Markingworth, Whitly, and Carweather speaking at my father's birthday party. They spoke of wanting to see Charles Brightmore dead, and of an investigator they'd hired to find him. 'Tis now clear to me that this Mr. Carmichael is the man they hired, and tonight he nearly succeeded in his mission. Again." She met his gaze. "I am Charles Brightmore, Andrew. I wrote the Guide and published it under a pseudonym."

Whatever reaction she'd expected, it wasn't this... unwavering calm. "I must say, you do not look very surprised."

"I confess I am not, as I had my suspicions. Your verbal slip the other night set my mind wondering. I paid Mr. Bayer a visit this morning before departing London."

"My publisher?" she asked, stunned. "But surely he did not identify me as Charles Brightmore."

"No. I knew he would not, nor did I wish to tip my hand by asking him outright. However, when I casually mentioned your name during our conversation, Mr. Bayer turned an interesting shade of pink. And when I mentioned another name, he turned positively red."

"Another name?"

"Clearly you didn't write the Guide alone. You couldn't have, not based on the number of 'firsts' we've shared. Someone else was involved... your friend Mrs. Ralston would be my guess." Dear G.o.d. The man was too clever by half-an admirable trait, but in this case also alarming. "Since both you and Mr. Carmichael were able to ferret out Charles Brightmore's true ident.i.ty, it's only a matter of time before someone else finds out and all of London knows." "Whether Carmichael was investigating for someone else or on his own, I cannot say, but he isn't the man hired by Lords Markingworth, Whitly, and Carweather."

"What makes you say that?" "Because I am the man they hired." Catherine actually felt the blood drain from her face, and she suddenly recalled why she'd never been fond of surprises. It was because they were so d.a.m.nably... surprising. If she'd been able, she would have

laughed at the irony.

She cleared her throat to locate her voice. "Well, my confession just made your mission a great deal easier."

His brows rose. "Actually, it places me in a very awkward position. I was very much looking forward to collecting the reward they'd offered me."

"Reward? How much?"

"Five hundred pounds."

Catherine's jaw dropped. "That's a fortune." "Yes, I know." He dragged his hands down his face and heaved a long sigh. "I had plans for thatmoney." Before she could ask what sort of plans, he continued, "Of course you need not fear that I willreveal your ident.i.ty."

"Thank you. But I fear the point is moot, as Mr. Carmichael clearly also knows."

Andrew's jaw tightened. "If he knows about you, it's likely he also knows about Mrs. Ralston's involvement."

Catherine pressed her hands to her cheeks as guilt slapped her. "How could I have forgotten to consider that? Genevieve is in danger as well. We must warn her."

"I agree. But you're not leaving here, and I'm not leaving you. Milton can relate tonight's happenings

and warn her and her staff to be on guard. He can take a footman and Fritzborne along for protection."

He squeezed her hand. "I'll return in a few minutes. Warm yourself by the fire, and-"

"Don't unlock the door until you return," she finished with a weak smile.

He returned ten minutes later, and said, "They are on their way to Mrs. Ralston's cottage."

Relief lessened a bit of Catherine's anxiety. "Thank you."

"You're welcome. Now, back to your involvement with the Guide-I take it the book was Mrs. Ralston's idea?"

Catherine nodded. "She told me she wished to write a book, but the crippling pain in her hands physically prevented her from being able to do so. I offered to be her hands."

Unable to remain still any longer, she began to pace in front of him. "Writing the words that Genevieve dictated, being involved, was so exhilarating. It had been years since anyone other than Spencer had needed me, and I reveled in feeling useful. And as for the content, I found it fascinating. Stimulating. And all too much of it unfamiliar. It greatly gratified me to know that I was helping to provide women with information that I wished I'd known before I married. And, I confess that I took a perverse pleasure at the thought of setting the ton on its hypocritical ear. I relished the thought of anonymously doling out a rebuke for the cruel way so many of them had treated Spencer."

She paused, then whirled to look directly at him. "Do you know what people I'd considered my friends whispered behind my back after Spencer was born? What my own husband said to my face?" Her hands curled into tight fists. "That there was no hope for him. That his deformity was hideous, and that no doubt his brain would be malformed as well as his foot. That he didn't deserve to inherit the t.i.tle. That it would have been better if he'd died." Her voice broke on the last word. She didn't even realize that tears ran down her face until a drop fell on her hand.

