Beauty Tempts the Beast (28 page)

“I cannot.”

She struggled within herself, her face flushing, nostrils flaring. But in the end, she grabbed his hands and gripped them tightly with her fingers. “Regardless of whether you believe it or not, that is what happened. I have told you a secret I have carried, now it is your turn.”

His stomach burned, twisted. She was like a bloody hound on a bone, damn her. Damn women. Why could they not leave well enough alone?

But he’d promised. “I…I don’t recall everything. The night was a blur.”

She pulled him down to the bench at the end of his bed. “Tell me what you do recall. What happened that night? Who was there?”

He clenched his teeth, he still didn’t want to tell her. But she was insisting. Demanding, even. Hell, she’d never given up on him the whole time she’d been at the manor. If he couldn’t trust her with this story, how could he ever have any type of a marriage with her?

“I was in the room with a woman named Mary.”

“Mary.”

He nodded, but would not look at her. Could not bear to see if she recognized the name as Harry’s mother. He could not see if the disappointment she held for him lingered in her gaze.

“I was to marry Catherine soon and I, well, I had not been with a woman before. I needed…I needed guidance.”

“Go on.”

“A friend of mine had told me about a…a woman he often visited. I went to see her.”

“This was Mary.”

“Yes. We shared the night together. Everything was fine and then later, afterward, I got dressed and went out back to relieve myself.”

Vivian leaned in toward him, her warmth comforting. “What happened while you were gone?”

Ashworth gulped the hot grief of tears in his throat. “When I came back in there was a man beating her. He was the same friend, the one who told me about her. He was screaming she had betrayed him.”

“Did he kill her?”

He shuddered, swallowed again. “No, although when I wrestled him away from her I thought she was dead. But after the man left, she stirred. I ran over to help her as best I could.”

“So you might have saved her life.”

If only. He broke from Vivian’s grasp and strode to the fireplace, where he paced. “She was bloodied but not as injured as she appeared. In fact, Mary was furious with me for not coming to her aid sooner. She claimed I was a coward, that I wasn’t good enough for her.”

He stopped, stared at the weak flames. “Before I realized what she was doing, she found a knife on the floor and started swinging it at me.”

“It wasn’t the intruder who slashed you? It was Mary?”

He nodded. For a long time he couldn’t even recall the actual moment when his face was cut. Little by little the nightmares brought back the truth. But it was the rest of the story he never could remember.

“I fell backward from the pain. I heard crying, I thought it was her until I saw a bundle move inside a box.”

“Harry?”

“Yes. But as I reached for him…” Ashworth’s breath shuddered, as he remembered reaching for the torn blankets. He was so close, just a bit more of a stretch and…

“But then Mary hit me on the head with something and knocked me into oblivion.”

“Oh goodness.” Her voice was closer now, almost within arm’s reach.

“When I awoke later, I was still on the floor.” He gulped, winced. His gut burned and cramped. “On top of my outstretched hands was the bloody knife Mary had used to attack me.”

She gasped.

“I looked on the bed…” Ashworth squeezed his eyes closed but the image was entrenched in his brain, forever frozen into nightmares and gruesome visions. “Mary was on the bed, stabbed repeatedly, her dead eyes staring at the ceiling.”

“Oh, my lord.” Her voice broke, tearing at his soul.

“Harry’s mother was dead. And I do believe I killed her.”

It wasn’t true.

Charles did not kill Harry’s mother. She knew it, sensed it in her bones, breathed it in her lungs. This man was not a murderer. He’d saved her that long ago day.

But the look on his face was pure agony. Guilt, horror, wretchedness. “If it were not for my dear friend John, I don’t know how I would have made it through each day.”

He stripped off his dinner coat, undid several of the buttons on his shirt. Sweat glistened on his face.

But he would not look her in the eyes.

“Each time I feel passion for you, your beautiful face turns into the ghastly image of Mary’s.” He stopped, swallowed. “All I see is blood, death.”

Vivian took a step closer, the low fire warming her feet. “But it did not happen in the cellar. Did it happen the first time, over by the tapestry?”

