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Authors: The Finer Things

BOOK: Brenda Joyce
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“What does that mean?” Blake asked.
“It means that you shall be struck by a bolt out of the blue and go out of your mind with wanting for a particular woman. You will know that this is the woman for you, the only
possible woman for you, and that you wish to spend the rest of your life with her—and that a mere thirty or forty years will not, cannot, be enough.”
Blake stared. “Does this amazing statement mean that you have been struck by a bolt out of the blue?”
Jon smiled wryly. “Am I at the altar?”
Blake stared, unable to penetrate his brother’s thoughts. “Love is for fools,” he finally said.
Jon stared. “I see. So you were a fool when you were in love with Gabriella? Our parents are fools?”
Blake was grim, silent. Finally he said, as he mounted, “Look, you do know me better than anyone. And the whole world knows I offered Gabriella that thirteen-carat marquis. Yes, she crushed me. I loved her in the manner you have described, a manner in which you know that spending an eternity with a particular woman is not enough. And it was far worse because I know she loved me back, and it was fear which made her refuse me, fear of the future because of the difference in our ages. I have behaved the way any man would, given the circumstances. But do you know? To this day, a part of me still loves her. Will always love and admire her.”
Jon rode his mount alongside Blake’s. “I am sorry about what happened, Blake. I just hope that you change your mind. I recall a time when you wanted nothing more than a wife and children. It is terribly sad that because of a disappointment eight years ago, as vast as it was, you must give up all your hopes and dreams.”
“That is life,” Blake said. “It is not rosy, and it is not fair.” Surprisingly, it was Violette’s image that came to mind, chasing away Gabriella’s.
“How cynical you have become. Life is also full of surprises.” Jon smiled slyly. “Surprises like Violette Goodwin.”
Blake spurred his mount forward. It was beginning to seem as if Jon was trying to seriously steer him toward Violette with honorable intentions. But that made little sense. Blake knew his brother and Jon was very conservative. “Violette Goodwin is full of surprises,” he said reluctantly. “She appears fragile, but she is quite tough to have survived as well as she has.” Tough and courageous, he couldn’t help thinking.
Jon laughed, his blue eyes twinkling. “C’mon. Mother will tan both of our hides as if we are nine or ten years old if we are late for supper. She has guests.”
They galloped across the heath, their steeds sending clumps
of dirt and gorse flying, enjoying the exhilaration of the fast-paced ride. Two grooms met them in front of the house, taking their mounts as the brothers dismounted. The front door of the hall flew open and Catherine came down the steps. “Have you two enjoyed your afternoon?” She smiled at them both. “Who won?”
“I did,” Jon said, putting his arm around her waist briefly and kissing her cheek. “Blake was—is—distracted. How can I not enjoy this day?” He smiled at her. “It is even better now.”
Catherine smiled back at him and turned to Blake. “What is wrong?”
“Jon exaggerates.” He, too, kissed her cheek.
“We have been discussing Lady Goodwin,” Jon said, his tone mild.
Catherine looked from Jon to Blake. “Nothing ill, I hope?”
“Why would we be speaking ill of the widowed bride?” Jon asked. “To the contrary.”
Catherine’s expression was one of worry. She clasped her hands, wringing them.
“What is it?” Jon asked, studying her.
She hesitated. “I was in the village today. I have heard the most ghastly rumor. It is so ghastly I am loath to even repeat it.”
Jon’s gaze was riveted upon Catherine. “Now you must tell us,” he said.
“It is a rumor that must be stopped, Jon, and either you or your father should do something about it.” She gripped his arm. “It is about Lady Violette.”
Blake had started to walk past them into the house. He had to turn. “What is the rumor?”
Catherine regarded him soberly. She finally blurted, “Lady Feldstone says Sir Thomas did not die a natural death!”
“That is ridiculous,” Jon said flatly as Blake stared. “He was seventy years old and unwell.”
“But his health was satisfactory—she says.” Catherine began tugging at her sash. Her gaze went from one brother to the other.
Jon took her hand in his. “Catherine, dear, I have never seen you so distraught. There is more, isn’t there?” He was gentle.
“Yes, but it is despicable.” She glanced again at Blake.
“I am involved?” he asked slowly. “In this rumor?”
She shook her head, wet her lips. “They are saying that Sir Thomas was murdered.”
“Murdered!” Jon exclaimed.
“By Lady Goodwin … and her manservant, that fellow Horn.”
“MY
lord,” the Harding butler intoned. “A solicitor is here to see you. He says it is quite urgent, begging your pardon, my lord.”
The earl was taking breakfast with his sons; it was not yet nine in the morning and the trio had returned from an early morning ride. A fog was just lifting from the countryside. Blake and Jon exchanged glances as the earl accepted the caller’s card. “A Messr. Cardiff.” He regarded his sons. “That is the name of the solicitor who handled Sir Thomas’s will.” He nodded to the butler. “Show him in, Neddingham.”