He came to her and cradled her face between his palms, brus.h.i.+ng her wet cheeks with his thumbs. "I'm so sorry you and Spencer had to endure such unspeakable cruelty."

"All I saw was my beautiful, sweet child," she whispered, "his eyes filled with pain that had nothing to do with his infirmity each time some other 'esteemed' member of Society rejected him."

She drew a shuddering breath. "But never in my wildest imaginings did it ever occur to me that by penning the Guide I would be placing myself, and therefore my son, in danger." She raised an unsteady hand and rested it against his cheek. "And you, Andrew. Obviously Mr. Carmichael meant to harm me tonight. When you got in his way, he attacked you. You might have been killed."

He turned his head to place a fervent kiss on her palm. "I have a very hard head. And clearly so does Carmichael. I thought I'd knocked him out."

"Carmichael,"she repeated, frowning. "Is he not the man who identified the person who shot me?"

"Yes. A bit of a coincidence, that. And I'm not a great believer in coincidence. Based on his attacks tonight, it's clear to me that Carmichael was involved in the shooting. In order to cast suspicion elsewhere, he claimed to be a witness and identified someone else as the perpetrator. The man taken into custody has repeatedly protested his innocence."

A shudder ran through Catherine. She stepped back from him and wrapped her arms around herself. "I cannot believe that the Guide, scandalous as it is, would drive a person to murder. You saved my life."

"I cannot tell you how relieved I am that it worked out that way. I could very well have killed us both."

"What do you mean?"

"If that water was a few feet deeper, I'm afraid things would not have gone so well. I... I can't swim."

Catherine stared. "I beg your pardon?"

"I can't swim. Not a stroke. Spencer offered to teach me. During our one lesson, it took nearly the

entire time to coax me to simply stand in the water." He paused, then added softly, "My father drowned.

I've always feared the water." The area surrounding Catherine's heart contracted then expanded. "Yet you didn't hesitate to jump in for me."

He reached out and lightly grasped her shoulders. "My darling Catherine, have you not realized by now that I would walk through fire for you?" Her throat swelled. Yes, he would. It was all right there in his eyes, his emotions naked for her to see. Emotions she was not prepared to see. Emotions that frightened her. Terrified her.

"I... don't know what to say," she murmured. "You do not need to say anything. Just listen." Taking her hand he led her to the settee where he sat and gently tugged her hand until she settled next to him. "I have something to tell you, Catherine. Something I've agonized over telling you, but after almost losing you tonight, I simply cannot wait any longer." Catherine stilled. Dear G.o.d, was he going to tell her he loved her? Or worse, ask her to marry him?

"Andrew, I-" "It's about my past." She blinked. "Oh?" A muscle ticked in his jaw, and his normally steady eyes reflected such torment and pain that her heart squeezed in sympathy. "Clearly whatever you wish to say is very difficult for you, Andrew." She laid her hand over his in what she hoped was a rea.s.suring gesture. "Please do not distress yourself. It is not necessary for you to tell me."

His gaze s.h.i.+fted to her hand resting upon his. After several seconds, he shook his head, then rose to stand before her. "I wish with all my heart that it wasn't necessary, but you have a right to know. I need for you to know."

He seemed to brace himself, then met her gaze squarely. "When I left America eleven years ago, I did so because I'd committed a crime. I escaped the country to avoid being hanged."

"Hanged?" she repeated weakly. "What had you done?"

His gaze did not waver. "I killed a man."

If she hadn't heard the words come from his mouth, she would have suspected her hearing was afflicted.

She licked her suddenly dry lips. "Was it an accident?"

"No. I deliberately shot him."

"But why? Why would you do such a thing?" "Because he killed my wife."

Chapter 19.

Today's Modern Woman must be prepared to face the unexpected. Sometimes it can be delightful, such as a surprise gift from her lover, in which case a thank-you kiss is appropriate, which in turn may well lead to more delightfully unexpected things. Occasionally, however, the unexpected proves most unwelcome, in which case her wisest course of action is to say as little as possible, then quickly extricate herself from the situation.

