Loving Rose: The Redemption of Malcolm Sinclair (Casebook of Barnaby Adair) (35 page)

Relieved, Thomas nodded. “Good.”

Rose claimed his attention, and he and Richard were drawn into the wider discussion.

When the meal was at an end, the trifle disposed of and the poached figs all gone, they repaired to the drawing room. The conversation veered into more general spheres as, with Thomas’s encouragement, Adair and Montague brought Thomas up to date with all the happenings he’d missed during his recent convalescence.

The children started to yawn, and Rose urged them to retire.

With sleepy smiles, a bow, and a wobbly curtsy, the pair took their leave of the company and departed for their beds, passing Mostyn in the doorway as he rolled in the tea trolley.

Stokes shifted in his armchair. “I didn’t want to mention this until the children left—they’ve heard enough of such things and can be told the salient points later, should they ever need to know.” He looked around the group. “Roger Percival breathed his last about noon today, but before he did, he made a full confession.”

“Wait!” Penelope held up a staying hand. “Let me hand around the cups, then we can all sit back and you can have the floor.”

Thomas duly accepted a cup and saucer. He took a sip, then caught Stokes’s gaze. “Before you start, perhaps you could fill me in on what actually happened when Roger and I fell. I’m a little hazy on the details after we left the roof.”

Stokes looked at him, then said, “Because Roger pulled you over, you fell forward, more or less headfirst, closer to the house and somewhat to the side of where he fell. You hit several large branches of a tree and landed in the flowerbed that ran along the front of the house. Roger, in contrast, fell backward—he fell further out from the house, and clear of the tree. He landed half on the gravel path, half in the flowerbed. The raised stone edging of the bed broke his back and punctured a lung. He was never going to recover, but he lingered until today.”

Thomas nodded. “Thank you.”

Stokes took the cup and saucer Griselda handed him, sipped, then glanced around the circle of now expectant faces. “We—the police—are now confident that Marmaduke Percival had no idea what his son was about, not at any time. As Richard mentioned, Marmaduke is . . . not exactly simple but very easily led. His son knew that and used it as far as he was able.”

Stokes paused, sipped, then went on, “Roger was in crippling debt. He first started borrowing money while at school, he and his friend Atwell. Both liked to pretend they were much wealthier than they were, and lived well beyond their means. They egged each other on, and, from the first, both borrowed from the most unscrupulous lenders—the ones willing to lend to schoolboys from good families. Roger never attempted to get money from his father because, by the time he realized how deeply he was sinking and wanted to pay his way out, he’d discovered Marmaduke had very little funds, not enough to make any serious dent in Roger’s debts. So Roger sank deeper and deeper into the mire. He had always played on his connection to the Seddington estate, but as time went on, and William was born, for Roger, matters grew increasingly fraught. Eventually, he had to do something to appease his increasingly aggressive creditors, so he calmly and cold-bloodedly planned to murder his cousin Robert and Robert’s wife, Corinne, and then subsequently to do away with William. After that, Roger’s father would have inherited the estate, and that would have been enough to save Roger.

“Roger bought a potent sleeping draft, enough to kill Robert and Corinne, and William, too. He drove to Seddington Grange, but as he was nearing the entrance to the drive, he saw Robert drive out, with Corinne by his side. They turned north, away from Roger, so he followed. He saw them halt on a grassy headland above Grimsby and lay out a picnic. He quickly found an inn, bought a bottle of wine, and joined them. He slipped the sleeping draft into their glasses, but he was clever enough not to give them too much. They slept, but they didn’t die.”

Voice darkening, Stokes went on, “Roger waited until night fell, then he took them in his curricle down to the wharf. He put them on Robert’s yacht, then—and remember all the Percival men can sail—he took the yacht out, wrapped the two bodies, still alive, in the sails, and then capsized the yacht. He made sure the sails would stay with the yacht and that the yacht would float, then—it being a calm sea—he swam back to shore and drove back to London.”