Neddingham left. Blake pushed his breakfast plate away, instantly uneasy. “Sir Thomas has been dead but four days. I have a distinctly poor feeling about this.” Violette Goodwin’s image filled his mind. He had not seen her since he had rejected her so thoroughly the day after the funeral. Every time he thought about their last encounter, he grew grim. But not as grim as he became whenever he thought of Lady Joanna’s malicious slander. She had been spreading rumors, as Catherine had said. It was absurd. Blake knew that Violette Goodwin was no murderess.
But just last night he had heard two maids in the hall outside of his door, whispering about Lady Goodwin murdering her husband—poor, poor Sir Thomas.
Cardiff entered the breakfast room, smiling. He was extremely tall and thin, his dark suit hanging loosely on him. The earl stood and they shook hands. “I am so glad to make your acquaintance, my lord, and so sorry for disturbing you at this early hour, but my business cannot wait.”
“I imagine not.” The earl introduced his sons and invited Cardiff to sit. Somewhat reluctantly, the solicitor did so. He refused to take anything more than a cup of tea.
“What brings you to Harding Hall?” Blake asked, watching
their guest spoon sugar into the Wedgwood porcelain cup.
“Word of Sir Thomas’s death has already reached certain parties in London, parties whom, I am afraid, I was not previously aware of. In any case, I understand that you, my lord,” he addressed the earl, “are currently in possession of Sir Thomas’s will. Lady Goodwin told me so herself.”
“You have been at Goodwin Manor?” Blake asked, aware that Jon was eyeing him. He had been unable not to wonder how she was—and why she had yet to call on him for aid in selling her house.
Cardiff nodded.
“I do have the will, but surely it can wait until after we finish our breakfast?” the earl said.
“Of course,” Cardiff responded, but he appeared perturbed. He continued to stir his tea.
“Do you mind my asking what has happened?” Blake inquired. “There is usually quite some time involved in the matter of settling estates. And this one is quite small and simple, there should hardly be a rush.”
“It is not as simple as you think.” Cardiff hesitated. “Well, you shall all find out soon enough.” He sighed. “Sir Thomas was heavily in debt. To the tune of thousands of pounds. His creditors in London have learned of his demise and are eager to possess his estate.”
Blake froze.
Jon leaned forward. “Surely you do not speak literally, sir?”
“I do speak literally. His debt was unsecured. He has already been named a bankrupt. When I left Goodwin Manor, a bailiff was on his way to secure the property and all possessions. The entire estate shall be liquidated to pay off Sir Thomas’s creditors. They are hoping for an October auction of the house’s furnishings, in order to proceed with the sale of the house itself immediately after that.”
Blake was on his feet. “And Lady Goodwin? Has she learned of this?”
“I am afraid so. After all, she is the one who has the most to lose.”
Something twisted inside of Blake, hard. Knifelike. “And how did she take the news?” He could imagine her reaction.
“I am not sure. She stared at me and did not say a single word.”
Blake did not hesitate. “I am going to Goodwin Manor,” he announced.
Jon rose as Blake started from the room. “I am coming with you.”
The earl and the solicitor stared after the two brothers.
 
Lady Joanna was in the front foyer conversing angrily with her husband when Blake entered the house with Jon. Recovering from his surprise at finding her in Violette Goodwin’s home, he bowed. “Good morning, Lady Feldstone,” he said stiffly. “Baron.”
She curtsied and the baron nodded. “Good morning, my lords.” Then her baleful gaze lifted. “This has to be a mistake.”
“Your have heard?” Blake asked.
“Yes. My own solicitor contacted me late yesterday. The accounts my father left to me and George are also frozen. Apparently they, too, will be liquidated to pay off my father’s creditors.” Tears filled Joanna’s eyes.
Blake did not feel sorry for her; the baron was well off. “Where is Lady Goodwin?” Jon asked.
“I imagine that she is upstairs with a case of the vapors,” Joanna said. “She must be frantic at having married. my father all for nothing.”
Neither brother replied to that inciteful comment.
“I knocked, but no one answered, not even that wretched manservant.” Joanna folded her arms across her big bosom.
Blake nodded, but did not move. “Lady Feldstone, are you aware that it is against the common law of this land—and common decency—to spread slander?”
Joanna jerked. “I beg your pardon?”
“Blake?” The baron was flushed. His easy expression had vanished.
“Unless, of course, you wish to bring formal charges of murder?” Blake queried.
Joanna blanched.
The baron looked from Blake and Jon to his trembling, pink-clad wife. “Good God! What are you talking about?”
Blake faced Feldstone. “Your wife has been speaking her mind quite freely in the village. She claims that her father was murdered by his second wife—by Lady Goodwin.”
The baron’s mouth dropped open. “You don’t say!” He regarded his wife. “Madam? Surely young Blake has misheard!”
Joanna tilted her double chin, the bottom one hanging. “My father was not at death’s door. I have every reason to believe
that he was murdered by that …”—she swallowed, seeing Blake’s expression—“ … by that woman!”
Blake crossed his arms and stared.
Jon stepped forward. “What reason, Lady Feldstone? What reason could she have? I myself saw her grief over your father’s death. And he was an elderly man.”
“What reason?” Joanna cried. “She is a fortune hunter and that has been obvious from the start. She enticed my father into marriage, and we all know how! She married him for his money. I am surprised the marriage lasted six months—that she did not do away with him five months ago. I imagine she is distraught to learn that she only got the house and not his bank accounts,” Joanna said vehemently.