A Ladies' Guide to the Pursuit of Personal Happiness and Intimate Fulfillment by Charles Brightmore Andrew watched all the color leach from her face as she stared up at him in mute, wide-eyed shock. Memories he'd fiercely fought to keep buried for years roared to the surface. Now that he'd begun, and there was no turning back, he was desperate to finish.

He wanted to look at her, but he simply couldn't stand still. Pacing before her, he said, "My father was the stablemaster for a very wealthy, influential man, Charles Northrip. Father and I lived in rooms above the stable, and I grew up on the estate. I loved it there. Loved being with the horses. When I was sixteen, my father died, and Mr. Northrip promoted me to stablemaster."

He paused and looked at Catherine, who sat ramrod straight on the settee and regarded him through solemn eyes. The only sound in the room was the crackling of the fire and the ticking of the mantel clock. After resuming his pacing, he continued, "Mr. Northrip had only one child, a daughter named Emily who was four years my junior. I mentioned her when we made the strawberry ice."

"Yes. I remember."

"Emily was painfully shy. Awkward. Clumsy and tongue-tied. All conditions worsened by the forceful personalities of her parents. The Northrips were dismayed at their daughter's reserved ways. Emily was much more at home with horses than with people, and consequently she spent a great deal of time at the stables. Whenever her father would find her in one of the stalls or in the loft, he'd complain that he didn't know what to do with her. How had he and his wife, two gregarious, friendly people, produced such an unsociable child who preferred animals over people? He said these things as if she were deaf, and I could see how much they hurt her. Over the years, a friends.h.i.+p blossomed between me, my father, and Emily."

Memories he hadn't allowed himself to resurrect for years rolled through him. "I'll never forget the night my father died. I was standing in the stables, staring at his empty chair. I felt... gutted. And so alone. The next thing I knew, Emily was standing next to me. She slipped her little twelve-year-old hand into mine and told me not to worry. That I wasn't alone because she was my friend, and that she'd be my best friend, if I'd like." Nostalgia tightened his throat. "I told her that I'd like that very much. And over the next seven years the bond we'd formed strengthened. We truly were each other's best friend."

Pausing before the fireplace, he stared into the dancing flames. "Because he had no son to whom he could pa.s.s his business, Mr. Northrip was determined that Emily marry a man capable of running his enterprise, and he believed he'd found such a man in Lewis Manning, the only son of another wealthy merchant. A marriage-to say nothing of a lucrative business merger-was arranged. Emily accepted this, knowing it was her duty to marry in accordance with her father's wishes. She was actually relieved she'd finally be doing something her father approved of after disappointing him her entire life.

"But I soon learned that Lewis Manning possessed a violent temper. One night, only several days before the wedding, Emily came to me, crying, in pain from what turned out to be a cracked rib. Although there was not a mark upon her face, the rest of her-where the blows wouldn't show-was bruised where Lewis had beat her for daring to question one of his decisions. She told me then that while this was the first time he'd hurt her this badly, Lewis had lost his temper several times before and struck her. She'd told her father about those earlier instances, but he'd dismissed her concerns, saying that all men occasionally lose their tempers. After this last instance, however, Emily feared that the next time Lewis flew into a rage she might not be able to get away from him."

He pulled his gaze from the fire and looked at Catherine, who was listening with rapt attention. "My first instinct was to tear Lewis apart, but Emily begged me not to. Said I would only be imprisoned for my trouble and that Lewis wasn't worth it. I reluctantly agreed, but I was determined to protect her-from that b.a.s.t.a.r.d Lewis, and her father, who obviously cared more about the connection this marriage would make than his daughter. And the only way I could think of to do that was to marry her myself. We both knew she'd be giving up everything, as her father would be furious and surely disown her, but so be it. We left that night and eloped."

Again he could not remain still and resumed his pacing. "The next day, after settling Emily at a nearby inn, I went to see her father. I wanted to tell him about the marriage face-to-face, and let him know that further harm to Emily would not be tolerated. He was, as expected, incensed. He said he would have the marriage annulled and intended to see me charged with kidnapping and hanged. When I told him there were no grounds for an annulment, his fury doubled. Said that one way or another he'd get his daughter back, even if it meant seeing me dead. I didn't doubt for a moment that he meant what he said. I returned to the inn. Shortly afterward, as we were preparing to depart, an enraged Lewis Manning arrived. He said hateful, disgusting things about Emily, and my patience reached its limit. He informed me that he did not intend to wait for justice-he wanted to see the job done immediately, and he challenged me to a duel. I accepted despite Emily's pleas not to."