Stokes looked at Rose. “What you heard on the evening after the funeral was Roger boasting to Atwell, telling Atwell how he’d got himself out of the mire. Atwell hadn’t yet, you see—he was still sinking. And it was just as well that you reacted as you did—Roger planned to dose William with the draft the next day. When you and the children disappeared . . . Roger decided it didn’t really matter. His cousin and wife were dead, and the only person who stood between him, or rather his father, and the estate was a five-year-old boy who had vanished. Roger artfully led his creditors to believe that William would never reappear, that it was simply a matter of waiting out the seven years and then he would have unfettered access to the estate. His creditors were willing to continue to lend to him on that basis. For Roger, William’s disappearance was merely a temporary delay.”

Switching his gaze to Richard, Stokes went on, “And then Roger realized that you were searching for William, and that made everything, in his eyes, so much easier. Through Marmaduke, he learned of your progress, and he kept a distant watch on Curtis and his men. Regardless, Roger felt that, if and when you found William, he would have plenty of time to act. He wasn’t worried either way. But, of course, as time went on and his debts continued to mount, his creditors grew increasingly demanding. That happened recently. However, two years ago, Atwell—school friend and confidant—reached point-non-plus, and, as we’d surmised, on the strength of his knowledge of Roger’s murder of his cousin and his cousin’s wife, Atwell tried to get money from Roger. Atwell died at Roger’s hands. So that’s that murder solved, too.”

Stokes paused, clearly ordering his thoughts, then continued, “But returning to the present, for Roger, matters were growing increasingly pressing. He had to find William, murder him, and have his body found—he now needed that to assure his creditors that he would one day be able to pay his debts. Roger started watching Curtis’s men. He knew Richard, through Curtis, was closing in on Rose, and he was holding himself ready to act. When his man saw William, Rose, and Alice getting into Penelope’s carriage, Roger could barely hold himself back. He needed William dead as soon as possible, and he was willing to work with whatever situation eventuated.” Stokes paused, then looked at Thomas and dipped his head. “He nearly succeeded, but he didn’t.”

“And now he’s dead.” Richard Percival didn’t add “and a good thing, too,” but the sentiment hovered in the air, nonetheless.

Stokes nodded. “The commissioners are delighted that we’ve closed several cases, all nice and neat, with nothing left hanging.”

Thomas glanced at Stokes, but the man was draining his cup; Thomas concluded that Stokes hadn’t meant anything specific by the remark.

Penelope, Griselda, and Violet stepped in, introducing and pursuing topics that drew them all from the darkness that had been Roger Percival, that had emanated from him and driven his deeds.

Gradually, under the ladies’ determined influence, the atmosphere lightened, and, one by one, they were able to laugh and smile again.

Thomas looked around the circle, listened to the others’ plans for the future, immediate and more far-reaching, and found himself wishing that he, too, had a future he could look forward to, one he could share with friends like this. Instead, he listened to them expound, and artfully slid around any questions aimed at him. For their part, they assumed he was still recovering and hadn’t yet had time to think further, so they—even Penelope—didn’t press him for answers.

Letting their warmth, the ambiance of friendship, wash over him, he looked at each one and had no doubt that their friendship would be there, already was there, offered and extended to him should he wish to claim it; he’d gained enough insight into these people to read them clearly, to appreciate and understand.

To feel their sincerity when the evening finally wound to a close and they all walked into the front hall to make their farewells, and they, each of them, turned to him and wished him well, wished him a speedy and continuing recovery, shook his hand or kissed his cheek, and bade him adieu until next they met.

He had no idea whether they would ever meet again.

That was up to Stokes and the police. It was they who held his future in their hands.

They who would determine what that future was.

He’d made an agreement, and he wasn’t about to resile from it. Stokes, and Adair, too, had more than delivered on their side of the bargain; it was now up to Thomas to pay the agreed price.