“Many women are fortune hunters,” Blake said coolly. “But that does not equate to murder, Lady Feldstone.”
“You defend her!” Joanna cried. “I have no doubt that she murdered him with the help of that insolent manservant—her lover!”
The baron gasped.
Blake was silent, but only for a moment. As Jon gripped his arm warningly, he faced Joanna squarely. His pulse raced. “I am an excellent judge of character. Violette Goodwin is no killer. I suggest you refrain from spreading any further malicious slander. And that includes attacks upon the lady’s character and morals.”
She said, hoarsely, “I saw them together.”
Blake jerked. “Indeed?” His tone remained cool, but his wits escaped him.
“Lady Feldstone,” Jon said smoothly, “whatever you saw, you misinterpreted.” His voice was a command.
Blake wanted to agree. Whatever Joanna had seen, she was undoubtedly exaggerating—or was she? He had been suspicious of the relationship from the very start.
“Well, we do not need a scandal,” the baron said. He gave his wife a warning look while mopping his brow with a handkerchief. “No need for a ruckus, I say. My wife absolutely misunderstood whatever it was she saw. And no need for you to bother yourself anymore with a mere rumor, my lords.” He smiled. “I am sure it will die down and be forgotten in no time.” He glared at his wife.
Blake remained icy while Jon bowed. “A good show, my lord,” he said. “Now, shall we find the widow?”
Before Blake could start for the stairs, Jon grabbed his arm.
“Blake,” he warned in a low voice, “this is Lady Goodwin’s home.”
Impatience filled him. But Blake leaned on the banister, gazing up the stairs. “Lady Goodwin?” he called loudly. “Please, it is I, Blake, and my brother. Do come down.”
There was no answer.
“To hell with decorum,” Blake said, and before Jon could halt him he bounded up the stairs, taking them two at a time He strode down the hall, aware that both his brother, Joanna, and the baron were following him. As he already knew where Violette’s room was, he proceeded directly to it. It crossed his mind as he heard Joanna’s affronted gasp that she was remarking just how familiar he was with the upstairs terrain. To hell with her, he thought savagely. She had caused enough trouble as it was.
Her door was ajar. Blake’s unease grew. He rapped on the jamb. “Lady Goodwin?” But he already knew she was not home. There was no response.
Blake thrust the door open and stared.
Jon, Joanna, and the baron crowded behind him, peering past him into the deserted bedroom.
And it was far more than deserted. Blake’s pulse pounded with unusual force. The bed had been stripped down to the frame and mattress and nothing else. The blankets and coverlet were gone. The wardrobe door hung open, and the wardrobe itself was scathingly empty. Not a single toiletry remained on the small sideboard, not even the lace doily he had noticed the other day. And the worn, threadbare rug was also gone.
All that was left in the room was the stripped bed and the tired old furniture.
“She is gone!” Joanna gasped. “Good Lord, that hussy has left—taking everything of value with her that she could!”
Blake’s heart was dropping rapidly through his body with the force of a boulder-sized rock. Sickness welled inside of him. Jon laid his hand on Blake’s arm. Blake could not look at his brother. He could only stare at the abandoned room.
She had run away.
“I wonder what else she has stolen,” Joanna cried, turning and rushing down the hall and into her father’s room with the red-faced baron on her heels. “I shall inventory this house,” she shouted over her shoulder.
“Blake?” Jon asked, low.
Blake finally faced him, his heart hammering, his jaw flexed.
“I am not sure what to think,” he returned in as low a tone.
“This does not look good,” Jon said. “I know you like the lady in question, but it is quite evident that she has run away.”
Blake did not respond.
Joanna reappeared. “She has not taken a single thing from my father’s room that I can see.” Her fists found her broad hips. “Did I not tell you, Lord Blake?”
He was more than ill. “I beg your pardon, Lady Feldstone.” He wanted to get away, to go outside; he needed to think.
“She is nothing more than a fortune hunter, and the moment she learned of my father’s debt, she absconded with what she could.”
Blake could not reply.
“Lady Feldstone,” Jon said calmly, but authority laced his tone, “it is apparent that Lady Goodwin only took her own personal possessions—her clothing and toiletries.”
“She took the blankets! She took the rug!”
Blake had the oddest urge to weep. “She doesn’t like the cold,” he said.
“What?” Jon started.
Blake shook his head, unable to speak. It was bad enough that she had been left with nothing, but it was far worse that she had run away. Far worse.
It was, possibly, damning.
“She is a thief,” Joanna said flatly. “A thief from the streets. And worse. Oh, yes. For why do you think she has run away now, upon learning that there is no estate for her to inherit, with such haste? Why flee like this? Like she is some common criminal?” Lady Joanna was triumphant.
Blake looked at her, feeling rather dazed. And rudely so.
“Because she is a common criminal. Because she is a murderess.
Because she killed my father.
That is why she has run away like this.”
Blake shoved past Joanna, whom he detested more than he had ever detested anyone before.
And he was thinking the exact same thing.

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