He continued on, the words coming faster now. "The Northrip's groundskeeper, Adam Harrick, was my closest friend besides Emily, and he served as my second. At the duel, unbeknownst to me, Lewis cheated by turning to fire before the full count was made. Emily, who was supposed to have remained at the inn, saw his treachery. In an attempt to warn me, she ran forward... and was. .h.i.t by Lewis's shot."

He closed his eyes, the image of Emily crumpling to the ground, her eyes wide with shock, the midsection of her ivory gown stained crimson, indelibly carved in his mind.

"I fired, and my shot hit Lewis," he said, his voice a rough rasp. "I dropped my pistol and ran to Emily. Although she was still alive, there was no doubt her wound was fatal. I... I held her, trying to stop the blood, but to no avail. With her dying words she pleaded with me to escape. To leave America, go where no one could find me. She knew her father would either kill me or make certain I hanged for Lewis's death, and no doubt try to blame me for her death as well. She begged me, over and over, not to let that happen. She desperately wanted me to live, to have a full and happy life. She loved me and did not want me to die."

Fixing his gaze on Catherine, he pressed his palm against his chest, and said in a ragged whisper, "I felt her final heartbeats against my hand after I finally promised her I would do as she asked. And then she was gone."

His voice broke on the last word. Then silence hung heavy in the air as he relived the horror of that chilly day with a gutting, vivid clarity he'd forced from his mind for years. The day he'd lost everything. His home. Life as he'd known it. The sweet, gentle friend who'd been his wife.

He coughed to clear the tightness in his throat. "After saying my good-byes to Emily and making certain that Adam would see to her, I kept my promise. Several hours later, using a false name, I sailed away from America."

Dragging his hands down his face, he tipped his head back and looked at the ceiling. "For the first five years, I lived... recklessly, not really caring if I lived or died. It was a very dark time for me. Lonely. Bleak. Empty. I'd done what Emily had asked me to do, yet I hated myself for doing it. For running away. For all my actions that had led to her death. I felt like a coward, and that I'd compromised my honor. I actually hoped that her father would somehow find me, yet he never did.

"But one day, your brother found me-just in time to save me from the machete-wielders, a rescue I wasn't immediately grateful for, by the way. Since I had nothing better to do, I returned with Philip to his camp, and for the first time in five years I had a sense of belonging somewhere. Your brother not only saved my life, but through him, I found the will to live again. To make something of myself. He was the first real friend I'd had since leaving America, and my friends.h.i.+p with him changed my life. I eventually managed to bury deeply that horrifying day on the dueling field, but when that shot was fired in London, when I saw you on the floor..."He briefly closed his eyes. "I relived my worst nightmare."

He drew in a deep breath, feeling utterly depleted, yet lighter than he had in a decade. He turned toward Catherine. Her hands were clenched in her lap, and she stared into the fire. He desperately wanted to know what she was thinking, but forced himself to remain silent, to allow her to absorb all he'd told her. A full minute pa.s.sed before she spoke.

"Does Philip know all this?"

"No. None of it. I've never told anyone before."

He wished she would look at him so he could see her expression, read her eyes. Would she look at him with disgust and shame-the same way he'd looked at himself for years? Unfortunately, he feared the fact that she steadfastly did not look at him told him everything.

Finally, she turned and gazed at him, her eyes solemn and bright with unshed tears. "You loved her very much."

"Yes. She was a quiet, lonely, gentle girl who'd never hurt anyone in her entire life. We'd been the best of friends for years. I would have done anything to protect her. Instead, she died protecting me."

"Why, after remaining silent all these years, did you tell me this?"

He hesitated, then asked, "Before I tell you, may I have use of a piece of vellum and a pen?"

There was no mistaking her surprise, but she rose and walked to the escritoire near the window, sliding a sheet of vellum from a slim drawer. "Here you are."

"Thank you." He sat in the delicate upholstered chair and picked up her pen. From the corner of his eye he watched her cross to the fireplace. After several minutes, he joined her there and handed her the vellum.

She looked at the markings with a confused expression. "What is this?"

"Egyptian glyphs. They spell out the reasons why I told you about my past."