Nicola Cornick (33 page)

‘Anyway, there’s no one here to listen to your cries for help and the Reverend Mr Skittle has been well paid to ignore your objections.’ He paused and looked at her thoughtfully. ‘And if you cut up really rough I expect I could manage to overcome my aversion to you sufficiently to ruin you. You would not really be in any fit state to refuse me after that!’

Alicia winced. The thought of marriage to Westwood under duress was horrible, but she knew he spoke the truth. She was hardly in a position to escape him and even if she did he would create another hideous scandal. She could never inflict that on Lady Stansfield.

Westwood had moved over to the door, presumably listening for the arrival of Mr Skittle. There was no sound, and once again Alicia became aware of the noises outside the room—the country sounds of the birds
and cattle, the wind in the trees. So where was she? Not at Chartley Chase, although they were certainly somewhere in the countryside. If they had not altered direction after Bath, could they have carried on to Taunton, perhaps…?

Her mind was still working very slowly, for it was at least half a minute before she put together the elusive threads that were now all in her mind…the dusty, high-ceilinged room, the sounds of the country and the smell of spices…her father’s plans for an arranged marriage for her, and an associate of his waiting in the wings…She had all the pieces of the jigsaw now, and they gently slid into place, to form the most incredible and horrifying whole.

‘Christopher, what is your connection with my father?’

He had no warning and was too drunk to dissemble. She watched his mouth hang slackly with shock, an expression of stupefaction in his eyes. Finally he licked his lips and looked at her with a curiously wary expression.

‘How the devil did you guess? Damn it, I’ve never said a word and I’m damned sure he hasn’t! How did you know?’

Alicia shrugged. Despite her predicament she suddenly felt stronger, as though the balance of power had shifted away from him to her. He was on the defensive and she was determined to keep him there.

‘It was you, wasn’t it?’ she said flatly. ‘It was you who killed Josiah and pretended to be his cousin when you went to collect his possessions. You knew he had tried to warn me of the plot you’d hatched with my father and you wanted to make sure he never had the chance!’

An extraordinary expression came into Westwood’s eyes, part malice, part triumph. ‘That fool Josiah—he was a weak reed! He did some work for your father, but he could never bear to sully his hands! I tolerated him for as long as your father chose to protect him, but then he found out that we planned to use you and your fortune and he became nauseatingly sentimental!’

There was no expression in the glittering grey gaze as he turned to look out of the window. ‘He said you’d always been good to him and you didn’t deserve to be tricked again—the mawkish fool! He threatened to tell you all our plans. I went after him—he had to be silenced. And just when I thought all was safe I came to call on you and saw a letter from him sitting on your desk!’

Alicia closed her eyes against the memory of Christopher Westwood sitting in her library, immaculately self-possessed, with Josiah’s blood on his hands. But Westwood was continuing.

‘I took a big risk then,’ he said cheerfully. ‘I thought Josiah was too much of a fool to tell a straight tale, and I gambled on the fact that he
would not have named me. And I was right, wasn’t I?’ He turned to smile triumphantly at Alicia and she could feel herself shrinking back against the hard iron of the bedstead, chilled to the bone by the madness she could see in his eyes. ‘We knew you were already wary of your father, but you acted just the same to me. Same Alicia, cold as the driven snow! But I knew I had to move quickly. And you gave me the opportunity, didn’t you, my dear?’

Alicia did not really feel that he required an answer. He must be quite mad to speak of murder and marriage in the same breath, but she was not going to test him further. She sat huddled on the bed, frozen at the thought of what she had uncovered. What could she do now, circumstanced as she was? To be forced into some conspiracy of silence was as bad in its way as being forced into marriage with him. When Westwood came back across the room and sat down beside her she tried not to cringe away. It was difficult, but he appeared not to notice her anyway, engrossed as he was by his own thoughts.