Charles leaned against the mantel, hung his head. “I refused to look at you directly, afraid I’d see it. I don’t know the answer, but I am guessing it did not happen.”

“So if it did not happen downstairs, but did otherwise, then maybe there is some other cause.”

“Nay. It must have something to do with my desire for you. I am being punished for what Mary and I did. And for her death.”

Vivian began pacing the room. She didn’t believe it. There was something else. “Maybe the bedrooms? No, then you would have seen it that first night.”

“Stop, Vivian. There is no point to it. I am doomed to live this way. The scar, the nightmares, the visions—they are all my penance for my sins.”

“Your sins!” She wrapped an arm about a bed post. “I don’t see how…wait, it’s the bed. Each time you have had those visions, we are either on the bed or touching it.”

“The bed? What would that do with anything?”

“Didn’t you awake to find Mary on the bed covered in blood?”

He leveled his silver eyes at her. “Yes, but, what does that do with my horrible visions?”

“Your mind connects any bed with death. Perhaps now that you’ve spoken of your secret, the connection will be gone.”

Hair fell across his eyes. “I am cursed, Vivian. Cursed.”

Wind and rain whipped at the window, thunder rolled in the distance. “You are not cursed. You are not guilty of murder.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I know you.”

He crossed his arms, turned away.

“I also met you once, long ago, and forever more you were my hero.”

He glanced back at her. “Met me? When?”

“It was a garden party at the Duke of Whilhemshire. I was but a girl then, perhaps twelve. I longed to see the exquisite gardens and the Duke himself offered to show them to me.”

He gasped. “That was you?”

Vivian nodded. “I barely noticed his brief touches, and his constant compliments were music to my ears. At the time, I didn’t understand why you tore yourself away from your beautiful betrothed and demanded the Duke leave my side.”

“He was a lecher of the worst kind.” Charles hung his head. “I’d heard the rumors and when I saw him with a young girl—you—I noticed the way his gaze roamed over you and his hands touched you inappropriately.”

“You risked your reputation for me that day. I was but a stranger to you and yet you had yourself expelled from the party just so that I would not be harmed.”

“A distant niece of his was found raped and dead months later.”

“I know. Don’t you see, Lord Ashworth, you saved a stranger from potential tragedy. That is not a man who could kill another.”

He turned away again.

“A man who would murder would not reach for a crying baby. He would not then take that baby back to care for.” Vivian let go of the bedpost and walked toward him slowly. “A man who would murder would not live his days in torment over the possibility of it. He would not resist falling in love and being vulnerable to keep others away.”

She stopped before him. “You are no murderer, Lord Ashworth. Someone else did it and left you to take the blame.”

His gaze held her, eyes shining. She could see he wanted to believe her, wanted so desperately to be rid of this horrible burden. “But who? Who would do this?”

“Could it be the first man? Perhaps he came back to finish the job?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. But I truly believed he thought she was dead already when he ran off.”

“What was this man’s name?” Thunder boomed overhead, wind gusted at the glass.

“Martin Crawford.”

Oh Lord.

This is what had come between them. And it was that loathing which brought her here, a place he would never think to look for her.

It made sense that Martin would beat Mary like that. Even enough to kill her. But would he have gone back to check that the deed was done? Or would someone else have slipped in there?

Charles sank down into a chair. His hair scattered about his face, wild and unruly. He looked like a little boy, alone and lost and frightened. Not at all like the monster he claimed he was.

“You cannot find an answer.” His tone was almost accusatory, as if he thought she could not solve his long-suffering problem. “I held the knife.”

“That doesn’t mean—”

“When I drink a concoction Pinkley brings me at night to relieve me of my nightmares, I do not remember anything.” He stopped, glanced away. “It is possible my memory of that night in London is gone too. I may have killed her.”

“But why?”

He lifted a shoulder, stared into the fireplace. “For retribution for what she did to my face? I don’t know. But she was dead when I fully awoke.”

“I will not believe it.”

