Betrayed (2 page)

Clara stared hard at the young woman. There
was a horrible familiarity about her.

“You are mad. My c-c-cousin does not have a
wife and in any c-c-case, his name is Hamilton.”

“It is R-R-Reilly on the marriage license,”
the lady mocked. “And it is R-R-Reilly recorded in the book in the county
registrar’s office. Mr. and Mrs. Branson Reilly were married on the eleventh of
September in this very chapel seven years ago. My dress was not as fine as this
one.”

Grace ran her hands over the stitching.

“I don’t believe you.”

“You don’t believe me?” Her face lit with
rage. “You claim you are his cousin. Is that truly your relationship? Strange
cousins, I should say. Depravity seems to run in your family. You Hamiltons are
all alike. You deny what is true, and you deny and deny and deny until you’ve
convinced yourself of the lie.”

The young woman took a step nearer. Clara’s
tongue stuck in the back of her throat.

“Don’t you recognize me, C-C-Clara? I
recognize you. We’ve met before, though it some years ago.” She laughed
shrilly. “And I’ve not left Windemere Hall since! Branson had to marry me after
it happened. He swore he would not leave me in disgrace. I’m not to tell you
about it; he said he wants to do that himself.” The girl tilted her head to one
side and giggled hysterically. “He’ll be very angry if he finds out we’ve
spoken. You must promise you won’t tell him.”

Clara found her voice. “You’re insane. I
shall tell my cousin. I shall tell him I was accosted by an intruder on the
grounds. He’ll have you locked up.”

She turned and ran for the door. Grace
lunged, catching her by the arm and flung her back. The madwoman barred Clara’s
escape.

“Locked up—
me
? You have it wrong, my dear. You are the one with delusions. I
know all about Hargreaves and your very public breakdown and the months of
treatment at the sanatorium. If you tell my husband about this, it will be a
sorry mistake. It is not
me
Branson Reilly
will have locked up. It is
you
.”

“YOU ARE not making sense,” Clara cried. “Mr. Hamilton is
the master of Windemere Hall and I am his cousin. I know about his fiancée,
Grace Leeds. I know she died seven years ago. Somehow, you have become
confused, broke into the Hall and stolen my dress. You are not Grace Leeds. She
died seven years ago.”

The woman tilted her head back and at first
Clara thought she was laughing but the she saw it was a silent scream.

“Branson would never say such a thing! He
loves me! He adores me! I am his whole world. He has told me time and time
again. Even when I don’t do what he asks. Even when I hurt him. Sometimes I
have to hurt him. Sometimes he doesn’t understand what I’ve had to suffer for
his sake. It was his fault in the first place! It was his fault it happened. I
was there at
his
invitation; does he imagine
I’ll let him forget that? I told him. I warned him that monster would find me
and he did. He feels responsible and so he should. It would never have happened
if it were not for his insistence I come.”

“I don’t understand you and I am trying my
utmost. Brought you to what place?” Clara softened her tone. “You must begin at
the beginning and tell me the whole story.”

The madwoman’s eyes rolled in their
sockets. Her face was sunken, narrow and bruised under the eyes.

“You really don’t know me? Have I changed
that much? You would’ve been … hmm ... let me think … just a girl no more than
twelve-years-old.”

Startled, Clara suddenly knew her.

The voice, the vivacity that tilted toward
mania, the arresting beauty that quickly turned sinister when her mind broke....

“Windemere Hall is very fine,” she said
dreamily. “I was impressed by the carpet and the drapes and the fine porcelain
collection. Does your father still have that vase he prizes so much?”

“Yes. How do you know about my father’s
vase?”

“It was not your father’s vase. It belonged
to Windermere. Arthur stole it from the library. I saw him take it, bold as
brass he was. His brother not even cold in the coffin and he was picking the
place clean.”

“I—I—I have to go now.” She tried to turn
away.

Grace clutched her arm and pulled her back.
She was becoming agitated and increasingly violent in her speech. Her pretty
eyes were marred by an unbalanced mind. “Branson told me about you. Branson
tells me
everything
. He is revenging
himself for my sake. Don’t you see? Are you so stupid? My husband
does not
love you! It is
my
honour Branson is concerned with, not
yours. He made that perfectly clear when you arrived but you were too hot and
eager to take him to your bed. Who do you think you are? Once the truth gets
out, no man will have you. I know all about it. I know how their filthy minds
work.”