‘I think I’ll tell you it all,’ he began conversationally. ‘It’ll pass the time until that tiresome priest gets here.’ He drained the brandy bottle and some of the liquid ran down his chin, splashing on his shirt. Alicia felt a spasm of disgust go through her, but Westwood merely wiped it away impatiently with the back of his hand. He was flushed with high colour now, a triumphant glitter in his eyes which gave the lie to any claims of charm or good looks. Putting down the empty bottle, he thrust his hands into his jacket pockets.

‘Where to start…?’ he mused. ‘I suppose that you are the start of the story, my dear, for you came to London and, as I’ve already said, supplanted me as your grandmother’s heir. I’d always had a penchant for deep play and I was fathoms-deep in debt. In one of the dens I frequented I met your cousin Josiah.’ He paused, picked up the brandy bottle and looked surprised that it was empty. ‘Well, Josiah was very helpful. I confided all my troubles and he suggested that I should go to see your father. I knew nothing of Broseley’s reputation then, but Josiah said he might help me.’

‘And he did?’ Alicia kept her voice neutral, allowing none of her horror to show. Fatal to make a slip now and draw his anger onto herself.

‘It became apparent that we could do business together.’ The self-satisfied tone had returned. ‘Broseley bought up all my debts and in return I did some jobs for him.’ Westwood looked at Alicia consideringly. ‘No need to offend your sensibilities with the details, I suppose, though it’s as good a joke as any that he is your father. Chalk and cheese!’ He laughed. ‘I expect you get your airs from your mother. He
was always complaining of her vapours and die-away airs. Said he should never have married her, for she brought him nothing, and her death had been a great release for him…What was that?’

‘What? I heard nothing.’ Alicia’s mouth was suddenly dry. Like him she had heard a faint noise on the stairs, but she did not dare to hope that any help was at hand. No doubt it was the corrupt priest whom Westwood had hired to perform his dubious nuptials. She waited, but there was no knock at the door and after a suspicious look Westwood appeared to lose interest.

‘No doubt Castle is keeping an eye on things downstairs,’ he murmured. ‘You’ve guessed we’re at Greyrigg, haven’t you? But we’ve sent the servants away, so don’t get any ideas about calling for help, my dear! Now, where was I?’

‘You had done some work for my father,’ Alicia reminded him quietly.

‘Ah, yes.’ Westwood settled himself more comfortably. ‘Well, after a while your father called me in to discuss a proposition. He planned to marry you off to his business partner, George Carberry. They had plenty of plans for joint ventures. He thought the proposal would do me some good, too. He was sure that the marriage would be anathema to your grandmother and that she would disinherit you! I think he saw it as a fitting punishment for her,’ Westwood said thoughtfully. ‘She had always refused to receive him, and he knew your marriage to Carberry would humiliate her before the
ton
, when she had supported Mullineaux’s suit!’

Alicia felt her eyes fill with tears. So, in the end, the whole tawdry affair had centred around Broseley’s need for money and revenge. There was some kind of irony, she thought numbly, in the fact that Broseley’s plans for vengeance had turned out to be the ruin of Westwood’s own hopes of the Stansfield fortune.

‘So my father removed me from your path by marrying me to Carberry,’ Alicia observed. ‘And what did you do in return?’

She saw Westwood smile. ‘I owed him a favour—and eventually he called it in! Josiah was becoming more of a liability than an asset to Broseley’s organisation those last few months. He would get drunk and spill dangerous information, in addition to his threat to destroy our plans by going to you. So he had to go. Your father had no compunction about losing a member of the family!’

There was no trace of remorse in his voice. Alicia, struggling with a feeling of unreality, felt as though she was trapped in some outrageous nightmare. How could he simply relate all of this without expression, without feeling? He had no concept of morality, for all that mattered
to him was centred around the needs and wishes of Christopher Westwood. Broseley had indeed found a man after his own heart when the fates had sent him Westwood.

‘I suppose,’ Westwood said lightly, ‘that the real villain of the whole piece was George Carberry, for dying so inconveniently. If he had lived you would have been shunned by Society and no doubt disinherited by your grandmother. Trust the old fool to make a mess of even that. He was only ever good for his money—but you inherited all of that, didn’t you, my dear? Yes, Broseley was too clever for his own good there, and it has rankled with him ever since. Nor did you endear yourself to him last time you met, with your wilful rejection of his plans!’ He turned to look at her, and there was something in his eyes which was thoroughly unpleasant.