“Then who, Vivian?” He gripped the arms of the chair, his voice rising to an unfortunate anger. “You tell me who else may have done this and I will feel absolved of my demons.”

Her mind scrambled, searching for any clues. But all she knew was that someone in this manor tried to kill her. Could it be the same person? Was it possible that the two circumstances were related?

Wait. If the two were related—Mary’s killing and her own death threats—then there must be a commonality among them. Someone, other than Charles himself, who was in both locations.

“How long have you known John? You said since your college days, yes?”

“Yes, why?”

“Because he could be the culprit. He knew you during this episode with Mary and he is here in this house.”

His eyes widened, cheeks flushed. “You think he killed her? You think he is trying to kill you?”

“He could have come through the secret passageways to spy on me, or frighten me.”

“You know about those?”

She nodded. “It makes sense, don’t you see?”

“It most certainly does not! John has been my friend for nearly fifteen years. Why would he do something like this?”

“You would have to ask him that question.”

“No, I won’t, because it isn’t true. Why would I trust my son to a man who could murder? Why would he allow me to suffer like this over Mary’s death?”

Disappointment tensed Vivian’s muscles. He would not even consider the possibility, not look past the comfort he knew to recognize a new belief. He’d rather believe such a terrible thing of himself than to give thought to anything else.

She lifted her chin. “You do not believe that John could have a hand in any of this?”

“No.”

“Do you believe that my life has been threatened?”

“I—I don’t know why you would lie about it, but…”

Her shoulders slumped. “But you see no reason to trust me.”

“I’m sorry, Vivian. There was no trouble here before you arrived, no death threats, no horrible visions when I looked at someone beautiful. Only the nightmares, which I cured with laudanum.”

“That may be true, but there was also no life. That garden was no more lifeless than any of you. How can you see what you are missing if you do not let another in? How can you appreciate the rain if that is all you know?”

Her chest tightened, throat stung. “I resurrected that garden, brought beauty back into this house. But all of you, save for Harry, want it returned to dullness. If your vision is as bleak as the weather here, then I am not meant to remain.”

He stared at her, lips pressed tight, scar glowing deep.

Since he did not reply, she continued, making up her mind as she did so. “I was willing to live here, willing to chance those threats against my life if I knew I had you to protect me. But you cannot protect what you do not think is in danger. Without your trust, there is no marriage.”

“So you are leaving Silverstone?” His voice was empty, devoid of any emotion which would tell her his true feelings.

“Yes, I’ll go at daybreak.” She turned, walked toward the adjoining door. With each step, her heart prayed he would stop her. But each stride brought nothing but the sting of tears to her eyes. And when she finally reached her room and shut the door, there was nothing but silence. The wind, the rain, even the thunder had ceased.

The next morning, despite having only a few brief hours of sleep, Vivian packed the clothing and items she brought. She longed to say good-bye to Harry, to tell him that her going was none of his fault.

But she feared he might convince her to stay. As much as she cared for him, she could not live here without his father’s love.

Pinkley and the groomsman came to her room to carry down her trunk and other small bags. Mrs.

Plimpton handed her a basket of warm scones and other pastries. As she followed the men through the hallways and down the staircase, no one said a word.

Servants she had never before seen lined the walls, watching her go past as if she were the queen herself. Only John, who stood at the bottom of the stairs, smiled at her.

“Safe travels, Miss Suttley.”

She nodded, looking for an evil gleam in his eyes but saw no emotion whatsoever.

Vivian reached the main foyer. She turned at the door to the numerous faces behind her. They did not speak, just watched her out of curiosity, as if they may never again have a woman among their midst.

She wanted to say something, but nothing came to mind. None of them had become her friend, sought her out or made her stay more welcome. Too loyal to their master or too entrenched in habits of poor etiquette, they had left her to find her way much of the time. And now she would find her way somewhere else.

Charles had not come to see her go. As was his way, he avoided anything too painful.

She nodded at Pinkley and he opened the door for her. Vivian stepped out into the misty early morning, a chill seeping into her lungs.