Grace’s speech degraded to an incoherent
babble. “They take you, they seduce you, and the repercussions are yours to
suffer. Now it has happened to you,” she hissed. “How does it feel, little miss
holier-than-thou
. Branson has taken
from you what was taken from me. No man will have you now. It is your fate to
be cast into the gutter, Miss Clara Hamilton. I would pity you but you deserve
it. You have it coming.”

Clara’s blood ran cold. Her eyes widened in
horror as she gazed the young woman standing before her. Grace Leeds, seventeen-years-old,
wearing a red silk dress—entirely inappropriate for a summer afternoon party
her mother had said, but Clara was enchanted. Branson Reilly, so handsome on
horseback, arriving from Oxford for the shooting party and to introduce the
girl he hoped to marry.

And then ... and then ... something
terrible happened....

The memory was returning, a memory too
horrible to allow to surface. There was something about the visit that was attached
to a dreadful image, the thing she saw floating in the lake. Clara wanted to
recover the vision and at the same time, her mind sought to suppress it until
she could no longer stand the strain. “Tell me,” she begged weakly, “I need to
know. Did something happen to you at the lake?”

“Ahhhh, no, no, no, no. You won’t catch me
that easily.” Grace shook her head and pressed a finger over her lips.

“Did I ... did I
hurt
you in some way...?”

The woman ran her hands over the white silk
and swivelled the skirt, admiring its sway. “You know what you did. You were
there. Do not try to lie to
me.
The
walls have ears. I heard the bargain you struck with my husband to save your
precious father. Perhaps you don’t care; your kind never does. All you care
about is keeping your position and your status; your social engagements and
round of invitations. No matter how many lives you destroy. You’ll do anything
to save yourself. Including spreading your legs for my husband, you little
whore.”

Clara pressed her hands over her ears. “Shut
up! Shut up! Shut up!”

A dark shadow marred Grace’s face; her
expression grew malevolent. The woman was beyond reason. In the sanatorium
Clara had seen unbalanced women possess strength that came from having no moral
conscience. When a mad woman struck a blow, she would not stop until the
offender was unconscious or dead. Clara backed toward the door.

Grace darted forward, quick as a cat. Her
hand shot out and clamped Clara’s throat in vice-like grip. She flailed, choking
and fighting for breath, and beat on the surprisingly strong arm that held her.
Grace squeezed tighter and tighter, strangling the life out of her, lifting
Clara until she was on tiptoes, hanging from the end of the madwoman’s arm.

Clara’s hand shot out and she raked her
fingernails over Grace’s face.

§

BRANSON DID not return to Windemere Hall until late
afternoon. His business in the village detained him for longer than he
expected. He had received a message from Mr. Schofield. A specific order of
business must be followed at the shareholders meeting, which was five days
away, to bring about the desired result.

His response was
lengthy and exact. After seven years, to be this close, Branson was anxious
that nothing should go wrong. And so he made a point of not thinking about her
today.

As
she made a point of not seeing him this morning.
Clara wasn’t in his bedchamber when he checked
after breakfast. Before leaving for the village, he instructed Piers to keep an
eye on her and see to her comfort and safety.
A pointless
waste of breath.
Piers had no interest in taking the compassionate
approach with Miss Hamilton. The man had his opinions about Branson’s tactics
and was becoming increasingly forceful in expressing them.

Branson appreciated
his concern, but it was misplaced. He knew better than to let his guard down,
and not just with Clara, but with everyone. The events of the past seven years
had taught him that revealing one’s inner thoughts and feelings only led to pain
and isolation. Branson had perfected the art of not being wholly himself with
others.

As for Arthur
Hamilton, Piers was wrong about that too. Rage would not bring Arthur down.
Calculated, cold-blooded revenge would do the task. Branson was not angry—he
was single minded. Once he had revenged Grace he would be free. He was certain
of it and it was this certainty that kept him going.

When this was over,
perhaps he could allow a portion of the loving trust he saw in Clara to sink
into his soul.

“Stop this, you fool,”
he grunted aloud.

It was dangerous
imagining a future for them. Piers had warned him about this very thing. They
were not at the finish line yet. There was still much to be done; this was the
most delicate phase of the enterprise. The smallest mistake—a weakening of
will, a slip of the tongue—could cause the whole thing to collapse and then he
would never be free because he would not get another chance.

