In Pursuit of a Scandalous Lady (23 page)

R
ebecca didn't know what she'd expected in the way of a prison. It certainly wasn't a scholarly library, complete with leather chairs, several writing desks, and wall after wall of books.

She was grateful to be alone after spending much of the day in a coach with a man who watched her as if he were only waiting for the signal to begin the feast.

What had Windebank promised him? she wondered with a shudder. To distract herself, she walked to the windows that overlooked a spacious park. It was a tranquil scene, with rolling fields of hedgerows and, off in the distance, plowed farmlands ready for the seed.

And yet it was her prison. She'd been dragged through empty halls and deposited here, with the door locked behind her. Her screams for help had been ignored. The windows wouldn't open—she'd already checked—so all she could do was wait, listen to her stomach growl, and try not to panic.

That was easier said than accomplished. This was
like a nightmare to her, helpless and dependent once again after so many years of feeling that way. She thought she'd triumphed over such emotions, but now Windebank had so easily resurrected the fear. The walls might be sumptuous, but they were closing in on her. She stared at the poker in the stand beside the fireplace and thought that if she were desperate enough, she would use it as a weapon.

At last she heard the lock click. She faced the door, head held high. An older man entered alone and shut the door behind him. He was a lean man, with dark hair graying at his temples, hollowed cheeks in front of muttonchop sideburns, and bright, intelligent eyes.

“You must be Miss Leland,” he said calmly, as if she'd come for tea with his wife.

“And you must be Mr. Windebank.”

His mouth lifted in half a smile. “My nephew spoke of me, I see.”

There was no point in pretending that she didn't know why she was here. “It's hard not to speak of you, when you've killed people.” She couldn't believe such words had come out of her mouth. But cowardly sniveling would not impress such a man. All she could hope to do was keep him interested in conversing with her and pray for Julian's swift—and safe—arrival.

The lines in his forehead deepened. “To the point, I see. A brave girl. Perhaps foolish.”

She shrugged. “After what you've already done, I
know there's no point begging you to release me. You're using me to lure Julian. He won't be foolish enough to come alone.”

“Of course he will, my dear. He knows what's at stake.”

“My life?” She laughed. “I am a nuisance to him, sir. I forced him to bring me along. He's probably relieved he doesn't have to take care of me.”

Windebank's smile was only faintly amused. “We both know that Parkhurst is a man who takes his responsibilities very seriously. He will not rest until you're safe. He'll do whatever is necessary,” he added, his voice deepening.

She wanted to shiver again, but she held herself still.

“Although by the look of the clothing you're wearing,” he sniffed distastefully, “he has not done his usual masterful job.”

“Believe what you will. If you're so certain of success, then tell me the truth. Was this all worth it?” she asked, spreading her arms wide. “Chasing us, murdering people, all for a piece of jewelry?”

“You minimize its value, Miss Leland.”

“Then tell me of it, sir. You've had it for much of these past ten years, I believe?”

He didn't answer, but the lines at his eyes deepened with amusement.

“You didn't sell it,” she continued, “so for you, its
value was not in money. Ownership, then? Your wife couldn't wear it in public. Did you want it simply because your brother-in-law had it?”

“A foolish reason, Miss Leland.”

She cocked her head, then casually sat down in a wingback chair. “Your wife had it, I believe, before she gave it away.”

“It was stolen,” he said, frost in his voice.

It was her turn to smile in what she hoped was a pitying manner. And when he stiffened, she thought she might have scored a point against him.

“Stolen? That's not what I hear, sir, and you heard it, too, directly from Roger Eastfield's mouth.”

“He was lying.”

“Or perhaps your wife was lying.”

He took a step toward her, eyes blazing, then stopped. “She would never give the Scandalous Lady away. She prized it too much.”

“So you stole it for her all those years ago.”

“The earl didn't need it,” Windebank said dismissively. “He wasn't going to sell it, although he damn well needed the money. Florence needed it more.”

“She couldn't wear it,” Rebecca protested.

“But she did, every single day. No one else had to see it as long as she knew it was there.”

Rebecca felt a growing uneasiness. “That does not seem like normal behavior.”

“It was normal—for her. The jewel calmed her. Once
I realized it had come to light again, I needed it back.
She
needed it back.”

He was looking toward the window now, not at her, as if he were seeing something else.

“Why?” she asked softly.

At first, she didn't think he would answer. He wore a pensive, sad expression, and when at last he began to speak, it was as if the words simply tumbled out of him, unstoppable.

“It was damnedest thing how that diamond calmed her,” he said. He sank down in a chair as if his bones were suddenly too heavy to hold up. “As long as she could touch it beneath the bodice of her gown, she seemed to be able to control herself.” He grimaced. “My wife's mental state has not been healthy in a very long time.”

Rebecca said nothing, only leaned forward with true interest.

“For many years she was capable of seeming quite normal. When we first married, I only noticed the occasional irrationality, and I put it down to the moods of the female mind.”

Rebecca gritted her teeth to keep from telling him what she thought of that ridiculous idea.

“Gradually she began to tell me about the voices.” His mouth twisted. “We had two children by then, and I believe her confession was a way to make certain I
protected them from her. Because she wasn't herself when the voices told her what to do.”

He didn't elaborate, and suddenly she didn't want all the details. Their sad life did not give him license to take the lives of others. But she did feel sorry for their children.

“From the moment the maharajah gave the diamond to Parkhurst, she was fixated on it. Finally I had to take it for her. It gave her a measure of peace that we all desperately needed.”

“And it took away the peace of another family.”

“Through events over which I had no control,” he said tightly, not elaborating.

She must have made a sound of disgust, for suddenly he was standing over her, eyes blazing, and it took everything in her not to shrink back. Why hadn't she grabbed the poker when she had the chance?