‘I suppose you were always my intended suitor,’ Alicia said tiredly.

‘I told your father that you would never agree to another marriage of convenience!’ Westwood laughed again, clearly relishing the situation. ‘He always thought he knew best! But I knew you, and I knew it was madness to suggest either a business arrangement or a match! All I could do was insist that he did not disclose my identity so that he did not queer my pitch with you. I knew it would hardly be to my advantage if you realised I was in league with him!’ He sighed. ‘You are always so headstrong, my dear! But that is all in the past now. With me as your husband I am sure you will conform!’

Alicia was sure that he knew any number of ways to enforce his will and she shuddered at the thought. She drew the rough blanket closer around her for comfort. Thank God he had not yet exhausted his story—she did not like to think what he might do if once his attentions became focused solely on her again. Without flinching she faced the fact that he was quite capable of fulfilling his threat of forcing himself on her to compromise her beyond saving. She was not sure how she could cope with that.

‘Anyway, I decided to try my luck with you under my own colours,’ Westwood was saying. ‘I thought I had a good chance of persuading you to marry me—you seemed to enjoy my company and I knew you were lonely. I invested a lot of time and energy in being pleasant to you, Alicia.’ He kicked moodily at a loose floorboard. ‘Unfortunately, I’d left it too late, hadn’t I? You had already met Mullineaux again and were no doubt cherishing some sweet romantic dream that the two of you might be reunited!’ There was an ugly expression on his face. ‘Damn it, if only I had proposed sooner I’m sure you would have accepted me!’

Alicia shuddered to think that this could be true. The Christopher
Westwood she had known until recently had been charming and good company, solace in her loneliness, kind and pleasant. She might well have accepted him simply to enliven her solitary existence, little knowing that she had a tiger by the tail. But James Mullineaux had changed all that. Meeting him again had shown her just what a sham it would be to accept any other man, and no one else could ever be a substitute for him. Suddenly Alicia understood the change in Westwood’s behaviour of late, as he had realised that he had left his proposal for too long. He had become sharp with frustration as he had seen his chance with her slip away. The mask of his good nature had faltered, but not sufficiently for her ever to suspect the truth.

Once again, her attention was attracted by a slight noise outside the door—the scrape of something on the wooden floorboards. It stopped almost immediately, but Alicia frowned a little in puzzlement. Surely Mr Skittle had no reason to be surreptitious in his approach?

Alicia’s head was beginning to ache again with the effort of holding back the tears. To think that she had told James in a fit of pique that she had accepted Westwood’s offer. Now she was well-served for all that foolish pride which had prevented her from telling him that she loved him. She imagined him receiving the news of her marriage to Westwood and the contempt it would engender. Little would he know of the truth of the matter, and she could never tell—not while Lady Stansfield lived. And when Lady Stansfield had died could she really come out with the truth of Westwood’s criminality—and her own enforced connivance in it? She struggled against the fog of tiredness and misery that was clouding her mind.

At last there was the sound of steps on the stair. Westwood jumped up with barely concealed impatience.

‘Can that be that damned priest at last? God alone knows what is taking him so long to get here!’ He hurried across to the door, and unlocked it again.

Alicia was hoping that God would indeed be very tardy in sending his dubious representative along to conduct the marriage service. It was not, in fact, Mr Skittle who came into the room, but her own father. She was not surprised to see him. Westwood had confirmed that her prison was one of the attics at Greyrigg, albeit one in which she had never been before. The top floor of the house was riddled with interconnecting rooms and passageways which could conceal any number of dubiously imported goods or an entire army of men. She steeled herself as Broseley strode across the bare floor towards her, an oleaginous smile pinned to his face.

‘Well, my dear, history repeats itself, does it not? I hope that Chris
topher has been persuading you of the good sense in accepting your fate this time!’