It had to be now or he
would die. After carrying it for seven years, this burden of guilt had begun to
choke him. He would do anything to be free of it.

The long sweep of
Windemere Hall opened before him. On horseback, Branson paused to take in the
graceful stone façade as he had done every day since becoming master. But
today, its beauty did not satisfy. It was his and that had not satisfied. He would
destroy Arthur Hamilton and that would not satisfy. He took Clara Hamilton’s
virginity—

Ah.
There was the root of his problem, of his discontent on the thresh hold
of realizing his revenge. Making love to Clara had satisfied, but not in the
way he’d intended. For all of his careful planning, he made one mistake and
that was in underestimating Clara Hamilton. He did not anticipate how happy she
would make him.

Happiness.

Branson pondered the
word with disgust as he rode into the courtyard. He dismounted and handed
Gladiator’s reins to Quince. Wrenching off his gloves, he slapped them against
his thigh and strode to the Hall. Happiness was a foreign sensation. He could
not allow himself to grow accustomed to it because it was unlikely to ever come
again. After the first of October, this would all be over and whatever small
affection Clara felt for him would vanish like the morning mist.

Branson wished it
would be the same for him, but he already knew it would not. With Clara’s loss,
he felt certain he would be leaving one prison to enter another.

“THANK GOD! BRANSON, you’re here at last.”

Piers was pacing the grand hall when
Branson walked in.

“My business delayed me. Why are you still
here?” He tossed his hat and riding gloves to the bench and unfastened his
cloak. “You were meant to vacate the premises an hour ago. Where is Miss
Hamilton?”

“That’s just it. She hasn’t returned from
her walk. She left after breakfast to explore the park and has not returned. I
checked her room; there is no sign of her.”

Branson was alarmed but tried to hide it. “Which
direction was she walking in when you saw her last?”

“I glanced out of the window about half an
hour after breakfast and saw her walking toward the forest. I think she’s run
off, Bran. Her trunks are packed. Mark my words, she means to send for them
after high-tailing it to London to warn her father. I told you this would
happen!”

“Don’t be stupid. Nothing has happened. It
is more likely she strayed from the path and is circling the forest trying to
find her way home.” Branson refastened his cloak and tugged on his gloves. “I
have to catch Quince before he removes Gladiator’s tack. Piers, I want you to stay
in the event we need to organize a search party.”

“I’ll stay. You know I’ll stay. I want the
little bitch found almost as much as you do.”

Branson flicked his gaze at the man. How
like Grace he was in looks. Right down to the same cunning smile and flashing
eyes. He’d never noticed the similarities before. Piers Leeds was Grace’s
brother through and through. That summer day seven years ago had cost all three
of them so much, but only Branson was expected to pay the price.

He was a fool to think October first would
bring it to an end. It would never end.

Branson banged out of the hall into the
fading autumn light.

§

MADNESS IN her eyes, foam spittle on her lips, her teeth
bared, her face white with fury, Grace was going to kill her if she could not
get free. Sharp bursts of light pricked behind Clara’s eyes as she flailed and
fought her attacker. She thrust her thumbs in Grace’s eyes, gouging them
viciously with her nail.

Grace flung her back with a scream of pain
and Clara fell heavily to the floor. Her elbow hit the rough floor boards and
pain shot up her arm, and then she was struck on the back of the head. There
was the whisper of silk as the wedding dress fell to the floor.

And then there was nothing. Not even a
breath.

The room went black.

Clara heard the chapel door open, the
distant rise of the wind in the trees followed by the sound of the door closing.

She lay in perfect stillness on the floor, feigning
unconsciousness until she was sure it was safe to move. Then Clara scrambled to
her feet and ran as hard as she could from the chapel. She dashed across the
meadow to the forest path,
veered sharply right, sprinting fast in the direction that would take her
from Windemere Hall. The path was uneven and the way was not well-lit but Clara
was seized by terror that Branson would haul her back, spin her around and
force her to stare into the eyes of that broken soul until she remembered.

Until she remembered everything.

A root
caught her toe, flinging her headfirst to the ground, knocking the wind out of
her.

She lay
there a moment,
resting, to slow her breath and control
her rising panic. The day was fading fast under the canopy and she had no idea
how far it was to the main road. If she went a little further, Clara was certain
she’d come to the rough track she had walked when she arrived with Mr.
Schofield. There were no markers to indicate which direction the Hall lay. She
could easily get turned around if she was not careful.