“She threatened to kill herself if she didn't have it!” Windebank said. “Why keep the damned thing locked away, when it could give my family peace? If only Parkhurst hadn't—” He broke off, mastering his voice as he slowly straightened. “But that is the past.”

Did he mean the old earl's death? Or was he referring to Julian?

“And what of the future?” she asked softly.

He regarded her with calm eyes. “I must protect my family, of course. My children need their mother.”

“Their mother who might hurt them?” she asked with sarcasm.

“She'll soon have the diamond back, and things will be better.” He sounded as if he were trying to convince himself of that. “But we can't safely hide it with the two of you aware of it.”

She remained silent, although the need to shout, “What will you do to us?” fairly burst from her throat.

“It will look like an accident, of course,” he continued, answering her silent question.

“Like the old earl's death?”

His eyes widened thoughtfully. “I imagine you heard that from Julian. His father always was a coward. No, my plan for the two of you is necessary. You disappeared from London quite suddenly, the both of you. It will be easy to make everyone see that you left together. Because of course, there are innocent witnesses who will swear to it.”

She thought of the groom from the Madingley stables who'd driven with her to the train station. He'd noticed Julian following her. And there were countless train passengers, especially the Seymour family, who'd seen them together. Windebank was building an intricate lie using the truth as his foundation.

“You stopped here on your way north,” he continued, watching her closely now. “You could hardly keep your excitement at bay. The two of you were off to Gretna Green for a romantic elopement.”

He paused as if he expected her to say something, but she didn't, because the story worked so very well.

“Then a tragedy occurred,” he said.

He didn't meet her eyes.

“Your rented carriage caught fire just as you were leaving the stables. We thought perhaps it was a faulty lantern, but we'll never know the truth. The two of you were terribly burned and couldn't be saved.”

She let disgust and fury lance her gaze. “That will never work. Julian knows what you're capable of.”

“Julian doesn't know how many men I have on the grounds waiting for him.” He rose to his feet and calmly adjusted his waistcoat. “I'll let you know when he arrives.”

And then he left her to her mounting fears.

 

Several hours passed, judging by the clock on the mantel and the setting sun. No one brought Rebecca food or water, and she knew Windebank didn't think it necessary to feed a person he meant to kill. She looked out the window, wringing her hands as darkness descended. Was Julian out there even now?

For the tenth time, she tried to open the window, but it had been nailed shut from the outside. Should she break one of the panes to escape, risk injuring herself? Then how would she be of any help to Julian?

Suddenly, she saw a flash of light out in the darkness, then heard a faint popping sound. Gunfire? She
covered her mouth in horror. Would they truly fire at Julian, when Windebank wanted him alive to recover the jewel?

Once again she heard the door open behind her. She whirled, intending to tell Windebank what she thought about the stupid thieves he'd hired, but she came up short in surprise. A woman closed the door and leaned against it, taking her measure. Rebecca did the same. She was perhaps a decade or so older than Rebecca, with fine lines webbing out from her eyes and bracketing her mouth. Her blond hair was fashionably swept up, and her gown stylish enough to mark her as the mistress of the house.

The unstable mistress of the house. Did her husband know she was fraternizing with the prisoner?

“You must be Lady Florence Windebank,” Rebecca said in a friendly manner.

“Do you have my necklace?”

No subtlety there. “I don't.”

“But you wore it. I can tell.”

Both her eyes and her voice were sly. Then she looked off to the side, head cocked, as if she were listening to someone else. Windebank had mentioned voices. What a sad way to live.

“I borrowed the necklace briefly, but now it's back with its rightful owner.”

“It's called the Scandalous Lady. It's mine.”

Should she simply go along with whatever the woman said?

Then Rebecca thought she could hear gunfire again in the distance, and she shuddered. No, this was her only opportunity to help Julian by creating a distraction.

“Do you remember Roger Eastfield?” Rebecca asked.

“He painted my picture.” She spun about gracefully. “He said I looked lovely on canvas.”

“I am sure you did, but I am his most recent model. I wore the Scandalous Lady in his painting.”

Lady Florence's eyes narrowed the more Rebecca spoke.

“He said he never had a more beautiful model than me,” Rebecca continued, smiling.

“That's not true,” Lady Florence insisted. “Tell her it's not true.”

The last was said as an aside to whomever she thought was listening. Rebecca felt a twinge of guilt for using the poor woman's illness—but Windebank was having his men shoot at Julian.

“Of course it's true,” Rebecca continued, stalking toward the woman. “I am younger, prettier. The jewel hung between my breasts—Roger particularly liked that.”

“Stop it!” Lady Florence screeched, hands fisted at her sides, body stiff.

“Lord Parkhurst is giving it to me, you know.”

“You'll never have it!”

“Why? You didn't want it—you gave it away.”

Letting loose a scream, Lady Florence rushed her, hands extended like claws. Rebecca put the sofa between them, then raced toward the door. It didn't open—obviously someone was in the hall, and had locked it behind the woman.

Even better, Rebecca realized. She let Lady Florence come at her, and the two of them slammed hard into the door. Rebecca belted out a good long scream, dodging the woman's gouging fingers, grappling with her wrists. She tried not to hurt Lady Florence, but the woman wouldn't be restrained.

Someone pounded on the door at her back and yelled, but she couldn't make out the words over Lady Florence's screeching. Rebecca flung herself sideways, dragging her opponent, and the door burst open.

“Stop this!” said a man's voice.

But it wasn't Windebank. It was the thief from the carriage. Rebecca bellowed again, and he scooped her off the floor, arm about her waist, holding her back against his front. But this only left her vulnerable to Lady Florence's attack. The woman came at her again, and Rebecca was forced to kick out.

Where was Windebank, and how long could she keep this up?