Stokes and Griselda were the last to leave.

After farewelling Barnaby, Penelope, and Rose, Stokes turned to Thomas and held out his hand. When Thomas gripped it, Stokes met his eyes. And nodded. “I’ll call tomorrow morning. It’s time I brought you up to date on the police file on Malcolm Sinclair.”

Thomas felt a chill touch his soul, but, without allowing his easy expression to change in the least, he held Stokes’s gray gaze and inclined his head. “I’ll be here, waiting.”

With an acknowledging nod, Stokes released his hand and turned to take Megan from Griselda’s arms; a minute later, they’d piled into their carriage and were gone.

Mostyn closed the front door. Turning away, Rose and Penelope led the way upstairs, heads together as they planned some outing. With a grin, Barnaby fell in by Thomas’s side, and, together, they followed.

H
e’d known she would come to him that night. But having no faith in his future, he’d already made the necessary arrangements, had, weeks before, made a new will so that if anything happened to him, she and any child she bore would live a life of luxury. He didn’t know what tomorrow would bring, and with regard to her future well-being, he was not of a mind to court any risk.

He was already in bed, lying back, his arms crossed behind his head when she slipped through his door. Her nightgown glimmered white, the pale pink of her robe muted in the soft light of the candle she’d used to light her way.

Coming to the bed, she saw he was awake, and smiled.

Joy and more shone in her eyes, and although he still felt he should make some effort to dissuade her, as she set the candlestick down on the bedside table, then shrugged out of her robe, he remained mute.

Just watched. Let his eyes drink her in as she bent and, holding back the heavy fall of her hair, blew out the flame.

Darkness descended, but the moonlight was strong enough for him to see the delight, the expectation of happiness and pleasure, that lit her face as she accepted the covers he’d raised and slid into the bed, into the space he’d shifted to create for her alongside him.

Turning to him, she placed her hands on his chest, looked into his eyes, searched his face, then tipped her head. “What? No attempt to tell me that you have no future, and that I shouldn’t—that we shouldn’t—do this?”

She hadn’t forgotten, any more than he had.

He covered one of her hands with one of his, raised her fingers and gently brushed his lips over the slender digits, then, unfurling them, his eyes never leaving hers, he pressed a hotter, more potent kiss to her palm. “I’ve given up pretending.” Through the dimness, he held her stare, then he lifted his gaze to her hair, let it sweep down, over her face, over her shoulders, and beyond. “Pretending that I don’t want you.” He returned his look to her face. “That I don’t love you. That you aren’t as essential to me as the sun and the moon and the wind and the rain.”

She stared up at him, then she reached a hand to his nape and drew his head to hers. “Good. So let me love you.”

He let her have her way—or, at least, think she was getting it. Let her draw him into a kiss that quickly grew heated. Then hotter. More needy, hungry, and demanding, until it held them both, consumed them both, and drove them onward.

Into a spiraling storm of passions, of desires held back, denied by circumstance for the last several weeks, but now let go, released, unleashed.

Hands drifted, stroked, caressed—possessed. Her nightgown was shed, tossed onto the floor. She came into his arms, and with her body, her hands, her lips and tongue, she boldly, brazenly, demanded more.

And, this time, it was his turn to give. His turn to love her without reserve, without restraint.

To show her.

All. All that lived inside him. All that had claimed his heart.

He laid it all—everything—at her feet, openly, without reservation.

He had no idea what tomorrow would bring, for him, for them, but for tonight, they had this.

Each other.

And their love.

Naked, she writhed, her hands locked about his, clamped about her hips as he held her immobile, and lapped and tasted her, and drove her wild.

Bare; he stripped himself of every last shield and screen, and let her see how deeply he felt, let her touch, taste, and know his vulnerability.

The depth of all he felt.

For her.

Loving Rose.

That had grown to be so much more than simply his salvation.

She was his all, and he gave to her unstintingly. Lavished every last iota of his devotion on her.